Tom has no interest in soccer: to begin with. There is no doubt whatever about that. You will therefore permit me to paraphrase Charles Dickens to repeat, emphatically, that Tom Rourke has no interest in soccer. This must be distinctly understood, or nothing wonderful can come of the story I am going to relate.
Because there was something wonderful to walk home in the heat of a Viennese summer's evening, following the closing stages of Ghana's clash with Uruguay, like Kirk Douglas in "The Swimmer", from bar to bar, past open window's, street side cafe's, garages, huddled security guards and car park attendants, all united in their shared excitement. Even Bacchus's lovers huddled closer and vuvu thrilled to a small screen nestled in vintage shelves and wreathed in the smoke of fine cigars.
Earlier, in a flash of inspiration, I'd scribbled this on a napkin and had a moment of panic when I thought it had joined the cleared plates and empty glasses.
Fuchsias (working title!)
Popping dew damp buds of fuchsia
over scented box.
Pop, the deep pink plumpness.
Another. Please?
My Mother held me up and indulged
my joyful crime.
Pink lanterns with wounded hearts
My ruthless little fingers
Giving premature birth to purple within.
Enough now
As she set me down
on soft crunching gravel.
My hand ripple surfed
The splash topped box
and I toddled to the magical, squeaking, gate
and the mystery of the Laurel Walk.
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