I was walking back home on a windy night when I suddenly thought I had left my wallet in the library. I took off my gloves and thrust my hands into my pockets in search of it. It was safely seated in its habitual abode. Calmed I made to replace my gloves and keep the biting wind from my feeble skin. But I only had one glove. Where was the other? I turned back and faced the wind, for I had been walking steadily all the while. There it was, I had dropped it a while back, and it was hurtling towards me in a happy-dog-like manner. The wind was pushing it along at quite a pace. It looked like a severed hand seeking its wrist. It was at least 10 metres away but its wind-driven volition was so strong it was making a direct line straight for me. Incredulous, I stayed where I was. As it came closer I put my hand to the floor as if receiving a present from a group of ants, and it thrust its happy form into my grasp.
Its anthropomorphic joy immediately filled me with deep contentedness and, smiling, I turned and continued home, with the wind pushing me along.

“The double bass is not two fish, it’s an instrument Gran, a musical instrument!”
“I could have sworn they were selling down at Bob’s fishmongers”
“Well, if they were, then it wasn’t the type of double bass I want”
“Lucky – we nearly had them for Christmas dinner…”

We went to see a jazz band and Tommy, who listens to punk and knows little else, would not be convinced that they were improvising. His implacable position was that they had spent hours beforehand working out what they were going to play so that it just sounded like improvisation.