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Davaar
19th Dec 2006, 15:48
Iwas reflecting, as one does, on the Vicissitude of Life. Dunbar sums it up: "Quhat is this lyfe bot ane straught way to deid" [if translation is necessary: "What is this life but a straight road to death"]. My mind turned to that flight fifty years ago, dark night, downwind in the circuit. Came a voice on the R/T: "Chr*st! There's going to be a crash!".

I looked around and caught sight of a star, a green moving star, moving straight across the circuit in the wrong direction on a collision course with me. One's reactions were swift in those days. He was slightly above, so I hit the stick to the right and down, broke starboard down from 1,000 feet. It was all I could do. I can still see the belly of that aircraft and its ID light as it swept past my cockpit. Pitter-Patter, Pitter-Patter, Pitter-Patter. I think the cardiologists call it fibrillation. That was daily life and, as it happens, death, for a few nights later the other pilot's luck ran out. He was a lovely fellow, too.

That is just to set the mood of my pensee.

Now the contrast. Sometimes I have pain, for which the quack prescribes a pill. It is a narcotic, so I gather. On Friday I had run out of pills, so along I trotted to the pharmacy for more. SOP is that they fax the quack, the quack faxes an authorisation, and they make up the box of 30. The quack, Alas, was off that day. Gosh, said I, I use these things only when I have the pain, which is not all the time, not all that often at all, really, so just in case can you give me a few pills without a prescription until the quack gets back on Monday?

His eyes --- What did they do? Yes! --- his eyes narrowed. His breath --- What did it do? Yes! --- it had a swift intake. These, he said, are narcotics. Yes, I said, I know that, they kill pain, that is why the quack gives them to me. But, he riposted, no slouch he, they are addictive. Not, I lobbed back, to me. When I have pain enough, I take one; when I do not, I do not. It has been so these many months. There is, I said, one thing I must not do; I must not gamble, smoke nor chew; I must not stand in the cinema queue; I ain't gonna grieve my Lord no more.

You can add -- the arriere-pensee -- that I do not drink alcohol. I eat sparingly. The neighbour's cat loves me, comes daily to visit. I am not your addictive or abusive personality. I expect Beatification any day. All that apart, I have been a customer here for a whole ["bloody", I bit back] pharmacopeia since long before the by-pass, and that was almost ten years ago. Silence fell. Eventually he gave me two pills.

On Monday I returned. Yes, the quack had sent the prescription. Here is the box with the 30 pills. No! Belay that! Here is the box with the 28 pills, for I have deducted the two I gave you on Friday.

Ottawa, Glory be, has been spared the excess pill menace.

I did once know an even worse jobsworth, storeman in a plant I worked at. When asked for a pound of nails, he was known to cut a nail in two to get the weight right.

Any other treasures out there?

XXTSGR
19th Dec 2006, 15:53
When asked for a pound of nails, he was known to cut a nail in two to get the weight right.In which case, you could have been even more pedantic than he, and pointed out that he gave you not a pound of nails but slightly less, plus one bit of metal that could neither any longer be described nor used as a nail - he shortchanged you!

In the pedantry stakes, I remember a teacher I had many years ago who was demonstrating pendulums to us. He timed a pendulum and pointed out that, no matter how wide the arc of its swing was, it always had the same period, and therefore it didn't "slow down" as some people put it. I made myself unpopular (not for either the first or, by a long chalk, the last time) by pointing out that it was covering less distance in the same time and therefore most certainly was slowing down.

Capt. Queeg
19th Dec 2006, 16:01
Also in the pedantry stakes, pushing the stick "to the right and down" and will help you break left, in a downward fashion....

Sorry, but I lost interest after that bit. Olde Englishe stuff not being my bag, baby..... :zzz:

PS Hey XX, are you sure it was you who pointed that fact to the teacher? Or has the tale changed a little as the years have worn on...?? :=

:E

Davaar
19th Dec 2006, 16:09
1. Also in the pedantry stakes, pushing the stick "to the right and down" and will help you break left, in a downward fashion....

2. Sorry, but I lost interest after that bit. Olde Englishe stuff not being my bag, baby..... :zzz:

:E

1. Really? What aircraft do you fly?

2. Your patience ran out very quickly. For such as you I gave a translation.

Capt. Queeg
19th Dec 2006, 16:13
For such as you I gave a translation.

Fine as I've no doubt it is, your translation, even, was wasted upon the likes of me.

GANNET FAN
19th Dec 2006, 16:22
1. Really? What aircraft do you fly?

2. Your patience ran out very quickly. For such as you I gave a translation.


Davaar, DONT RISE TO IT. From the few quotes I have read from you, you're better than that.

Gainesy
19th Dec 2006, 16:27
Perhaps he had too much port Mr D.

Capt. Queeg
19th Dec 2006, 16:41
Chill, Mr. Fan.

'One' was not having a dig at the esteemed Mr. Davaar.

tony draper
19th Dec 2006, 16:52
Err surely if one pushes the tiller down and to the right the nose would point earthward the left wing lift, the right wing fall and one would indeed be turning to starboard.:confused:

G-CPTN
19th Dec 2006, 17:10
Not if some erk had wired-up the controls @rse-about-face.

Capt. Queeg
19th Dec 2006, 18:13
TD, a roll to the right, followed by forward stick, will push the nose "down" and to the left of the compass compared to where it started out at.

Known as an outside turn.

Of course we're talking relatively extreme control inputs and bank angles here, but Davaar did say it was a "break" maneouvre. Or was it Dunbar... I'm not quite sure :ooh:

Sorry..... I said it was pedantic. :(

Tricky Woo
19th Dec 2006, 18:51
Interesting.

There have been two occasions in my life where I've escaped certain death by a whisker.

The first occasion was not my bloody fault, begad, cos it was about 20 years before I was conceived... perhaps my grandpa was in that circuit with yer, Mr Davaar, 'cos somewhere in the northern wastes of Canada he nearly met his end when ordered out to continue his basic training by some idiot who had decided that any feverous pilot found in sickbay could be better serve his country heating his cockpit during continuous circuits. The medic who pulled him delerious from his crashed Harvard knew better, and had him shipped off to a proper hospital which took certain things like pneumonia a little more seriously.

The second occasion was half way up Snowdon on a ridge called Crib Gogh in a bleak midwinter. 12 years younger than now, and at least twice as foolish. Egged on by a member of the armed forces who had easily scaled said precipitious ridge equipped merely with crampons, rope, icepick, radio, parachute, ladder, and all the usual training that the army gave him. I decided to have a go the following day armed with walking boots, walking stick, kagool, and a uni degree in IT. On my tod, in deep winter.

Really that daft.

Minor digression: my personal life had pretty much collapsed at that time, so one considered one's safety to be somewhat more negotiable for cheapish thrills.

There was a point somewhere on the vertical side of the snow cornice over the ridge, the cornice that teetered above a 1,500 foot vertical drop, where I realised that the holes that some previous passer by had cut into had been cut by someone with three legs, 'cos somehow my two legs had fallen out of step. Left foot was switched with right foot, and next hole right required left foot. Hand holes didn't exist, so hands rested against the face of the cornice. Impossible to get my left foot to the next hole right. Impossible to go back likewise 'cos right foot would need to go left.

Fcuked, basically. And alone, 'cos no other twatface was twatty enough to be up there in such twatful conditions.

So one considered the state of play: one love life torn into shreds. One stalled career due to a cushy uni break in my late twenties. One 29 year old chap who felt he had nowt to lose. One 1,500 foot drop below me. Two holes, two feet in the wrong ones. No hand holes. No help, no radio, no helicopter, no fcuking hope at all.

Fcuked.

Hmm...

So I jumped up as high as I could, untwisted my legs, and inserted my feet into the two correct holes as I descended again. All done blind, because I needed to keep my face and centre of gravity as close to the vertical wall as possible. Hands, face, knees and stomach landed flat again against the cornice wall. All well. Continued on my way, and had a story to tell.

About two years later, my life sorted itself out and I had something to lose. I reconsidered that occasion for the first time since, and just the thought of it set my knees quaking. As they are now. I think of my wife and two beautiful kids, and wonder how I nearly threw my future away.

Fcuking phew...

TW

G-CPTN
19th Dec 2006, 23:47
I've related this before, but with luck those who've read it already will have forgotten it.
Germany. Secret Vehicle Test Track, miles from anywhere (to avoid interlopers). Weekend, therefore I'm working there alone. Apart from solitary Security Guard on the gate. My intention is to use the Pool Car allocated to me to travel to the Nurburgring to watch the 1000Km Sports Car Race (as well as to get me to and from my hotel). All vehicles require a pass-out signed personally by the Proving Ground Manager. I have one. When I return on Monday morning the vehicle will be allowed in without any pass (though I will have to show my PERSONAL pass), but I'll have to get another pass signed for the Monday evening. No problem.
No problem? Read on:-
I reach the exit gate. The Security Guard comes out, takes my pass and raises the exit barrier. Before I move forward I realise that I haven't sufficient fuel to drive to and from Nurburgring, so I explain this to the Security Guard and he suggests that I should pull forward and he will open the entry gate to let me back in. I return to the pumps and refuel. I reach the exit barrier again and the Security Guard (same chap, there's only him and me in the 1000-odd acres) asks me for my exit pass. "But I GAVE it to you." "And you went OUT. You need another exit pass if you want to go out AGAIN."
And so the discussion continued for about an hour. Without a pass signed by Herr Reidrich there was no way I could leave the Proving Ground. Herr Reidrich was not the sort of person that one summoned from his home on a Saturday afternoon to sign an exit pass for an English Test Engineer. Herr Reidrich was well-known for having sacked a Security Guard for having raised the entry barrier, having recognised Herr Reidrich's car, and NOT having insisted on checking Herr Reidrich's personal pass first.

The discussion continued as to what might happen under various scenarios, and I discovered that, in the event of a FIRE within the Proving Ground, the Fire Brigade would be granted ACCESS to the PG, but would require an exit pass (signed by Herr Reidrich) in order to be allowed out again. Yes, really! To avoid having to summon Herr Reidrich from his home to sign the exit pass, a few pre-signed passes were secreted in a drawer (almost certainly locked) to be filled-out by the Duty Security Guard with the Fire Engine details. After another period of discussion, I managed to persuade the Goon (sorry) to release one of these Fire Brigade exit passes for my use on my PROMISE to replace it first thing Monday morning (and hope that there wasn't a MAJOR fire over the weekend requiring more Fire Engines than there were exit passes remaining - though it was agreed that such a major event would probably require Herr Reidrich to be informed and for him to attend the Proving Ground anyway).

Exit pass filled-in I was allowed to leave the PG in my allocated vehicle (the alternative was for me to WALK to Lord knows where, as there were no buses or any other means of transport within a radius of several miles). I had a marvellous day at the 1000Km Sports Car Race, walked miles into the forest and got some stupendous photographs. Monday morning found me in Herr Reidrich's office explaining my folly and how I had persuaded the Security Guard to break the rules. I never discovered whether the Security Guard was sacked as a result of his misdemeanour.

I learned after that the German way of treating rules was with an iron fist.

tony draper
20th Dec 2006, 00:02
They recon one of the reasons for the defeat at Isandwala was the Sergeant in charge of the ammunition with our chaps surrounded by howling Zulus still refused to issue any .455s without the proper chit.
I also recal reading a great letter from Wellington when he was fighting the French in Spain to the paper shufflers in the War Office,not sure if someone had posted it on proon or I saw it elsewhere,will try and find it.
:rolleyes:

Blacksheep
20th Dec 2006, 02:22
Your patience ran out very quickly. For such as you I gave a translation.Excuse the pedantry Davaar, for you are by the far the most eloquent of all the posters here on PPRuNe, but is not the direct translation of the archaic
"Quhat is this lyfe bot ane straught way to deid""What is life but one straight road to death"?

Using "a" implies only one of many possible straight roads, using "one" to translate "ane" would perhaps, be more positive. ;)

Davaar
20th Dec 2006, 03:59
Well now, I had meant to discuss jobsworths, but a thread drift is always to be encouraged. That's an interesting thought, black. Two readings in one line.

Before I go further, please know that I think of you often in your bereavement, the long sad tropical evenings as you reflect: “Alice doesn’t live here any more”.

The glossary does, to be sure, lend (I would not, not yet, admit "gives") support to your view, for it allows of three meanings for "ane": "a, one, only". That much is open.

I did not consult it when making the translation, a throwaway, really. I had not expected the gist to be so puzzling as it is, by explicit admission, to some. To one anyway. Or ane.

Maybe, although it would require us to move a word or two around, we might read "life is only a .... way to death" or “only one ...... way to death”. I tend to avoid "only" because it is so often used loosely.

It could not here mean "but only a way to death" because life is manifestly more than that; and since life is by definition the opposite of death it would be vapid to read it as "life is the only way to death". We all know that.

Unless, therefore, that fellow who broods on low-altitude bunting manoeuvres in the circuit at night wants to make something of it, I leave "only" aside.

That said, it appears to me that if the focus is on "this lyfe", then the connecting "bot ane" means "nothing but" or "the" or "a" or indeed "just a". That is how I see it, but it is not for me to be, umm, pedantic, not in contest with my betters at that trade.

I’m cool, Dude, cool. Take it as you will.

Mind you, this does bring us to a rare opportunity, since one of Dunbar's best-known works is "The Flyting of Dunbar and Kennedy", a flyting being a quarrel or contention, and Kennedy being the other wretch. I was keeping some of the Flyting for That Other.

He confesses that Olde Englishe (middle Scots, really) stuff is not his bag. I suspect, given his difficulties in accurate reading and quotation, that he struggles with modern English too. Still, I thought he might without translation catch the theme of:

Mauch mutton, byt buttoun, peilit gluttoun, air to Hilhous;
Rank beggar, ostir dregar, foule fleggar in the flet;
Chitterling, ruch rilling, lik schilling in the milhous;
Baird rehator, theif of natur, fals tratour, feyindis gett;
Filling of tauch, rak sauch, cry crauch, thou art oursett;
Muttoun dryver, girnall ryver, yadswyvar, fowll fell the;
Herretyk, luinatyk, purspyk, carlingspet,
Rottin crok, dirtin dok, cry cok, or I shall quell the.

Blacksheep
20th Dec 2006, 09:48
Before I go further, please know that I think of you often in your bereavement, the long sad tropical evenings as you reflect: “Alice doesn’t live here any more”.Its "Little 'un" I miss the most. Dogs are more affectionate than spiders (and even idiot lurchers have character.) Another has lightened my sorrow. For the time being she's nothing but a tiny three inches measured toe to toe in an arachnid manner - too small for attacking gekkoes, but handy for the odd cockroach. She'll grow a bit yet I reckon. She lurks behind the water heater in the en-suite and I'd post a photograph, only it would upset the Little Miss Muffets among us. Fascinating creatures, let her lie low awhile.

tony draper
20th Dec 2006, 10:33
Anything with more than four legs that exceeds one eights of a inch in length would cause me to leave the room Mr B,one understands that yer arachnid has its place in the natural scheme of thing,but one simply does not like the wee feckers.
There is a theory that the rather irrational aversion most of us have for spiderkind stems from folk memory deep within the Limbic primitive lizard part of out brain, of the time our ancesters suffering greatly at the hands of the hairy feckers when we first descended from the trees.
:uhoh:

SLFguy
20th Dec 2006, 12:32
Anything with more than four legs that exceeds one eights of a inch in length would cause me to leave the room Mr B,one understands that yer arachnid has its place in the natural scheme of thing,but one simply does not like the hairy feckers.
There is a theory that the rather irrational aversion most of us have for spiderkind stems from folk memory deep within the Limbic primitive lizard part of out brain, of the time our ancesters suffering greatly at the hands of the hairy feckers when we first descended from the trees.
:uhoh:

I have heard, (and given the phobia is so widespread/common I tend to give it credence), that the fear is driven by our brains lack of ability to follow and decipher, (anticipate next move), the movements of more than four legs that are not arranged in pairs. And given that the little buggers are fairly quickish we feel at a disadvantage.
Said disadvantage transferred to the wee beastie when Ms SLF's rolled up 'Hello' magazine thwacks down.

ORAC
20th Dec 2006, 12:47
It could not here mean "but only a way to death" because life is manifestly more than that.... That depends on your religious quotient and degree of pessimism. As the old sayings go:

"Life is just a sexually transmitted terminal disease", and

"Life is just a game, from which nobody gets out alive"....

Who was it said I must be the life and soul at parties.... :suspect:

tony draper
20th Dec 2006, 13:23
It aint no sin to take off yer skin and dance around in yer bones. dee dum!
:rolleyes:

Davaar
20th Dec 2006, 14:55
1.That depends on your religious quotient and degree of pessimism.
2.As the old sayings go:
(a) "Life is just a sexually transmitted terminal disease", and
(b) "Life is just a game, from which nobody gets out alive"....
(c) Who was it said I must be the life and soul at parties.... :suspect:

1. No, I think not.
2. That is what I mean. In (a) and (b) you give at least two other realities for life.

Blacksheep
21st Dec 2006, 02:31
folk memory deep within the Limbic primitive lizard part of our brain, of the time our ancesters suffering greatly at the hands of the hairy feckers when we first descended from the trees.Having watched Alice carting off a stunned gekko to her lair beneath the sofa, I reckon the fear definitely originates in the primitive lizard part of the brain, tony.

As to Davaar's quotation, I might translate it in my own local idiom as "Whey, life's nobbut a jorney tae death."

There would of course be a sequel to the statement. Something like 'So, nae point in werryin; gerrem in, 'tsyour round."

ShyTorque
21st Dec 2006, 06:20
Maybe the primeval fear of spiders comes from a distant ancestral memory of three foot wide arachnids that used to carry off our babies. ((:E))

tony draper
21st Dec 2006, 09:18
Fortunatly there is a physical law which restricts the size of insects, called the square cubed law,unless they dwell in the ogan of course,and benifit from weightlessness such as Crabs Lobsters ect, they are after all just ocean going bugs,also the way the hairy bastards breath untilizes capillery attraction,and if one increases the size of capilleries they no longer attract.
One is very greatfull for this.
:rolleyes:

GANNET FAN
21st Dec 2006, 09:52
Chill, Mr. Fan.

'One' was not having a dig at the esteemed Mr. Davaar.

Consider myself chilled.
Happy Christmas to you

Tricky Woo
21st Dec 2006, 10:39
Years ago on a trip to Japan, a bitch ex-girlfriend and I went to a traditional crab restaurant to scoff, erm, crab. Japanese style.

The usual Japanese restaurant vagaries ensued: yer shoes off, slippers on, pad-pad-pad to table. Lots of bowing. Then sit cross legged until yer feet, ankles, calves and knees ache. And yer don't even think about popping for a slash until yer've read the Japanese slipper ettiquette section of the Lonely Planet five times, and completed the Gaijin Slipper 101 multiple choice examination and passed with 95% marks correct.

One digresses from the main course of the story.

Anyways, one watched with interest for a platter of crab to appear. Well, a platter did not appear. What can only be described as a soddin' great wooden bucket appeared with steam coming through gaps betwix bucket and lid. Said lid was removed and inside was the biggest fcukin' crab I've ever seen. One was grateful the bloody thing had been steamed to death 'cos you'd not want to meet one of these things in its prime. It looked a bit like that Alien movie, erm, alien when it was all curled up into some spaceship nook and cranny; a mass of long thick legs, claws and somewhere down there it's ill-proportioned body.

Yet more bowing ensued, before bucket was whisked away back to wherever the dismemberment is done. "Bang! Bang! Bang! Crunch! Crunch! Bang!" Then the same bucket was returned to us full of broken bits of what had been the biggest fcuking crab I'd ever seen in my life. Now it was the biggest heap of fcuking crab meat and shell I'd ever seen in my life.

Not being one to avoid crab meat when the opportunity arises, I gratefully tucked in. As did bitch ex-girlfriend. Bitch.

Now yer usual crab dinner is a protracted affair involving something akin to christmas nut-crackers, pokey metal stick things for teasing out scraps of meat from some inner space, etc etc. All that crackin' and teasin' takes quite some time. Rather slows down the proceedings, gives yer time to savour the few significant bits of crab yer finally get into yer gob.

Now imagine the slight contrast between the usual crab dinner experience, and the japanese crab dinner. Vast lumps of crab meat lay afore us with no cracking, teasing or any other obstacles betwix us. We scoffed crab meat until it came out of our ears, nostrils and and and and any other orifices. We scoffed and scoffed and scoffed until, erm, about ten minutes into the meal we'd eaten as much crab meat in one sitting as anyone could ever wish too. Then we scoffed some more to be sure.

And there was still plenty left. Crickey! Not wishing to look weak in front of the natives, we considered flushing the rather large sizeable remnants down the loo, only the toilet slipper thing rather scuppered that plan. Window looked unopened in centuries (deepest midwinter) and no plant pot within range.

So in the end we brazenly asked for the bill.

Ahhh, more bowing and fawning, bucket whisked away with nary a glance at the vast waste of the earth's resources... but the bill... the bill... failed to appear. We asked again... Language problems... could be, eh? Another go... and yet again it failed to appear, although by the look of panic in the grovelling waitress's eyes one could see that some major breach of crab-eating ettiquette was being avoided. Or would be if these half-witted western fcukers would only cooperate.

Then the tureen of crab soup appeared. Looked creamy, like a bona fide crab bisque. Looked very good. Might even be nice, if only we hadn't already scoffed as much crab in one sitting as in our entire previous lifetimes. And yer can understand that at this point we felt like we'd also eaten our crab quota for the rest of our lives. And this particular crab bisque had sodding great lumps of crab meat floating in it.

Waitress bowed a lot, smiled bravely, and placed steaming bowls of crab bisque afore us. I managed a few spoonfuls, but to be honest rather regretted the earlier decision not to surreptitiously dispose of the uneaten crab meat down the loo. Bitch fcuking bitch of an ex-girlfriend bitch from hell managed a few more than me, but one observed with dismay (dismay at the time; one feels rather gleeful in hindsight) that she was looking a tad pale.

A few more game stirs of the soup, and then ettiquette had been met. Oh yes, the soup ritual was over. We asked with renewed confidence for the bill, and it appeared in a trice. More bowing, paying, bowing, scurrying, grovelling, slippers off, shoes on... and we were outside feeling about 5kg heavier than when we'd gone in.

One lives and learns.

When actually one lives, but it often takes a few similar experiences to learn a bloody lesson when a lesson needs learning. One year later we were sat in the Tianamen Restaurant, just south of Tianamen Square in Beijing. (same bitch, different country, got it?)

The restaurant in not named after the square, as everyone assumes. Oh no. This is not just the most famous restaurant in China, and quite possibly Asia, but it's easily the oldest restaurant in the world; over a thousand years, one recalls, but I'm sure some pedantic twatface will Google it and come back with the exact date thereby proving me outrageously erroneous. Go do it, 'cos I can't be arsed.

Consider this: the restaurant's not named after Tianamen Square quite simply because Tainamen Square is named after the restaurant. Yep, it's troooooooo. Not a lot of people know that.

Anyways, this restaurant built its considerable reputation on beijing duck, or to be precise, they invented the beijing duck recipe that we all know and love, and have got rather good at the trick. In fact they've had a millenia to get the hang of the whole thing.

This rather long story needs to be brought to a truncated end, so replace fawning japanese waitress, with smily chinese waiter. Replace biggest fcuking crab I've ever seen with biggest fcuking duck I've ever seen. Same bitch opposite me at the table. Same gorging, same sated appetite within a few minutes. Same refusal to acknowledge the request for the bill. Same recycling of uneaten lumps of meat into soup... only it carries on as different bits of duck appear before us in various guises: duck soup is followed by duck jelly; then duck something else; then duck something else again. Forgive the lack of specifics, but one rather lost interest due to the large lump of duck meat in my stomach. It went on and on and on... an hour later, ex-girlfriend bitch from hell and I escaped (slowly) from the duck restaurant.

One doesn't need a third lesson.

TW

frostbite
21st Dec 2006, 13:41
Fond memories of ex-girlfriend then, Mr Woo?

Tricky Woo
21st Dec 2006, 16:00
Oh, how I miss the fcuking bitch.

TW

Davaar
21st Dec 2006, 16:43
Given your more recent circumstances, as reported, though, I suppose too much detail would be as your, Ah, jobsworth.

Tricky Woo
21st Dec 2006, 21:12
Indeed, Mr Davaar.

Life's taken a dramatic turn for the better. Wife and two wee lads are simply tremendous, and the fulfillment has taken me somewhat aback. Really a bloody good idea to marry Claudia Josi.

http://www.brilliantpebbles.com

Back to that restaurant in China. Seems it's only about 200 years old, and not even called Tiananmen. However, the street it's on really is named after the restaurant. Strange how old memories convert an already interesting story into a far more interesting, yet factually incorrect yarn.

One was feeling garrulous this morn. Must 'ave been the wee hangover. Always was somewhat prose prolific when hung over. Reckon it must be an artistic gene.

TW