In Which Your Humble Blogger goes back to that special time and place, whether he likes it or not.
In Which Your Humble Blogger has said all this before, and undoubtedly will again. The question is whether that repetition is enjoyable or dull, comfortable or, um, what’s that thing.
In Which Your Humble Blogger is slowly, slowly starting to catch up.
In Which Your Humble Blogger is still perplexed about the book, and then my memory of the specifics has started to fade, too.
In Which Your Humble Blogger goes back for another bite and the proverbial.
In Which Your Humble Blogger reads an old one.
In Which Your Humble Blogger’s auto-complete feature assumed that when YHB began to type broken leg he intended to go on with islature.
In Which Your Humble Blogger hath perused yon book, and lo, it is crap, by’r’Lady. Strewth! Tush!
In Which Your Humble Blogger has learned to just say ‘I like Victorian Novels’ and leave it at that.
In Which Your Humble Blogger writes out his annoyance, and will let it go, now.