Take a spinet or harpsichord and split it into thin strips for making hats, bonnets, or baskets. Warm over a fire made of dried buffalo-dung. Flip once, letting it land in the dust of the last sand-trap between you and the green-- heads, you lose; tails, you lose. Place a silicon wafer on your tongue, and call it Jesus.
Lips teetering on the brinks of coffee mugs, we chattered beside the halting brook, green ferns standing all about.
"Into this wild Abyss the warie fiend Stood on the brink of Hell and look'd a while."
The point of being, doing . . . rather like finding in an East End junk shop a postcard photo of a yodeling group from your hometown, and yet conjuring up succulent meals for your friends despite the wartime austerities you, among others, faced.