A Frolic Of His Own

Eskimo quite properly rates pointless crushes as quantitively superior to actual love, by the convincing score of seven to four. I think she's onto something.

The sun is shining, rapacious flesh-eating hordes of undergraduates merrily charge to and fro outside yonder basement casement, and every single song that comes shuffling up on iTunes features an insouciant horn section. This is becoming a liability. I need to find a way to induce dyspepsia, fast. Tindersticks should do the trick; they have the least insouciant horn arrangements on the planet.