Okay, just so you know: summer is the reason by dint of which my diary is so tackily underupdated. Just like the irrepressible marn, I go and get loamy in the summer. My fingers stick to the keyboard, my head swims (sometimes the rest of me). Why would anybody else want to read that? Why would they be reading at all? I'm not one to diss reading, mind; it's just, well ... look around you! Unless you live in the southern hemisphere, I suppose, or some place where there are no discernible seasons.
See what I mean?
love and the layer of grime under my nails,
alastair