Steps echoing in the empty night street. Damp raw air, unkempt privet, acidic soot coating every surface. My God, what year is it? Spilling backwards out of a window, silently, over and over again.
Probably an old black and white film made by desperate men in crumpled suits and greasy ties. These are evil times. To rule the roost the cock must terrorise the hens. Divide and rule, don't hesitate to tell lies and be ready. Don't leave anything to chance, make sure you've got the sources and channels of information under control and functioning smoothly. Search out the advisers who have that certain brilliance, that finger on the pulse of next week, the speed that enables them to be several steps ahead of the others.
Better to disarm your enemies than get involved in hand to hand fighting. Make sure you're in the chauffeur driven armour plated, blend in when necessary, vehicle, dusty from the deserts . . . but we were skulking in the darkened streets, longing for a quiet life, a family life, not this dog eat dog existence . . . but what year was this? It never became clear. The question, back then, was how to step into the limelight, but then more questions arise: what was possible, what doors were open, what windows forgotten by careless homeowners. Skulking in darkened streets with robbery in mind, eyes narrowed, mouth tightened to a thin slash of a sneer.
The silent night imposes its will. Over and above the greasy streets, in back rooms, after the children are asleep, we'll mark out the changes required, sketch the route map, programme the satnav.
When will we be there?
Ah! that's not an easy question to answer. When is the baby due? Has it even been conceived? There's a proper order to everything. What grabs your attention because that is where you are going in everlasting and unfolding majesty or ignominy or probably both.
Let's take the step to walk and transform how it looks.