throw the paper in the bin and stop the volcano nonsense , it wo n't be like that , it will be a sordid , clinging , sticky-eyed birth , placenta torn and dripping with the blood of memory and upbringing , one foot on the tarmac and one on the grass verge , staggering on weak legs , half-closed eyes oozing ; a slow , tacky , ugly dawn - there will be no volcano .