The sunflowers wave their heads around like girls and boys with unkempt hair and short attention spans. 'look, here! look, there!' they say, as if anyone is listening. They are unattended, like children at a Grown-ups party, left to themselves, and unruly. The Grown-ups are off discussing the serious work of Politicians and the new Book Someone has written. Someone is important and has won some prizes and also is serving on a Panel which is also part of a Colloquy on dystopian urban fiction. It is Grim business. The sunflowers do not care. They say 'the wind is in the trees and the tree branches are waving their arms. they're waving their arms at us.' Next they see a bird, a splash of red like a patch off a cotton jacket. Then a squirrel chases another squirrel in a mad tarentella. The Grown-ups do not even notice. They are pouring Wine and muttering about the Economy, both of which are bad-- the Wine because the host has little knowledge and less taste, but it is better than nothing. The Economy is bad for all the obvious reasons. The sunflowers turn golden-fringed faces upward now where geese form their drum-and-bugle V and clouds scud across the blue like surrealist tramcars. 'it is all so beautiful!' they say, 'the whole show!' But they are left unattended, with their unkempt hair and short attention spans and no one hears them.