As much of a universal preoccupation as though it were the coming apocalypse. Daily plans revised in light of a perceived precipitation count. Island nation taunted and held in anticipation by the lugubrious tones of the shipping forecast, now anachronistic, drawn in white stubble and hanging out in the same Wetherpoons as the eight track cartridge and Grandmother’s proverbs, at ten each weekday morning. Fragments shored against buildings. Victorian venue by the station where we saw and heard the father of Lucy Wainwright all those years ago. Lucy who exited the front entrance of the Grand Opera House, looking down, and ducked in the stage door, organising the clean up of rider remnants before the night drive to London in a white van parked on double yellow lines. An economy stoked by the labour of migrants who will do anything for any number of hours at any time, while the drunk drivers of the economy pedal cancerous investment products to gullible pensioners. Selected children talking of grade boundaries, broadband speeds, IP addresses and whether or not to walk in the rain, while community murals legitimise the dereliction of urban space. A network that Mark allegedly thought very little about, growing as a shadow in the peripheral consciousness of the middle aged and middle minded. No room in the routine for that. A homogenised industrial unit unwittingly pedals waterproof loathing at the roadside, busking at the depreciating moving Henry Ford units which contrary to the assertion of Mr Kelly Jones face in two opposing directions.