According to the labels stuck on their foreheads, these two small elephants are called Sohoni and Sarwate.
This is one of those random events that leave a smear of residue, a small fluff ball of memory that clings to the fabric of life when so much else is washed away.
For anybody who sweltered through it, the summer of 1976 in the UK will always be remembered as one of the hottest and driest.
The young man in the sweatshirt and grubby blue jeans stands out amidst the genteel splendour of the opera house, an ugly intrusion like a gaudy weed in a bed of delicate perennials.
I don’t know how many USB drives I’ve acquired, lost, borrowed or given away. They rattle around in drawers and lie hidden at the bottom of bags.
Decline and renewal are the basic motors of the pop music scene. Always have been, always will. Bands come and go, change direction, reinvent themselves for better or worse.
The whole rationale of the white elephant is that it should be utterly useless. Venerated, perhaps, but in practical terms a burdensome extravagance designed to ruin the recipient.
As every fan knows, the primary function of the World Cup is to facilitate the filling in of the wall chart.