SET PIECE SHORTFALL
Nearly all over for the noughties. Did we see
what we thought we saw? Or make use of the
proceeds? I'm still in a frenzy, looking for the
main stuff. Both the variety and the depth, as
illustrated, not too succinctly, in the handbook.
Albeit on a severely reduced scale. You touch
the screen and monitor what passes for global
tapestry. Just skip and shuffle. If we're all a
bit groggy on arrival, we can take a weekender
in the greenhouse, pot up a few of those dark-
eyed pansies. Or switch off the lights. What
name, though, could we possibly use for a one-
off silhouette? An allday one at that. It's too
easy criticising designers, but a quintessential
experience can be safely left to speak for itself.
Pile on the agony. The soft and chunky. For
those with outsize shoulders, go for the now-
thing: distortion, starting from the top. That
way, you concentrate the carbon and layer the
print. Nothing like briefings for shrinking the
budget: just look on freelance sensitivity as an
industry in itself. Outwards and upwards, £1m
to the arts! Sightseers, as we know, are fine
and not likely to problematise statistics for the
elderly, e.g. how many of those can we expect
scaling fences, or operating a cartel? Trans-
border discipline has it all to do. But I can't
see where this is going? For every change in
the way we do things, stars migrate. Appetite
suppressants may well be something to watch.
CLERK TO THE WORKS
By any reckoning, it was tantamount to taking
liberties with design. An alarmist manifesto or
a graceless exhibition of ships in bottles would
have occasioned a likelier turnout. Witness all
the glumness round the place, never mind the
odd expression on the faces of those half-arsed
cherubs some weekender reckoned divine. I'm
beginning to feel sorry for guides left dozing in
doorways. Visitations forever round the corner,
shadows inhabiting basements. Nothing in situ.
Realia still waiting for their fix. Who's on the
right side of mercy: either you get the balance
or you don't? At the minute, it's every quasi-
revolutionary pocketing change. You don't see
much for the dust! Myself, I'd make a serious
claim for compensation, but there's always life
in the dog. Facsimile forcefields and a distrait
scholar have so much in common: just doing
what they have to, just enough, and forget the
disarray. If they feel, I feel: that is how it is.
Besides, who'll escape a mannerist approach to
life in the faintly round? Duration, it's clear,
will stake a nice, juicy claim. But I'll not wait
up and nor should you. It's late, I'm dawdling.
Let's skip the clear-out. A dog needs to walk.
Round One went to the grandmaster. Likewise,
the field. What had become of the elite squad,
though, nobody quite knew: they were last seen
at immigration switching sides. Quantum has a
thing about balancing forces that, given a soft
going, may catch even the best of us off guard.
Do quests lead, inexorably, to the momentous
reunion? You can just as easily die in custody.
Looking through bars is as sympathetic to life
change as being presented with your very own
book of spells. Up-to-date suggestions always
welcome Ð if accompanied by right scholarship.
A troubled heroine and a dealer in manuscripts
make good bedfellows high in the tower. They
can watch such encounters with several degrees
of equanimity. Any trafficking in the forbidden
leaves a bitter taste, but shock exploits such as
banking with bankers can only end in tears. It
is a natural thing, acquiring relics (holy or not),
and I'm not for veiling truth Ð especially when
I get the wink. The way things are, I'll make a
natural replacement for the next spent fuse. It
takes the brightest colours saving the day, but
what a day Ð that last move, battling our best.
© Peter Dent 2009