As I carefully negotiated the riotous loveables spilling onto the tear-stained road outside the Festing Hotel, I wanted, tentatively to reach out in a comradely Pompey way, but constrained as I was by my bicycling status, a consoling brotherly hug was not an option. I left it to the boys and girls of the local constabulary, in flashing blue. I ventured a cheery "Ease up mush." to the roaring youth in the middle of the road but didn't wait for his (no doubt eloquent) response. I parked up my pedalatory vehicle at my Southsea lodgings and sought answers to the night's most troubling questions in the pages of a small volume, generously donated by a friend of the revolution. I consoled myself in chapter five,The Economic basis of the Withering Away of the State. It was whilst in deep reverie of such vexing challenges to the spirit that I finally figured out what's coming home (a certitude of which I have been confidently informed by complete strangers in recent days) I confess I have been behind the curve on this one. Well, of course, my comrades thought it best that I discover the answer for myself, when the time was right. And so, as the dawn inched up over the city's weathered chimney pots, and cock crow heralded a new day, the ocean of truth (a nod to Sir Isaac) swept over me. Not it's, but they - chickens. And why were they coming home? Need I say more?