My eyebrows are singed

Is my ear on fire?

I’ve temporarily escaped from the fire that threatened to set alight me, the small boy beside me and the shop behind me.

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Quiet revolution

It’s hard to hear what’s going on amidst the hubbub and engine chug, and computer fan whirr and traffic drone. You have to walk far from roads to properly hear Led Zeppelin’s bustle in the hedgerow. Or focus to make out the tiny regular wheezing breathing of a sleeping baby.

It’s unlikely you’ll ever have the chance to build up from the sound of silence – more likely you’ll be struggling to strip away sticky layers of muzak to feel what lies beneath.

It reminds me of what my mate Chen noticed when he first came to London – an all-pervasive sickly sour reek of off milk, from all the dairy products people in England eat. He’d just come from less crowded drier northern Zambia. I presume he’s used to it by now. (I hope he was before he encountered my cheese-guzzling gob.)

Well, someone’s had enough of this audio goo