A journey from the depths of deepest, darkest Kent necessitated being hoofed out of bed at an unholy hour by She Who Must be Obeyed. Much unimpressed as I was, I dutifully complied with her ministrations. The fickle motorway gods were, for a change, beneficent. Thus we arrived in these parts at high noon. Having been buffeted by the slings and arrows of outrageous isobars last year, it was a pleasant suprise to be greeted by the sun.
Sadly neglectful of my literary duties I regret to advise that my first port of call was one of the purveyors of beer, wine, pizza and other assorted delights. As Brendan Behan was a drinker with a writing problem, so am I a reader. After a stern talking to, normal literary service will be resumed in due course.