a bazooka of basil had broken the ceasefire yet I

held my ground until

Friday's garlic howitzer but still I kept

my powder dry, beseiged by that

coiled enigma now so compromised that I

refrained from even a

side-long glance until Tuesday, when,

hit below the belt by curiosity I

surrendered, only to recoil at an

explosive residue of

pickle (courgette or mayhap

cucumber) in coalition with stale Armagnac,

at which there seemed no choice but to

affect a strategic retreat to

clear my palate, resolving after

mature consideration that, on the whole,

your ear was

your own affair