Can it really be a week since we all leapt aboard the Friday Express for the journey to Fictionland? It seems so. Well, here we all are again. Our esteemed driver Rochelle has stoked our imaginatory fires with some pictorial coal:
and if you’re all sitting comfortably in First Class, the buffet trolley will be along in a moment to serve you 100 words, pausing only to discard this strange and unconnected Train metaphor I seem to be using.
We look back to the East Bank and watch as the inevitable conflict inches closer to the home we abandoned.
From the South marches the destructive might of the Pylon advance platoon, their electrical weaponry lethal to everything it touches. On the North side wait the massed troops of the Masts, inferior in firepower but outnumbering their enemy.
We endlessly discuss the battle, debating which army will gain victory. There can only be one winner. But there will two losers. Those defeated will withdraw, and we will remain as refugees from their war, fought on our land.