Shakespeare should have asked Diego Maradona who has been regretting his from the time he understood what it meant. The sky is overcast again. The umbrella, black and porous, is hardly a ray of sunshine on this dark and desperate day. The white shirt, suffering both the cold and the heat of a rough wash and more careful ironing, lies stretched “like a patient etherised on a table”[1]. The line jumps into his head faster than before. While he loves this habit of his that tells him every day the way literature has become a part of his life, he cannot miss the irony of it sometimes. Today, for instance, Prufrock –like, he must make the visit; however, it is not he, but they, who will be asking all the questions. The tie is a bit of a letdown; there’s only that much a black ribbon stolen from the neighbour’s…