...the shoulder of your sail

Back again on this familiar couch on Crossley street, sheltered from the rains after a weekend of fair weather for the nostalgic bankside tour: The Founders Arms, the Globe for As You Like It, and the comments of lawyers not perceiving how Time moves in sleeping through vacations.  A good Jacques in the end, for the melancholy sadness bit especially.  But what could make the musings on the time more acute than the trip to the Armoury, the purchase of old photos from goals and victories past where you were present, and then the Barbican for the Cumberbatch performance first contemplated in August of last year...  Moments that seem miles away and forever, then yet are gone.

A grand, if disappointing performance from the Dane, the reimagining yielding a disappointing interpretation - as always seems the case when favoured lines are cut.  The rearrangement of scenes also made little sense, and did not add to the value of the production.  But you pays your money and you takes your chances.  As we did in Birmingham.  The gloom that fell over the ground and your own thoughts after the missed penalty and two quick goals was so solemn for those 5 minutes, before the brilliant pull-back.  Then the inevitable 3-1 lead at the half, and again it seemed so likely to be one-sided until the red.  Ay me.  Such a great vignette of the stunning hostel receptionist, Bereket, too-casual shoes, Walkabout Ripple madness, and the Kirwan's Lane references dropped with the Irish in the roundabout route to Edgbaston.  Oh my.


Then, a day of waiting.  As Tim ran, and ran errands, in the pouring rain.  How will it be with Liverpool, you wondered?  The thought the same as the June morning when you woke to the fixture release in bed with A.  Remember?  We go now for the haircut and the Tollington Euro planning and the piebury and to the North Bank to see about it.  More anon...


Alas.  The linesman got the Ramsey goal wrong, after all that, so wrong.  Cech played a blinder, and the offence was found out again.  Still to see Theo score.  Would have been such a glorious 1-0 in the end.  But so it came to naught, and you are left to wonder about November, or the cups, and about FS, LM, MM, JG, and LC, as you fall your way to sleep.  Dreaming of the Tancook, and the liquid Thames, and Johnny Cash's last train bound for Nova Scotia shores.  Spain tomorrow.  When will I be back here again, watching the Arsenal and Shakespeare and the like?  November as the current thoughts run?  2016?  Against who and to what purpose?  Time, as Ozan always said, will show.