Walking through the park I happened upon a stout old woman twatting a tennis ball with a hockey stick for her pug, which was wearing a pink collar.
Just as I was revelling in this vignette, the pug came and sniffed around my feet and the old woman erupted with the voice of a dominatrix, "Get. The. Ball!"
I imagined the dog as some kind of substitute for previous debased and exhausted human victims.
About Me
- davidada
- I spend a lot of time in private reveries embellishing myths involving public libraries, crumbling postwar institutions, secret societies of That’s Life! readers and titanic moral battles that pit cruisers, Alzheimers-psychics and conspiracy theorists against wild boys and Morris Travellers. I do/don’t do a PhD. Usually I stare out of the window. I write about music, de arts, the city and politics. Sometimes it even gets published. Attempting to start a clubnight and make music again. Once upon a time I was in a band called Mamas of Dada.
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