A football stadium.
There are rows of benches and the grass on the pitch is bald where we stand; patiently, bellies knotted and growling.
On either side, climbing up from the dug outs, we are separated – wheat and chaff, home or away – grumbling linesmen scribbling, bored, on contracts laid out civically.
Stamped. Filed. Ushered off on stiff legs.
Even the children have fallen quiet.
This was the dream, a breakfast of eunuchs, which set me tumbling. Sprawled on the floor at 3 AM.
Wheezing with Olympian effort.