Saturday a blur, from daytime lessons of bishoprics and ceorls across the county, a frantic race to seat of the bishopry to a night time musical frenzy, tick tock, tick tock.
Crimson Clocks raced against time to make their music, and all the while the clock ticked on, tick tock, tick tock.
Gladstone rocked and Birthrite rolled, the clock struck and a new day began.
Early morning mist, lonely travel on train and bus; military march through Worcester's streets to the might of the Commandery, to set up The Last Line, always against the clock.
Tick tock, tick tock.
People, in trickles, in herds, as the time ticked on, all so friendly.
Unlike the clock that ticked on, tick tock.
A close, and an end, playing tetris with stock to pack it into a suitcase, tick tock.
The train platform is dark. The train comes slowly. T i c k t o c k.
Finally home. Cats counting the hours til feeding time. Tick mrouw?