"Whereof should one blog this balmy evening?" am an question one finds oneself posing oneself, it transpireth. One concludes that one should concern oneself with the preponderance of Arbuthnot in Minsk. Und so, vithout further ado...

A special evening in my home village, with preparations underway for Hobbli-Sendu, the annual tog-imbibing ceremony.

Today I am reading in your Knitting Weekly that last month solipsistic rudders accounted for over 87% of all road accidents in the Netherlands! On discovering this I unwittingly commenced hooting at Noble Sir Galahad, my porcupine, who am an cadeau from the staff at the Kyrgyzstani embassy. Noble Sir Galahad, he likes it that I hoot. He often grin at hootage, sometimes at the most inappropriate times (see Great Faux Pas of the Late 1470s [ed. MacNishtie, Gimble and Hod]). I took him to see Parping Godfrey last year, but, while Godfey and I were making tea, Galahad ate one of the armchairs. We were not invited back.


Noble Sir Galahad as a baby (right), shown here with Griselda and Hector, his brethren.

That reminds me of what happened to me the last time I was in Zubwubski Central. I had only just finished varnishing the ship of fools (mfuliboat varnishti, as we say in my home village), when suddenly crocus! we all noticed and gnat. Ah, me! Even now it brings a grin unto mine fizzog and maketh me cackle like unto Gideon Ipswich, the elongated chimbley-sweep of olde Shoreditche.