Despite a goal to Vin Gardiner for Carlton, courtesy of an infringement, the Blues squandered many opportunities in attack. They sprayed the ball with their field kicking, and in their path toward goal.

Wounded and overthrown, the Britons continued their resistance, clung round the legs of the Norman steeds, and cumbered their advance; while their brethren, thrusting with pikes, proved every joint and crevice of the plate and mail, or grappling with the men-at-arms, strove to pull them from their horses by main force, or beat them down with their bills and Welch hooks.

Just a few months ago I was in Amsterdam with two old friends from the Lahore art world. On a warm summer night we checked out some galleries and walked along the canals, whirring bicycles and shrooming teenagers passing us in the darkness.

Persia tells Iris she is named for something special: the iris of the eye. I thought I was named for a flower, Iris says, disappointed. An iris is a flower, of course, Persia says, smiling, but it's this other, too. Our secret. 'The iris of the eye'. The eye? Persia snaps her fingers in Iris's eyes. The gesture is so rude and unexpected, Iris will remember it all her life. After this disclosure, Iris doesn't know whether she likes her name any more.