Cramped with fury bruising his flanks, Theodore ambles down an alley towards town. The streets are crammed with cars, colour and sound, the same symphony of colours that paraded through his dreams last night. Theodore is naked, except for a blue pair of shorts that don’t really hide much. He is a wild man crying and running down the street. Cars are swerving into poles, toddlers are dropping ice creams and crying, birds are shitting on the parents, workmen are falling off scaffolding, cats don’t really care and electricity sparks on electricity poles. He staggers into a bargain superstore, there is a call over the speaker and security flares up in all the wrong places. Theodore takes some wine glasses (shit plastic ones with truly awful flowers printed on the side and LED lights in the stems) and a large tin of paint, Moroccan Flames – A robust orange with real energy, and walks out. The street is silent. Theodore’s phone vibrates in his pocket, he drops the paint, it doesn’t spill dramatically like he had hoped so he kicks it over, and still the lid doesn’t come off. He reaches into his pocket, takes out his phone, reads and runs directly home. He is glazed with sweat, with a few extra coats on his armpits. He puts the obscene wine glasses in a box, wraps it in beautiful paper, ties a bow and waits for Fiona to come home.