Les sens de l’étang

 No more maybes. Tomorrow we shall begin. To write the wrongs and pen the sheep, for a lamb’s a lamb for a’ that.

 Why tomorrow? Is there something new that can be borrowed that isn’t a present today?

No-one will say.

 The engine ticking over thinks it is idling, biding its time for the great take-off, but it may just putter out. Tout dépend de l’essence.