As Yellow as Tuesday

Think of a number.

Interesting, aren't they?

‘You may think that, but I couldn't possibly wear that dress, not without a new integrated hamster. Even then, the thing that is not a thing is not a thing,’ she said, whilst holding the melon in what would – these days – be rather a provocative fashion.

We go on down the road, until we stop. After that, there is nowhere left to go.

Do you know who?

Do you know why?

Can you smell it?

If we go down to that place where time isn't quite as yellow as Tuesday, and our chins no longer grow old, then one day we can return to the place we once stood to watch the goat turn summersaults over the incredulous Quantity Surveyors of Doom.

Each of us has a hat. We know the smell of it, and just where to position the device in order to achieve the optimal vibrational effect.

Should I laugh at your pitiful string collection now that winter grasps our genitalia in its icy grasp?

You used to dream of hamsters. You used to laugh at marmalade. But we grow old. We wear socks on Tuesdays and our habitual nudity becomes a source of amusement to those who pass by.