You will be thrilled to learn that Mr Key has returned to Blighty after his frolics on foreign shores. But before popping open that celebratory can of Squelcho! and throwing your hat in the air, bear in mind that I am a sick and snuffle-headed man, much given over the past few days to lying prostrate with my hand held to my forehead, like Bulle Ogier in Celine And Julie Go Boating, whimpering.
I did manage to drag my bones to Resonance yesterday to declaim prose into a microphone for thirty minutes, and I cobbled together an anecdote about my holiday for The Dabbler. Other than that, prose has failed to pour out of me. Further dispatches from Hooting Yard soon, God willing. But for now, I am going to suck a Strepsil (honey and lemon).
Welcome back Mr Key. but you should know that one cannot travel by aeroplane without of neccessity contracting the diseases of every other person aboard.
For my self, I’m sucking on Halls Apple Cider and Cinnamon lozenges. The whole honey/lemon thing is passe and redolent of Beerpintery.
By the by if you were consuming the big spider crabs they actually hail from the seas off of Alaska. The local Chesapeake Bay Blue Crabs are far smaller. Smaller indeed than your typical British seaside dressed crab. They are regarded as a delicacy but to my apparently uneducated palate they taste depressingly of the mud in which they live. They are at their most ‘delicious’ apparently when moulting. These ‘soft-shell’ crabs are deep fried, whole and entire, and shoved in a bread roll.
This one is but a baby, photograped in June.
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I dunno. I just get a taste for Mr Key’s gallops through the cognitive landscape and he goes and throws a sickie. Is it skiving or malingering I wonder? Or is he zonked out on the Benelyn (Sp?) Lynctus (Sp?) listening to Middle Period Captain Beefheart?