He wakes up. Yesterday there was an explosion or two at the Boston Marathon. Yesterday there were 20 car bombs across Iraq. This happens every week in Iraq. This rarely happens in Boston. There is lots of speculation. He wonders if it was the ghost of Margaret Thatcher but on reflection he thinks that his is unlikely. He braces himself for the conspiracy theories and the theories and the theoretical conspiracy theories. He looks forward to the oozing speculation that will seep out of his television and his radio and his newsfeed as he reads about all of the things that nobody knows about what has happened and the explosions playing on loop on the networks like a teenagers badly made gif. He writes a poem about the incident and he thinks it is quite a good poem not the best poem in the world but a poem that is worth reading by people. Then he makes an animation that he is proud of and then he eats a donut and then he eats another donut and then he eats a final donut because everything must come in threes and it reminds him of the power of three in religion and in music and in comedy. Then he prepares the studio and then his professional reputation is impugned by the head of the department. It ruins the rest of his day mainly because his retort of “That was patronising” is the worst retort he could have come up with. He now has so many better ones all the way from “That was really rude” to “You don’t know me to talk to me that way” to “Sir, you are a jackanape and the prating sewage that does on frequent occasion drip from your mouth in replacement for dialogue makes my very nostrils gag”. He has others that would also have done very well in the circumstances. No one knows anything about the explosions. They know that it was a pressure cooker that was the bomb. It makes the satirical cartoon he drew a few days ago incredibly prescient. They do not know who did it. He has seen, so far, the following blamed – The Syrians, The Iranians, The North Koreans, The Chinese, The American Government, A lone crazy person, a lone crazy person working with some other crazy people so not lone at all, the cyclists, people who were bitter that they didn’t make it into the list for the marathon. He sees that it is never too soon to make jokes during times of tragedy. He wonders what jokes Iraqis made about the suicide bombings that happened over the whole extent of their country. He is sure that there are jokes somewhere but he does not know what they might be because he does not have the cultural understanding that he needs or would like to make such an observation. He eats some food, he plays a wonderful and newly invented boardgame and then he has a beer and then he listens to some music and then he reads and then he drifts into relatively peaceful sleep.