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 does wonder when ‘millionaire’ started to mean someone who makes a million every year.
In Which Gentle Readers feel fortunate not to have been in the car when Your Humble Blogger was singing along.
In Which Your Humble Blogger goes to the aviary, or On The Wings Of Madness.
In Which Your Humble Blogger expresses regrets, and vaguely hopes for, um, good things, and you know, here I am with my hands on the keyboard, but nothing’s happening.
In Which Your Humble Blogger is still here.
In Which Your Humble Blogger suspects they are on Google Maps, actually, but won’t go and look.
In Which Your Humble Blogger is downhearted.
In Which Your Humble Blogger starts the school year off in the usual way, with more pencils and more books, and more teachers’ dirty looks.