More like a cornflake in the wind

Link: http://www.guardian.co.uk/Iraq/Story/0,,986854,00.html

Clive wished he lived in medieval times so that someone could give him a token of their affection. Tokens, it seemed to Clive, were ultimately a far greater aid to identity than any random logarithm generator or outmoded stylistic trinket used to denote your social demographic. You can trust someone blazing a “listen to ghostface” t-shirt across their ribs, and equally, you know to keep your distance from people who wear sweatbands, on any part of their body. Wearing your true love’s ribbon in your hair, now that’s identity. Clive was just in the process of etching a letter to his local Young Skimming Enthusiasts Association about the dire need for such signifiers for our security information as well, so we know we’re not acting on rustling breeze-borne coco-pops.

He knew that some things needed protecting. A freshly flounced quiff, the natural habitat of wool (which is successive homes secretaries’ hollow noggins, in case you’re wondering) and the exquisite song of bus drivers when you place any form of note to tender a fare (particularly noteworthy is the polyphonic tone emitted if the note is from your mum to excuse you from PE, which should be archived for posterity). Some things need shelter.

Clive was unsure of the familiarity shelter had with protection. Were they bed-fellows or just queue-buddies?

Sometimes people protect or shelter you by not telling you anything; they claim you’d be better off without. The information-stock would only weaken your welfare portfolio, at a time when pride-stripping and hostile confrontations are rife. Clive had reservations about meekly capitulating to assertions of his best interests. Only the other day Ken had assured him that he would feel a warm and fuzzy sensation, normally only induced by ingesting pasties too quickly, if Clive would let him have the last packet of crisps. Clive had actually felt the cold growl of his stomach, devoid of crisps, but didn’t press the point. Or when Geoff had sworn that the charity shop must have stolen Clive’s skimometer (a device for measuring what’s hot and what’s not in the fickle world of skimming) to use in its window display and it had nothing whatsoever to do with Geoff pinching it.

Piramis - Dracula (from Cosmic Dancer Voyage Three)