On The Way Out

 I don't normally dream about politics- not that I remember, anyway- but last night I dreamed about Zelensky. He was passing through an airport having returned from a conference where he had been told by the bigger players that his presence was surpus to requirement. It was as if he he'd had a stroke. The right hand side of his face was lifeless, expressionless, like. the face of a wax doll, but the left hand side was terrified, with the eye rolling in the socket and the white visible all the way round, like that of a bull calf that knows it's on its way to the abbatoir.