A hangover from the Festival of Potlatch lingers. It creeps around in that area of grey that has its existence somewhere between your correspondent's two ears. Currently there's a debate around the issue of whether to forsake the keyboard altogether and return to the much purer form of pencil, pencil sharpener and loose leaf lined paper. After all The Venerable Bede did his most political work with quill of Owl and Oak gall ink.
Sadly a quick check reveals that somewhere over time your correspondent appears
to have lost the skill of handwriting. A first effort is more of a squiggle with
the odd full stop and the occasional capital letter. It's pretty much illegible,
yet the spelling looks so excellent it could well be the way of the future. Then
of course there's hubris. Look at me. And it's the ether that pats a person on