"On s'en fiche"
"On s'en fiche".
This isn't true. I know Lashes will be terribly galled that noone recognises the obscure brilliance of his choice. Fingers won't care though. He's not competitive, which confirms my suspicion that he is in fact a changeling.
I ponder the relative merits of painting masking tape green and attaching felt strips to a black t-shirt with glue. I wave a small sheet of neoprene in Lashes's direction.
On the way out, we meet another mother from the Gulag. Irish. I can see she is missing Dunne's Stores as much as I am missing Woolworths at this minute.
"Don't even bother, it's crap, there's nothing".
(Pictures to follow in the morning. Maybe. )