In accidentally boiling the exquisite cashmere jumper I found on the side of the road I discovered it is also a cardigan and within that flexible arrangement the jumper/cardigan forgave me for the boiling and has not shrunk too much.

In another pairing the precise rhythm of Beckett’s prose in Comment C’est, when read aloud, matches the gentle bobbing that my hockey stick leg muscles will agree only to stretch to.  Mr Beckett’s implementation of this rhythm is a great service to short legged, who loathe prolonged anything.  He took walks often and the terrain he walked on can be an ankle twisting bumpetty carry on that demands rhythm. I know someone who buried a dog where he used to walk. Between the dog and all other co-incidences he singularly intended to provide for me with this text, which, of course, contains a slug.