In my debilitated state, felled by germs and much given to whimpering, writing one thousandish words upon any subject at all is quite beyond me. On the other hand, if readers are to read then writers must write. It occurred to me that I might just manage to bash out a few haiku, distillations in a few words of what we could call the Hooting Yardanschauung.

A bog
Beyond the viaduct
In the downpour

Dobson
At his escritoire
Scribbling twaddle

A hobgoblin
On Sawdust Bridge
Eating a sausage

Tiny Enid
Flooring a ne’er-do-well
And kicking his head in

There are four for you to pore over. There may be more to come. Now for the Lemsip!