This week I have had a reminder of how delicate the metabolism is. In short, I have been ill. As far as I know, nothing other than a common virus of some sort, but it laid me low and incapable of pursuing most avenues of sensual enjoyment. For those of you wishing to know lurid details of bodily functions, then I can hand that responsibility over to Dan, who is the world’s foremost poet of the scatological.
This is particularly unfortunate, when I have had so many nice visitors here, thanks to my new friend Patroclus, and that old harridan Zoe, who both obviously felt that their readers were in need of an emetic, and pointed them in this direction.
I seemed to recall (but had to verify it) that Patroclus was a mate of Achilles, but don’t know, and couldn’t be bothered to find out any more. Honestly, these people who assume identities using names or phrases from dead languages.
May I recommend the excellent televisual entertainment “Everyone Hates Chris”? I suspect that readers in
Someone came here by searching for the “rudest man in