I spent this morning on a focus group deconstructing the ontogenic paradigm of the redevelopment and extension of Colston Hall.
Bizarrely enough, I (and my fellow enfocussed beings) thought the plans were pretty much a Good Thing, with caveats that they not make the place only attractive to white, middle class, constipated arts drones and likewise don't make the interior an entirely sterile plate glass and chrome wedding cake of a platform game.
I returned home, clutching a £50 note, a bunch of spring onions and a bottle of concentrated apple and blackcurrant juice to find a dying, now dead, dragonfly on our patio.
Indeed do many things come to pass.
Bizarrely enough, I (and my fellow enfocussed beings) thought the plans were pretty much a Good Thing, with caveats that they not make the place only attractive to white, middle class, constipated arts drones and likewise don't make the interior an entirely sterile plate glass and chrome wedding cake of a platform game.
I returned home, clutching a £50 note, a bunch of spring onions and a bottle of concentrated apple and blackcurrant juice to find a dying, now dead, dragonfly on our patio.
Indeed do many things come to pass.