Before the weather turned to custard, kai-boshing our New Year's plans, I spent a fair bit of time sitting in the sun in my undies working on my exegesis. Except I'm not calling it that any more. I've adopted Dad's term for it: my screed. He suggested I remove the 'infelicitous language'. Which I considered. For about 10 seconds.
My supervisor reckons I should apply for an extension, get my head together, and come back to it. Some suggestion I should discuss my work. I said I didn't want to do that.
What I've been doing instead is removing the boring factual historical background stuff and adding in more madness. Not less! More! Nyah ha ha ha ha!
Then, just before the pre-apocalyptic rains began, the PLF held its final meeting for 2011. For those who haven't met the PLF before, it is a not-so-secret society dedicated to the fine art of smoking tobacco through pipes. And because it's been such a shit year, we decided to hold our meeting at PLF HQ, Blandings South.
We started by listening to traditional PLF tobacco smoking songs:
Those are anno 1944 US Army valves driving things there (the ones that look like dildos with anal beads attached, that US Army eh?), driving these things here:
Here is the patron of the PLF and font of all knowledge, the Oracle if you will:
After getting fired up in the Listening Pavilion, we moved round the front to the Fire Pit, past the Croquet Lawn:
And of course when the sun went down and the embers had built up properly, it was time for the Secret Fire-Dance Ritual. But I can't tell you about that. I've probably already said too much:
Blandings South is not in conventional spacetime, you see. It exists outside of it. To get there, or leave, it is necessary to navigate a specially equipped open-top two-seater automobile. Here we are, blasting our way home through the mists of time (note the Colonel's protective eyewear):
I bet this guy got a shock when we suddenly emerged back into the real world:
Here's to 2012! As Mr Frederick Threepwood Esq. puts it, 'Not a year for dieting!'
