Oh, chapeau

While I was spending Saturday engaged in a life-or-death struggle to simplify sentences and make the text in front of me at least bear a passing resemblance to English, two things happened.

One, the financial dopers got their arses handed to them on a plate by Chelsea. Even though I hate Chelsea with almost every fibre of my being, a contempt which dates back to an ill-advised visit to The Shed at Stamford Bridge in 1985 (just before I went to see Sting at the Royal Albert Hall, if you really want to know) (actually, maybe that scarred me more), my antipathy for the quasi-criminal antipathy Manchester City has for the rules of sport, their flagrant and blatant cheating, etc. etc. knows no bounds. A salutary lesson for us all.

The second thing was that Mrs. Ottawacker went for a haircut from a friend of ours, and Ottawacker Jr. was entrusted with taking the picture for me to use as the blip of the day. This is it.

"What in the name of God is that?" I asked. 
"It's art, dad," he said.

Right.