Preface: London weekend

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When I wake on the couch in my boxer shorts the weekend has begun in earnest, but I return to bed with a sense of sheepish indulgence because for the next 48 hours I don’t have to talk to anyone, face to face, if I don’t want to, and I might not.  The sun streams brightly and it has wilted my plants.  I chop out the ivy and replace with shop bought pebbles.  I comb them with my hands.  I smell that hot sun smell and I empty my mind.  All that is there is second hand opinion and lust and a smattering of expertise that finds dull traction in an imperfect world full of ego and hands pressing hands.

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