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You're lost in the silt as I struggle to peer Through the rippling shades of my own reflection In the swirling dark do you struggle to hear The...

Funny, you are spending all your working days inventing ways to make machines and men communicate, but evenings, even in the intimacy of our...

write the same story from three different viewpoints...

birds' song like scent's released at light's condensing in sky's pan a syrup on horizon's edge sweet, orange begins to blacken in corners hollies'...

If you can read this...then you have something special..

I looked up at the sky tonight So clear and still So like the many others I have seen Just as you have What was I doing a year ago today? Did I look...

This is a story about hitch-hiking, being on the road, and conversations that arise among strangers

Big thanks to all who commented,especially Fey, Funky&; Chant.Wouldn't have finished it w/out help.

Mercifully, I buzzed back from Paris aboard a plane. It left me some hours to stroll through the city to admire the Arch of Triumph and the Eiffel Tower, both mightier and uglier up close than I had ever imagined. I climbed neither, having a fear not only of fees, but also of heights - one of my most persistent and shameful self limitations. No matter. I'd seen enough of Paris to know I'd be back someday soon. Feeling conservative, I arrived at the airport with ample time to spare. A strange sensation for me. I checked in and relaxed, nibbling a croissant and drinking water from the bathroom (my discretionary budget being well and truly blown by Paris). I arrived at Passport Control just on boarding time and prepared myself for the inevitable laughs to follow. My passport photo, taken some five years ago, displays a fresh faced, folly follicled young fellow. The stark contrast to my now gleaming nog provides an endless source of amusement to me and all Passport Controllers alike. Oh how we love to laugh at my contrast to my photo and the rapidity and severity of nature's most unsubtle of jokes. Having shared in some smiles, I passed through Passport Control, following the signs, only to discover another set of Passport Controllers and, of course, another round of quietly shared jokes. I thought little of it, but suddenly, it was all too apparent: Two Passport Controllers? I had just left France and entered again! I was in Arrivals! I'd taken a wrong turn, appearing to have arrived, but due to depart! Running madly now, the clock ticking down with no extra time. Sweating! Swearing! Begging for help! This was more like it. Much more like my normal airport experience. But, as ever, good fortune prevailed and after a panicked run, I just made my flight to London. England v Sweden here we come? For the first time I can remember, I felt soothed by the tube. Its gentle rocking and scent (rather shocking) were both quite a comfort. Though, I was all too aware that 'comfort' was a sensation I would soon be without. After the Belgium v Tunisia match, there would be no more pit stops home. Personal hygiene would be an issue. It usually is. I slept heavily and ventured out early for the England game. I'd selected Chelsea for my venue. I'd heard of the 'Chelsea Headhunters', said to be, shall we say, the most colourful supporters in London. Frustrated by their FA Cup loss to Arsenal, I figured the Headhunters would be fired up for a win. I tubed it to Fulham Broadway, near Chelsea's home stadium, arriving about an hour before kick off. It was good to see the flag sellers about, but the punters, I'm afraid, were lacking. London is seldom vibrant on a Sunday morn and today, sadly, was no exception. I dashed from pub to pub looking for (low)life. It was a troublesome chore. I know Chelsea is a wealthy area, with some salubrious establishments, but you can't tell me they let the fans trash the Chesterfields. Where was I to watch the match? The early morning games had provoked much conversation as the tournament drew near. Despite the Brits being the experts in the field, I suspected it was a whinge that resonated loudly across the Northern Hemisphere. It is a position with which I have little sympathy, relishing my childhood memories of waking pre-dawn to watch Australia secure the America's Cup in 1983 and, to this day, being agape at CNN's decision to delay all telecasts of Sydney's 2000 Olympics. Is it not a wonderful part of international sport to watch it at un-Godly hours and give at least some measure of commitment as the players one supports? I checked out the encouragingly named 'Shed Bar' near the stadium, but like anything in a 'Village' of commerce, it lacked severely in character and promised little interest. The bouncer, 'Straight Jacket John', cared neither about football or its fans. He was more interested in the big fight from the night before and saw fit to use me to act out the low blows that turned the bout. Just another big little man. 'The White Hart' down the road was closed and the 'Slug and Lettuce' was merely another 'Slug and Lettuce' from a regrettable chain and so 'So Bar' it was. Some burley lads made promises of action as they reclined on their Chesterfield. Headhunters? I suspected not. Nonetheless, 'So Bar' showed energy and the pintsome faithful gathered slowly to watch. The nerves were evident. For such a footballing nation, the stakes were high. It showed in the match which had a quiet and controlled start. To my mind, the first twenty minutes offered little thrills. The pub was quiet and I felt half tempted to abscond to the local library, thinking that the research opportunities may have outweighed the action I was seeing. Or not seeing as it was. And then, finally, a fine cross and header and an England goal! Explosions around me. The noise per head incredible. If one could bottle the passion of England supporters, Viagra will have met its match. As the crowd screamed with joy, a young lad dashed out from the toilets and stood aghast in front of the screen. "I knew it! I went to the toilet and we scored. That always happens!" I laughed with the crowd. Even more so as they stuffed him back into the toilet and blocked shut the door. Distracting from the celebration and offering an omen, his just deserts he received. Play continued well for England and at half time they remained up one-nil. I pushed past the toilet detainee for a quick lizard drain and then went out to explore. There had to be more. Following my instincts and, as always, the noise, I found my salvation under the stands of Chelsea stadium. At Gate 5 and 6. Here they were. Headhunters galore! Security was tight. No 'Straight Jacket John' here. Headhunters well out of his league. Though, it was here that security, taught me a valuable lesson. Notepad in hand, pen behind ear, I became a journo looking for a scoop. Smiling sweetly and talking smoothly, I scored a free entry into Budweiser's Front Room Football show. Validation! If not from publishers, at least from hard nosed security, the true openers of doors. (Thanks Mick!) I was happy as a pig and at last truly in it. Here they were in their hundreds, face painted and jolly, the floor strewn with all the best in sponsorship gimmickry Budweiser had to offer. I settled in and started scribbling away. A bespectacled young lass from the front row spotted me and bought me a drink. What luck! I felt like the King of England! Faith in my subjects renewed. The second half started and then came the chants: "Eng-a-land, Eng-a-land, Eng-a-laaand Eng-a-land, Eng-a-land, Eng-a-laaaaaand..." But still tension pervaded. As with the French supporters from a few days ago, a dedicated, disciplined concentration could be detected. They wanted it so badly and had but one half in which to hold the lead. Little action intervened until the fifty eighth minute when some sloppy defence allowed Sweden a goal. The room died. It was the quietest moment the day had provided, the only noise to be heard being transmitted from Saitama. It was sad. Really sad. As play drew on, England's captain came off to respectful applause, but the room's shoulders were slumped. A very near England goal re-ignited emotion with fists pumping prematurely. They chanted with hope. It made me feel proud to be English. (Even though I was not.) Time passed. England lacked control. Sweden had too much. Expectations lowered and frustrations grew. "Play the ball" they called leading up to a last chance at goal from a goodly loft and a damned close header that was just not to be. Full time. The crowd was displeased. A draw not enough. There were a few encouraging claps, but disappointment was thick in the air. "Rubbish!" "A terrible second half." "This was the one we needed to win." They filed out, quiet and slow. No joy to be found. I would have to wait and travel some more to witness a win. Expectations are clearly high in the England camp, but surely not dashed. I'd like to think that this country, so filled with hope, would not let it all go because of a respectable draw with a nation not defeated by England for some 34 years. We'll see how they fare against Argentina come Friday. But, before then, for me, gallant Ireland awaits...