I the mote in your eye

The time has come, to speak of many things.

Ed notes, Mary speaks not only once, but again. Phil doesn’t, but was there, and a fine fellow he is. An emmissary from Greyabbey gets the idea, while certain hyper-kewl dudes didn’t look like I thought they would. Stephen was the height of elegance as ever, and Hannah, suave as ever, reminded me that there is always fire and energy in youth. That gets snuffed out when you get to be as old and not-yet-wise as me. Ampersandru and PatsyCrime appeared like eloquent visions of sanity, and disappeared just as mysteriously. There are photographs, of this meet, of Bellvue thereafter, of the journey across the sea. But I dally not with Dahlia right now, for tethering is all I clutch.

The time has come, to speak of absent friends.

Where was Ress? swm? I even heard rumours that that Lahndahn contingent happened to be on the same small piece of sod as myself. And Steve. Steve is great, and I lament not seeing him nor his. I bewail missing out on seeing those I didn’t see. Next time, people, I will try harder to make sure I see you all next time. Whether you like it or not.

The time has come, to speak to impressions of the homeland.

But mayhap I should stay my ferocious wit, towering sarcasm, bottomless cynicism and endless witterings. For fear of making this a pariah weblog, one to be boycotted and avoided. Me? I am a pussycat really, as those who have met me can attest. But the inverse cultural (s)quare law applies, and the amount of white leisurewear increases exponentially the further away from civilisation you get. Civilisation as defined as an approximate eight mile radius centred on, oh, let’s say Great St Marys.

The time has come, to speak of why people always get the wrong impression of me.

It is the lack of thinking before speaking, that old epithet I used to use on weblog 1.5. Or maybe even weblog 1.0. It wasn’t weblog 0.99, I know that. Rest easy, GoodePeople, for karma is abroad.

The time has come, to gush enthusiastically.

Folks, you were all great. Truly, you were. It was a fine afternoon, both reaccquainting and quainting. I am sure I had oh-so-much more to say, on the wrongs and the rights, the highs and the lows, the superb finding of a Creme Egg in one’s napkin, but I have forgotten them amid my mutterings on other things that go on around me. Altogether now, to the tune of ‘Funky Cold Medina’, ‘Grumpy Old Elitist’. Oh dear, that was funnier in my head. Actually, it wasn’t even funny there. My bespoked coat is still on…