Two mugs. I put them down. I hide one. I will print something anyway. That is Tuesday. On the table: a board that wants to be Victorian, a beer-mat with a joke that has teeth, a photocopy of a coastline that wants to be a spine. They will not sit. I shuffle them like a man who still believes a source can be made to behave. I will print something anyway. That is Tuesday. My wife would have told me to print the disagreement and go to the pub. I photograph the mess instead. The band will not come and adjudicate. Good. I will print something anyway. That is Tuesday. Editors who get blessed start writing sermons. I will print something anyway. That is not a victory. That is Tuesday. Tuesday. Tuesday. Tuesday. Tuesday.
