All the people, so many people, they all go hand in hand, hand in hand to their Parkside.
Can you tell me who you are, sir?
Yes.
Would you like to?
Not really, no.
Do you have any ID on you, sir?
No. Why would I want to have that? I am aware of who am I.
Can you tell me who you are?
I could. Why would I want to?
It would be in your best interests
O rly?*
Alas, SOCPA wasn’t invoked. Or not alas, I should say. Setting up a cordon and pretending it is valid in order to keep people out is a travesty.
Next, although it was previous, but planned post, if you see what I mean, but you don’t, shouldn’t and won’t, as there is even too much layered meta-contextual info there to fool even me, is the roof. A different roof. Possibly the highest point in Cambridge-Town. That ought to cause more of an upset to those damnable Platonists. Hang on, am I one of them? Not so much Duplo bricks as mercury tilt switches. My eldest doesn’t really believe me when I say we used to flick balls of mercury at each other across those voluminous benches that lived in old chemistry labs, back when children were allowed to chemistry, not sit fourteen feet away behind a perspex blast-shield while some ill-trained goon spouts health and safety nonsense that is enough to get them an A* at GCSE.
State-smashing in a gloriously orange 70s sports car with RayBan Wayfarers on and a cod Irish accent. The perfect disguise to fool the hard-hatting brigade and get access to the keys.
No, you may not decipher this is the way you think, but the way I think.
*I have taken to saying this in RealLife™. And its response. Ya, rly. Or even ‘srsly’. Im in ur fizx lab indeed.
