Imagine me, if you will, in a smoking jacket. Imagine a thin moody moustache is slithering across my upper lip rather than the manly unkemptness that I call my beard. Imagine that I’m sitting in a 60s pod-chair – almost completely spherical apart from a hole from which I peer, and suspended on the slightest tapering base. Imagine as you enter, I turn around to face you with a smile of grim satisfaction on my face. And then I say:
“Ah Christmas! My old enemy! We meet at last…”
Ladies and Gentlemen, I’m terribly afraid that you’re not likely to get much more plasticbaggery over the next week, as I have an astonishing range of Christmas-related activities to indulge myself in. At least part of that period will be spent with my family who believe that any computer than runs a browser after IE4 and does so via a non-free dial-up ISP (that cuts you off every twenty seconds) is the closest thing to pure evil that they can imagine. Such an environment is not conducive to regular postage. I shall return with many stories shortly before the New Year (and I’ll still be available on e-mail and there’s always someone to talk to on Barbelith if you get desperate), but otherwise, if I don’t see you before, have a wonderful Christmas!