Biting into the garibaldi, I discover my future.
'You will become obsessed with the prognostications
of biscuits,' says the furled tiny scroll.
Bollocks, I think - and not for the first time -
and then, to disprove the hypothesis,
I break a jaffa cake down the middle.
'Gutless turncoats bloody the regatta.'
I blanch, my cox's megaphone bracketed
above the fireplace. I crack a brandy snap:
'Nurturing buboes, you are admired by no one.'
A bourbon: 'The fire bucket swirls with kerosene.'
A pink wafer: 'Temporary dysphasia muddies
the spell pool.' Fifty-two digestives, all
glowing runes that curl and smoulder