When friends ask me of my status, the modern human necessity to know of the personal intricate details of another human, and then to observe as though lives were a work of art (and it certainly might be indeed except mine might then be a post modern abstract version with absurd shapes and incomprehensible ambition), I always re-route the conversation and my futile social skills in holding an interesting conversation with the opposite sex (who in their right minds want to discuss about Federico Fellini’s 81/2 or the electronic explorations of Nicolas Jaar) to football of which I have formed what I think is an appropriate dictum – If everyday was a Saturday or Sunday one would never miss the company of a woman.

Which is sad to say but what I feel these days. Of course as much as I would like to add Tuesdays and Wednesdays which have no special meaning for me anymore because the team that I formed a really quiet allegiance which based on nothing but the antics of my dad watching this team, my team, as a kid, does not play in the Champions League anymore.

So when Saturday rolls around now along with the constant belch of steamy heat of a mundane June, I am not even looking at the news, for the happenings of the rest of the world to me seem like a repeated playing of a loop albeit with new names and new players. Football writers, have to fill up pages though and transfers based on pure speculation and probably even the conjuring of wizardous pen (or keyboard, we have all gone digital haven’t we) which is like the blockbuster trailer that excites you at first but whose repeated posting on your Facebook stream has you groaning because all you want to do is just watch the damn thing.

But this is that dream period. Simply defined as a period where you imagine how a vacation you have planned will play out in your head. So the new transfers and the rumored are all playing a free flowing game in my head. Formations are so fluid, I see the goalkeeper quiet well off his line make a long assist. They are all playing the 90th minute with the verve of the first and the staying at the top of the table which if I would base my dreams on previous experience, which might be the sensible thing to do, would help dissolve all my human hope into shards. But I refuse to do that, and since time travel is not exactly possible I will sit it out. I am of course still in the dream period and usually like all vacations I’ve had nothing will ever go according to plan.


He calls himself an expressionist. He also suffers from chronic palpitations owing to the repeated ingestion of double esspressos.

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