A the battle of the sexes is played out in slow motion behind me. I speak to an administrator who thinks he is God but cannot tell his arse from his elbow. He whines and wallows in the confrontation – it saves him having to think. I watch the leaves on the maple. They flare acid yellow chewing into green, washing down the tree like pressure from a dry brush. Colour in a pointillist splash that draws my attention.
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