I DON’T MEAN IT NASTILY It isn’t a plot. It’s what cultured humans don’t admit: bright scarlet blood in lips attracts wry bitter-wrinkly grey drunks eyeing us imploringly do not: we feign busy put off by guilt. Boys girls everybody opts without a moment’s pause for sunshine caught radiantly in wire billows netting the all-girls-school playing fields away from traffic, from pedestrians. Sun switches on grassy greenness, starts sugars brewing and embryonic pollens, if not stopped by being mown flat into sexless carpeting. Today girls clung to lozenges of wire, as high as they’d managed to climb and shouted hellos at lads passing admit it happens everywhere just like this. Spinster graduate teachers with hard-luck expressions can bugger off this minute. We’re not being horrid, but they’d catch us red-handed laughing red with shame and ruin our fun!