Are its changing tentacles becoming darker? its hunt for the small fry – resigned to the obligatory schooling in literacy in order to read the daily press and of course the tax forms; submitted to enforced payment of octopuz tv and radio; accepting of coerced jabs for health’s sake – when 13 of a hundred normal cits are winos, 18 hypochondriaks, 14 with ment-health issues, 29 in deep debt, 15 druggies and a whole lot more of zomboid insomiaks unable to follow the enlightened discours – is becoming more difficult.

It has swum into a rock pool, unable to rise, colours fading, visible for all to see. The gastro-man from the pizza ghetto may spot it and may yet give the coup de grâce.

It has time to reflect as the hungry sun dries its skin to leather: “The more small fry, the less my Maker, for I am intelligent and despite my machinations, came from HIm”.