We are now approaching the year of our lard 2024. Please remain seated, extinguish all cigarettes, tie your shoe laces and (please) no swearing. It'll all be over in about 300 days or so and you'll hardly feel any pain because nothing will really be any different unless it's all a little worse. Should you encounter any well spoken drunks or French existentialists dancing in the streets just try to ignore them. I'm assured there's portions of cold scrambled eggs and haggis awaiting them in some friendly fridge.
I'm in quite a hurry now as my laptop's battery has been surgically removed for health reasons and so my external connections may expire at any moment. If you're looking for me I'll be out there exploring the kinder, more gentle Bluesky app, writing things down frantically and then losing the bits of paper. Failing that I'll be hiding under this table (as above) along with a cat accomplice of some sort. It's all worked out reasonably well for me so far using this simple technique. Anyway it's just another year.
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