I'll tell me ma.

When I get home,

The Girls won't leave,

The boys alone,

They pulled me hair,

They stole me comb,

But that's alright,

Till I get home!

 

Sentence The Fourhundredandninetyeighth

 

Theresa's dream was not a new one, though perhaps now triggered by the infection in her left arm, the result of a stray wasp sting: clinging to wee Jinty Moncrief's coat-tails as they skited across the playground in a welter of swirling leaves, hunting down and ensnaring fleeing boys, who doubtless colluded in their own capture, for resistance – which may have been futile anyway – was symbolic only, and demanding as the price of freedom, a kiss each, loudly protested, but always given; in any case, to be not caught, rather than producing pride from the triumph of his own will, strength, stamina, speed, ingenuity in evading his pursuers, would have identified any successful escapee as vilipend – so far beneath their sights as to imply that the girls failure to capture him meant only that he was vilified in their view of him, expressed succinctly as: “frankly, my dear, for you we don't give a damn!”