series1bk3.1.1

 

As a blinkered robot propelled on clock-work boots, and a new recruit, I take the brunt of pot shots from the barking teeth of a loud-mouthed lout of a militant omnipotent drill-sergeant. Starting to dance with a dicky-bird perched chirping on my nose, I close my ears to the flurry of blurred insults, hoping to put hot rhythm in the steps of my dithering, blinded feet. I'm greeted as a naked clown, whose nose has grown overblown, like fallen fruit, frizzled on a brute, open fire, and prodded with wooden rods, to the point of slushing to a crushed mush.      But as I totter round the ordered track,      there's quite a store of fuel on my back.