I think they're playing quarters

Or something very like it, anyway. Every so often a group shriek wafts across the airshaft, as though someone had just scored a difficult shot.

Ah, youth and drunken merriment.
I wish they'd hurry up and get old and dour and go to bed early.


Today's earrings: bears, estrogen molecules

Bedtime reading: The Appleby File, Michael Innes