John is more of a clamberer; bumbling into stacks of old Weekend Telegraphs and running round corners intro prams. John wins surprise packets; splashes after Bombay swans and eats pigeon pie.
Open your eyes: say 'Water'.
'Water you mean?'
Down in the suburbitron, where the trains and the ladies and February trickle past, John twiddels and tumbles.
Open your eyes: say 'Tumbler'.
'Tumbler in cider.'
All the time, John is not a blunderer; he is standing with a tabby cat. Open your eyes: say 'Jennifer Martyn.'
'Whacko for John.'