Maps & Meditations

Yesterday evening I sloped off on one of my typically bow-legged wanderings around the manor, primed to meditate upon, and ultimately turn to mental mulch, the day’s dealings.

And, as decisively, to develop my proficiency for wearing a hat in a built-up area.

My mooch was as arbitrary as ever, only using that Craven Cottage as a reference point to prevent me from straying too far; a comforting beacon, blinking away at the back of my awareness.

As I drifted, I gazed up at the ethereal vapour trails in the sky and tried to locate one that matched the sublime arc undertaken by Mr Kamara’s outlandish upside-down bicycle-kick, whilst wondering wistfully if he could repeat his acrobatics against the Svengalis this coming Saturday tea-time.

It was a satisfyingly wayward saunter, and it left me resolved and revamped.

Upon returning from these crooked amblings, I often take out an old map of these here streets and mark out the route, the one what I’ve just undertaken in my own shoes, by virtue of my own rickety limbs.

Well, last night, having traced my path onto the paper with a stubby Faber Castell HB, I found, to my glad-eyed wonder, that the route that I’d just undertaken described a near-perfect heart shape!

What is more, there sat our beloved ground, succinctly bullseyed bang-slap in the middle of it!

It was accidentally heart-shaped some of the flint-faced rationalists amongst you might protest, but to my enquiring bean it represented a subconscious revelation of my ardour.

Now dismiss that thinking, if you must, as a whole sorry sack of yackety-yak, and ridicule me for playing keepy-up with tuppeny-ha’penny notions, but not even the most cold-blooded curmudgeon would question that my little strawberry’s in the right place.

And I know that, with every little black and white beat, so is yours!

Flamin’ scallions and Up The Fulham!