Original sin
● SO BACH OR MOZART or one of those lads comes back to check up on us, and is staggered to find crowds of saddoes spaffing away their lives reconstructing some frippery he scribbled out in the bog as wallpaper for one strawberrynosed Holy Roman fool or another’s levée. “Come on, guys!” he sighs, “I shredded that tripe the minute it was played. What are you thinking of? Haven’t you got any of your own stuff?”
Picture the shuffling feet, downcast eyes and mumbled evasions.
