What's the Core?

I've just eaten an apple. The second half of Birmingham-Liverpool has just started. It's a beautiful day outside: sunny and clear. On the windowsill, our chili pepper plant Wallace has just been harvested of his chili peppers. We also have a vase of lilies on the other end of the sill.

This is my new blog technique. Describing things in real time.

Throw-in.

I should probably throw the apple core away, but I'm busy writing the following words: "writing the following words".

A shaft of sunlight is illuminating our living room table. There's a green quill-pen on there (bought from the Blenheim Palace gift shop) and one of those mugs with Penguin Classics graphics on it. I can't see which title it is from here.

Long kick from Reina, straight out of play.

We've just got BT Vision with Sky Sports, so a great deal of the weekend has been spent watching football. I don't know if this is a better use of my time than what I used to do. I think I used to give blood to the homeless, but I'm not sure. At least I can do an ongoing commentary for each live game. It will entertain my readers.

A giant eagle has invaded the pitch.

No. Not really. It was a normal sized eagle. And what is an "invasion"? I mean, an invasion is just mass movement. Are we being invaded by ladybirds? By grey squirrels? By immigrants? By grey immigrants (the elderly)? By elderly squirrelbirds?

Are we?

I don't know.

I really should throw away that apple core. It's starting to attract the gaze of people. People like me. Only me.

This is a cagey affair.

The match, I mean.

Not the afternoon. There are no cages in our living room. Unless you could the protective cage around the blades of our electric fan. And is that really a cage?

Ooh, good chance. Poor marking by Liverpool there. Scott Dann will be kicking himself. As part of some misheard instructions in training.

I don't think it is a cage. It's not there to imprison the fan. It's there to protect it from the world, and the world from it. I mean, you wouldn't say our bodies were cages, would you? Our skin isn't a cage. Our ribs... I mean, it's not like they're some kind of rib... cage... Are they?

No. But this match is somewhat cagish. Like Nicholas Cage. Or John Cage. Or Luke Cage. They are the most famous cages.


As I was looking for that picture of Luke Cage, I missed a Torres chance.

And another eagle.

I'm starting to think the eagle might be on the TV screen, rather than in the football stadium. I'm going to buy some Pledge and a duster.

Steven Gerrard is getting bandaged up. I don't imagine his skull was pierced by a giant beak. That would be ridiculous.

My apple core is getting progressively browner. That's how fruit works. It's one of the rules.

Liverpool free kick.

I can't watch. I can't avert my gaze from the core.

Skrtel needs more vowels.

Right. I think we can end this experiment now. It has been a rousing success. I'm patting myself on the back in between keystrokes.

I'm going to throw away my apple core before an apple tree grows on our coffee table, commemorating the events of the day with a frankly disproportionate tribute.

Poor ball.