Prophet’s fallacy

Remember that time you prophesised I’d be at Cambridge ten years down the line? Unknowingly adrift, I longed for this Jerusalem (in somewhere called East Anglia) and angled a decade’s pilgrimage in its direction. In my teenage years I found it: Stone, slab, water. Town of toffee frowns and nasal altitude; my nose bled imitating the interminable. When you found out I didn’t take a punt your steel eyes sunk to the lump of scrap lying at your feet. A promise you made that I didn’t keep.

Ryan Bramley