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December 6th 2009

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    Not yet that date which will live in infamy, but close enough to it for me to face the curious accusation of classlessness.  Lo, may I drive four hundred miles through the valley of the shadow of death, and one way or the other come home absolved.

   I had planned an appearance better described as 'unwashed victim of contagious and terminal illness'.  But I have received instructions that appropriate dress includes the preludes of shampoo and shaving. 

   I could slouch in there sucking on a Big Gulp, but such an affirmation would have its downside, because between here and there exist few public toilet facilities, and probably when I get there I will anyway have to urinate.

    

    

    Last time I 'Pointed Percy' at an ornamental, I was watched from a drawing room window.  It was a garden that belonged to a grandee, and needless to say there was no shaking of hands when we finally met.  But in those days there was full employment and finding good help was a complexity many a grandee had to struggle with.

    It is the English part of me I suppose that sometimes puts the plum far back into the throat, develops nasal congestion and finds itself using phrases like "frightfully nice to meet you", "jolly good show" and "tally-ho chaps".

    And this must be in good spirits, because it is so easy to issue "bite me" and be altogether done with the oil slick most assumptions contain.

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tim candler

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