A Dream -- Sunday 2 August

I'm wandering through a sun-drenched Islington, its cobblestones gleaming like quantum bits dancing in sunlight. The canal's willow leaves whisper in binary, as Herons pirouette like probabilistic problems, their shadows casting onto water, echoes of Abbott's words tumbling like dice. I hear a radio hum, a voice saying, "I devised the name as a shorthand sales term," but the breeze whispers back, "It's just to say 'if you've got customers from the north, don't waste time'." I'm grinning like an Islington Cheshire Cat, tumbling into pure joy, composition quaintly shattered.