green for the jungle blur, the overcast sea close to shore, the hills I used to go driving in ten miles free from the city, the lime wedge on the razor rim of my shot glass, green as symbol of renewal. I can’t fume in my green room. I kick back and listen to old Hillage albums and remember the 80s. And I plot my fantastic escapes to see what it’s like skimming on the Solent, only the green line and the open sky ahead of me, will I make it happen, will I kick myself to make a call?