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My great uncle, on his deathbed, breathing his very last, motioned me to come closer and whispered in my ear. (He could not speak and any speech was a whisper; I was rather unsure of what to feel of my great uncle's impending death. I was in awe of the guy but at the same time I pitied him - as Mr. T would - for dying alone, literally alone. You see, the rest of the family had gone out on a picnic leaving me to care for him, not that I cared for picnics but it stung a little, but for the last two days I was down with a strange fever, strange because I would be hot and bothered one minute and cool as a cucumber, the next. Also I'm not sure as to how I contracted the fever.) My great uncle whispered "Book 'em, Danno". For some strange reason he always called me Danno. What was he trying to say?

I was told that people in love, let's call them lovers (the word "romantics" is too romanticised and if a cold hard cynic like me ever used that word, (s)he would be knee deep in a steaming pile of depression - what were you thinking - for we have never experienced the feeling of love and other disasters and all the love songs would only trigger an emotional need to take a screwdriver to our heads, and well, I digress) take no notice of others and they live in their own world (I imagine it is a world of blue people with long hair which they would attach to each other to procreate and then they wake up to realise they have been dreaming within a dream that was not their dream and use a totem but it is no help because it can be faked so they end up talking about what they call a foot-long subs in Bruges (it's in Belgium, you know)).