Le matin...

I'm standing at the bottom of my 10 metre long shadow in Sveavagen this morning, fishing around in my bag for a glove. The pavement here is around four metres wide, and is adequately lit at this hour, by the half-hearted October sun, which is shining low over the tarmac from down by Sergels Torg. A woman comes bowling along the sidewalk towards me heading north. She is, shall we say, heavy set, or perhaps big boned, as folks used to say back in the old country when being "tactful". She is around fortyfive and dressed in a way that has "receptionist" written all over it. Despite the rather heavy frost which lies thickly upon all the world and its uncle today, she has chosen to venture out sans chapeau, unwilling to risk the collapse of her unfeasibly large laquered hairdo. Her cheeks are rouged to the point of insanity, and her mouth with its thin uber Max-Factored lips and tightly pursed arrangement, can be best described as mealy.

I squint into the sun and see her approaching. It's going to be close I think to myself as I shift slighty onto the left foot to allow her to pass by fast off the port bow. But no. Just as I begin to focus once more on the illusive glove, I am suddenly and most unjustly broadsided by a sharp tant elbow.

Without a change in her speed, she half turns her head and with a smirk, a smirk mind you, says, "Oops."

Then on she continues, marching forth toward the environs of the WGC, where she will, no doubt, make someones day at work seem just that little bit more special.

Oops. I ask you.