The Mad World In Which We Live

I never cease to be astonished by the stupidity of the population at large. I saw a report on Boxing Day morning of people queuing outside Selfridge's in Oxford Street, fervently awaiting the opening of the store so that they could sprint in to snap up some post-Christmas bargain or other. They resembled a rabble of lunatics, hell-bent on being the first to grab that must-have Gucci handbag or that to-die-for Hermes scarf. In the ensuing melée, several people were injured as glass cabinets were smashed and clothes rails were hurled about the store like javelins.

What is the point? It's not as if it's the 'End Of The World' or anything like that. Is it so important to acquire yet another addition to one's wardrobe or one's collection of chic accessories, that a sleepless night on the pavements of London is required? These people presumably already have sufficient possessions to fill a Louis Vuitton trunk, so why risk life and limb just to get your hands on more? The look of grim determination on their faces would not be misplaced if these people were fighting against the rigours of the Blitz for example, or struggling to find precious water in the squalor of the African mud-lands – but no, it's the revolting desire to attain yet another Moschino dress that drives on these fixated and desperate people.

I witnessed a little of this myself this afternoon in Nottingham's Top Shop store. Not quite at the same level of chic and extravagance as the Selfridge's sale perhaps, but the self-seeking disregard by the unguessable masses for other shoppers was nevertheless just as plain to see. Rummaging through the rails and racks of clothes, people were dislodging items from their hangers and simply allowing them to drop to the floor, to be trampled on and scuffed by the surging crowds. What happened to good manners and decorum? What heights of selfishness must these marauders have reached to so casually disregard the interests of anyone else? What do they think happens to these garments, strewn with such slapdash abandon? Nobody thinks of the weary shop assistants who must presumably have to restore order from this chaos; nobody cares that these same items must presumably be purchased later by another unsuspecting shopper. I suppose that's it – nobody cares. Nobody cares at all.

Later, of course, the tumbling crowds will have transferred their ravaging excesses from the shops of our arcades to the fleshpots of the city streets. Uncouth youths will be furtively pissing behind parking payment machines; girls with over-straightened peroxide hair and wearing the regulatory halter-neck top and white stilettos (with no coat, of course) will stand smoking as they queue for entrance to some ghastly sticky-floored bar. Later, as the globular vomit rolls luxuriantly down the frosted pavements, these two apparently mismatched tribes of young people will pair off together and lurch triumphantly into the Food Factory to abuse the hapless servants and to replenish the lost contents of their stomachs, before tottering and stumbling into a taxi (if they're lucky) or tottering and stumbling into the gutter (if we are).

Oh, how I love city life!

Oh, Christmas - What Fun!

And so, for the final part of this tragic tale of a cheerless Christmas…..

The atmosphere in the breakfast room was getting ugly. It was also getting dark outside and although we had lighting, it was bitterly cold inside. Hendrik had been despatched to the woodshed and was busy preparing a fire in the cavernous drawing-room fireplace. Norwegians are good at that sort of thing, apparently. Dolores was barking orders at us all and had forbidden Tinkerbelle from opening any more packets of food. She was to sit quietly on a chair (well, two chairs) in the corner, and say nothing. Balls was ordered to go upstairs and to drag mattresses from the beds and to bring them downstairs for airing in front of the fire. I was charged with getting the Aga lighted. Luckily it was oil-fired and there seemed to be a residual supply in the tank, so it was soon warming up nicely.

Meanwhile, my great-aunt was opening tins and packets of food, and singing carols to herself in a voice that would scare away rats. Concetta, the Italian girl, was instructed to collect some bedding from upstairs and to bring that down for airing too. “I’ve been in worse messes than this, dear boy!’ she yelled over her shoulder. “I once spent Christmas in a mountain hut in the Hindukush after I’d escaped from a Nuristani tribal chief. He was planning to marry me, you see, but I was having none of it. Three days alone in that hut, with just a sack of potatoes, a leather bucket, a goat and four candles. I killed the goat, of course.”

She had announced that we would all sleep together in the drawing room. The collective warmth of our bodies would be good for us, she declared, and also nobody would be tempted to sneak away to the kitchen to steal what meagre food there might be left. The preparations for the ‘dorm’ were going well, but not so with the food. By the time Dolores had emptied the contents of almost everything into a huge cooking pot, there still didn’t seem enough to go round. A search of the outhouses produced a shout of joy from Hendrik when he discovered a large string of old onions hanging on a wall. Many were covered in mould, and several were shrivelled into something resembling a dog’s bollocks, but there were enough remaining that could be rescued into providing a bit more substance to the yuletide stew in the pot. Concetta was given the job of peeling and chopping them because she had already been weeping with despair for two hours, so Dolores figured that the onions would make no difference.

A little while later, after our hourly ration of a spoonful of brandy each, Balls made his most substantial contribution to the whole affair when he discovered - locked in a cupboard whose doors he had cajoled Tinkerbelle into wrenching open - several guns, complete with ammunition. “This is more like it,” he said, strolling back into the kitchen. Grabbing a flashlight, he beckoned to me and Hendrik to follow him out into the fields. I soon discovered that there are some compensations for being an upper-class twit after all, when Balls managed to shoot five rabbits and some random fowl within half an hour. With Concetta watching (now becoming hysterical) we soon had them skinned, plucked and gutted, and into the pot they went.

Okay, so perhaps it isn’t such traditional Christmas fare – a rabbit & fowl stew containing spam, prune syrup and genuine Chinese chilli sauce – but it sure as hell warmed our bellies. Even Tinkerbelle seemed satisfied and actually complained of feeling “a bit stuffed”. It wasn’t long after that when we heard the doorbell ring. By the time we opened the door there was nobody there of course, but on the doorstep there was a case of champagne with a note saying: “With His Lordship’s Compliments”. The absolute bastard. By midnight, we had guzzled the lot and the game of charades that we played in front of the roaring fire was somewhat haphazard, confused, and unsurprisingly, totally incomprehensible to Concetta.

As I lay down on my still fusty mattress next to Dolores on hers, she whispered to me. “Boy, we’ve got to get out of here. Tomorrow, we shall hitchhike to the nearest taxi rank and go home. This is absolute shit. That rotten cad Maugersbury has let us down badly, and I won’t have any more of it. Stuck here with that chinless wonder Balls and Fatso, the human jelly-mound, is not my idea of fun, I can tell you. We’re splitting, as you young people would say.”

At this, Tinkerbelle rose up from her mattress like the raising of the Titanic (she had obviously heard what was said – my great-aunt was never one for much discretion). “Hey lady,” the American drawled, “have you ever thought of going over Niagara Falls in a barrel? You should try it sometime.”

“With you as the barrel, I presume,” Dolores murmured dryly.

The next day was Christmas Day and we ‘split’ the hospitality of the good Earl for good. We were given a lift by a milk lorry and before long, were on our way to the bright lights of the City. Happy Christmas.

The Misery Goes On

The list of things to do before Christmas hurries her flapping wings through the door, grows ever longer. Never mind – I promised you that I would continue this moribund tale of Christmas Past, so continue I shall....

"Hey Fatso," my aunt said, as the American woman popped the last of the chocolate into her great chasm of a mouth, "haven't you ever heard of sharing?" We all stared miserably at the empty wrappers on the floor. The American woman, whose name – ironically enough - was apparently Tinkerbelle, dusted off her dinner-plate sized hands and sniffed. "There wasn't time," she replied. "You may think you walk on water, lady, but five loaves and two fishes those few bits weren't. Needs must, you know."

Exasperated, Dolores then tried to arrange a collection of cash so that someone could be despatched to the village shop before it closed. It turned out that the foreign-office chappie was 'temporarily embarrassed' and had nothing on him, the Norwegian boy tipped just £2.47 from his pockets, the Italian girl had nothing on her, and Tinkerbelle only had US dollars. Dolores turned to me and so, with a sigh, I reluctantly handed over the fifty pounds I had in my wallet. "You boy," she pointed at the young Norwegian, "take that simpering little doll with you and get yourselves down to the village shop. Buy everything you think is appropriate, but make sure you don't forget the brandy. And oh," she gestured at this point towards Tinkerbelle, "you might get a tub of lard for this one if there's any money left over."

Some time later, we all sat around the breakfast room table under a stark and unfriendly fluorescent light, staring gloomily at the miserable array of cheerless food before us. It lay there, tipped despairingly from the Norwegian's sack after he had returned from the shop.

"It's all tinned stuff," complained Balls, turning over a can of minced steak (with onions and gravy). "Didn't they have any fresh food?" Tinkerbelle held up a small can between her immense fingers. "What in hell's name made you buy this? Concentrated Prune Syrup from Cyprus? This is crap!"

"I got one of everything," the boy (whose name was Hendrik) protested. "They didn't have very much left." Dolores looked at him with disgust. "What is this?" she demanded, holding a small can of spam at arm's length. "Spam? I don't think I've ever come across anything more lacking in taste since I met that dreadful Mrs Baron in London with her three ghastly children - Darren, Karen and Sharon."

"Look at this one," Tinkerbelle laughed. "It says it contains genuine chilli sauce, made from a traditional Chinese recipe. Since when did chilli come from China?" At this, Balls lifted his head. "No, it's true," he said, "they eat a lot of it in the east. You know, Bangkok or somewhere."

"So?" she snorted. "They eat a lot of hamburgers in Hamburg, but that don't make them German." She threw the offending can of chilli sauce at his head. Luckily it missed him and whistled passed his cowering face, crashing into a jardiniere in the corner, smashing it.

"Was any of this really sensible, Hendrik?" Dolores asked. "Most of it does appear to be a waste of money you know. I really cannot imagine any of us here - not even Fatso - bothering to add just one egg to this pack of ready-to-bake chocolate dropcakes. We don't even have any eggs. You could at least have bought more alcohol. I mean, this isn't going to last us very long." She held up a half bottle of brandy which looked suspiciously as if it should be given to the cook. "This Christmas pudding doesn't even contain alcohol, according to the packet at least. What we need here is a pudding like the ones my old school pal Barbara Craddock used to make. Boy, you knew you'd had a Christmas pudding then. The best you've ever tasted, and with so much brandy, rum and whisky inside that I'd have to hide the keys to the Bentley after just one portion. Where is old Barbara when you need her, eh?"

Nobody cared to say anything else. It looked like it was going to be a somewhat low-spirited party for us all. Meanwhile, Tinkerbelle was busy ripping open a packet of cocktail-sized pork pies. There should have been one for each of us - the packet contained six pies - but she slid them into her open gullet as one, and so they disappeared.

To be continued.....

And No Such Festive Cheer

Oh dear me, gentle reader, I have been neglecting you since my last posting. It's been quite a week, I can tell you – there's a lot going on. In the bric-a-brac store that I laughingly call my haphazard and chaotic life, the various shelves, nooks and crannies are crammed - nay, stuffed – with both the delights and the detritus of the gorgeous bazaar. But now, to continue the story...

Sitting in the damp and gloom of the lodge's depressingly dismal drawing room, we very soon realized that we were in a pickle. We had all arrived by taxi, and it seemed that the house was miles from any noticeable civilization, so we were trapped. The huge American woman was the first to complain. She had rumbled her way into the kitchen and was slamming a succession of cupboard doors angrily. "Why isn't there any goddamn food in this hell-hole?" she bellowed. "A girl could starve to death here in a matter of minutes. What does that bastard think he's doing?"

Indeed, what did his Lordship expect that we were going to do? And where was he? With no telephone (and this was in an age before mobiles), we were isolated; completely bereft of any means of communication. We felt like we were sitting ducks, but without the feathers. My aunt decided to take charge of the situation (now there's a surprise). It was obvious that someone needed to – the American woman was by now simply screaming at the top of her voice and stamping her huge feet in anger; the chinless wonder Balls had sunk into a melancholy silence; and the Norwegian youth and his bird-like girlfriend were clinging to each other sitting on a decrepit Louis Quatorze chaise-longue, she sobbing.

As Dolores stood by the massive marble fireplace, which resembled the entrance to a great black sinister cave, she clapped her hands to call order. However, before she could speak, Enstone (his Lordship's "man") appeared in the doorway, as if from nowhere. He coughed politely, stopping my aunt in her tracks. "I have a message from his Lordship," he announced, but said nothing more. Dolores eyed him with malice. "Then out with it, man!" she barked. Hesitantly, he told us that the Earl had apparently decided, at the last minute, to spend the holiday at his villa on the Côte d'Azur, and had flown out that morning. According to Enstone, we were still welcome to stay, and we were to 'make ourselves at home' and enjoy the break.

"Make ourselves at home?" Dolores mocked. "Make ourselves at home? Just what kind of a home is this with no food, no drink, no bedding, no heating, no nothing? Are you absolutely barking mad, man?" Her accusations were echoed by the American woman, now wobbling with rage. The others simply stared at him in disbelief. I said nothing.

"There is a shop in the village," Enstone replied, "but you'll have to be quick as it closes at four. There are logs in the wood store, for the fire. You should find some bedding in one of the cupboards on the landing, or there are... there are the dust sheets from here. I'm sorry, there is nothing more I can do." And he was gone. Even the normally indefatigable Dolores was somewhat disconcerted at this. She tried to splutter a response, she even demanded that Enstone return to the room to account for himself, but he failed to appear and it seemed that we had been well and truly abandoned by old Maugersbury (or "Morgie", as my aunt referred to him). Nobody knew what to say; there didn't seem anything suitable to say.

In silence, the American woman picked up a glass paperweight from the bureau and hurled it into the fireplace whereupon it smashed into a host of glittering shards. Pointing to the rest of us, she shouted: "I'm going to eat one of you, if I don't get some food immediately. That fucking treacherous bastard will pay for this when I see him!" At this, the Norwegian youth quietly opened his backpack and pulled out a rather crumpled half-eaten loaf of bread, a square of flattened cheese, and a medium-sized chocolate bar. "You are welcome to these," he murmured.

The poor boy - he nearly got killed in the rush.

To be continued.....

Not So Merry Christmas

Well, it's Christmas again. You probably don't need me to tell you that – you've no doubt noticed the odd trapping of the festive season that has crept into our high streets and onto the media, tipping us the wink that Santa is on his way. It's not a good time for me – for whilst I enjoy the fun of the actual day itself (that's December 25th for those of you who aren't sure), it's the 'build up' to it all that I find so difficult to tolerate.

I remember a particularly dismal Christmas I once spent in the company of my Great Aunt Dolores (the one who was run over by a lorry but survived, and who later took up playing the xylophone before accidentally killing herself by going over Niagara Falls in a barrel). She'd promised me a sumptuous and opulent festive holiday when she'd invited me to stay with her friend (and erstwhile lover, so she claimed) the Earl of Maugersbury. "A country house Christmas, boy," she'd said. "You can't beat it. Servants on hand to do all the messy stuff, nothing to do but eat and drink, and then go out to bag a few birds on Boxing Day. A real English Christmas."

Hmm, if only that was how it had turned out (although despite her expected protestations, I was privately determined not to join the shoot, nor the Boxing Day hunt for that matter). Sadly, the reality of that Christmas was very different indeed. Sumptuous and opulent it was most definitely not.

It all started when Lord Maugersbury telephoned my aunt two days before the event to announce that the west wing of Broadwell Hall (the ancestral pile) had been destroyed by fire the previous evening. "Not to worry", he had apparently soothed. "We'll all retreat to the lodge and have our Christmas there. It's a tiny little place though, only eight bedrooms, so I've had to tell Lola and her gang that they'll have to stay away. Hope you don't mind, old love?"

When we arrived at the lodge on the morning of Christmas Eve, it was obvious that the place hadn't been used for years. There were dust sheets over everything, there was nothing to eat in the pantry, the cellar was empty, and the heating obviously hadn't worked in decades. Dolores and I were the first to arrive, to be greeted by Maugersbury's "man" Enstone. He informed us that his Lordship had been called away but would be back later, and that we were to make ourselves at home. The place was freezing cold, dripping with damp, and smelt like the inside of a grave. Next to arrive was some Foreign Office chum of the Earl's who introduced himself as the Hon. Algernon "Cricket" Balls. He seemed a bit phoney to me, and talked such rubbish that Dolores nicknamed him "Loada Balls" within five minutes. We were then joined by a loud-mouthed twenty-stone American woman in a fur coat, followed by a handsome blonde Norwegian youth accompanied by a sparrow-like Italian girl who seemed incapable either of speech or hearing, and who simply stared at us from under a thick fringe of frizzled black hair.

Nobody removed their coats, and for a while we all sat around in chairs (without removing the dust sheets) and waited for our host to arrive – no doubt loaded up (as we were hoping) with hampers crammed with Christmas delights, cases of wine, cartloads of logs for the fires, and a retinue of faithful retainers in tow to attend to our every whim. As we sat shivering in the grey light of that dismal day, we soon realized that we were in for a horrible shock. Enstone was nowhere to be found, and when I checked the telephone, it was dead. It was lunchtime by this point, and we were all cold, hungry and thirsty. There wasn't even so much as a glass of cheap sherry or a box of dates to be had. What on earth was to be done?

To be continued.....

Under Pressure

I did something rather silly the other day. I bought a blood pressure monitor. It says in the instructions that these contraptions are a good idea because by monitoring our blood pressure at home, we get a more accurate reading. Apparently we become artificially stressed when we are in hospital or at the doctor's surgery and this of course distorts the readings.

So, now I keep getting the little machine out of its box, and testing myself to see what's what. Before I started this, I had absolutely no idea what a 'good' or 'bad' reading was – and I didn't really care either because I always feel healthy, despite the huge amounts of abuse I give my body, and so I didn't think there was any cause for alarm. Well, I was wrong. The instructions tell me that an ideal pressure reading should be at, or below, 120/80. The first number is apparently one's systolic blood pressure, which is the highest pressure when the heart beats and pushes the blood round the body. The second number is one's diastolic blood pressure, which is the lowest pressure when the heart relaxes between beats. Fascinating stuff, eh? Well, the whole thing makes me feel a little queasy, I have to say.

Anyway, this little contraption I have gives a reading as you'd expect, but it also gives you the average of all the readings it has taken since I started. I'm a bit disappointed to discover that my average is 139/85 with the highest reading being 141/88 and the lowest 116/75. Now, what do you think is the reason for such variance? The instructions tell you to take readings at roughly the same time of day, in roughly the same frame of mind, and in roughly the same position (seated). I follow these rules, settling myself on the sofa in what I assume is a relaxed state, and yet the readings reveal that on some days I am more agitated than on others. Why is this? Could it be that on some days I more stressed? If so, then the amount of things I have to do all the time should mean that my blood pressure is at a constant high!

Well, little machine – I am going to trick you. The next reading I do will be when I am lying in a darkened room having just meditated, with incense sticks and scented candles burning around me, and with Albinoni or whale music playing on the stereo. Ha! See then if you can find a reading of 141/88 – if you can, I'll take a hammer to your smug little screen and smash it. Oh dear, I don't think I've thought this through somehow......

Personal Assistant Required

It's odd how my life seems to control me, instead of the other way round. This is not good, of course. My timetable has been shot to pieces in recent days, and it's not because of any profligate behaviour on my part, I assure you. In fact, I've been very well-behaved of late, honest I have. No, my problem is responsibilities. I'm a very responsible person, I'll have you know. When I agree to do something, I do it. The trouble is, I always seem to agree to do too much. I think it's because I'm such a wonderful human being, so I'm always in demand (and I hope you're not going to disagree with that, or I'll punch your lights out).

They say (whoever they are) that if you need something doing, ask a busy person. Well, cor blimey mate – I know I'm busy, but this is ridiculous! You can stop asking me now. Please, stop. Yes, yes – I know what you'll say: That it's all my fault because I can always say 'no' if I want to, but I've already told you that I'm a nice person – and nice people always try to help where they can. However, I have my own projects to attend to (I've already told you about the exciting writing festival that I'm helping to organize for next summer) and therefore, those people in my list of 'drains' (see previous blog) need to remember that. For instance, I'm meant to be learning Italian, but despite there being a daily slot in my timetable for doing that, I never get the chance. And don't even ask me how bad I feel about not getting to the gym every day – although what's the point of attaining the perfect body when I don't even have the time to show it to anyone (even if there were anyone who was remotely interested in seeing it)?

So, now is the time to take stock (again – groan, groan) and prioritize. And what of Christmas? Well, I hate the whole thing anyway and sincerely wish that as an institution, it could be abolished. I'm meant – like everyone else – to start sending out ridiculously inappropriate cheery greetings to the people I know. Given my current commitments, this is an impossible task. However, I have actually made a Christmas cake – don't ask me why I did this because I simply don't know. I don't normally begin to think about the yuletide festival until it's almost too late, so how I managed to plan far enough ahead to bake a cake eight weeks before the event is a mystery. What's more, I've been feeding said cake with brandy on a weekly basis; which is something I think one is meant to do. This week's dosage, however, struggled to seep into the fabric of the cake (despite an adequate number of holes being pierced into the surface). I think the poor thing has had too much. God knows what state it will be in when it wakes up on Christmas morning – it should definitely not attempt to start the car, that's for sure.

Anyway, while I'm rambling on here, there are chores a-plenty waiting to be done. Nobody is going to help me get these things done, so I must make a start. My timetable says: "Look for a job." Well, sod that for a game of soldiers – there just isn't time.

Tipping The Balance

Ha! This is funny – my (slightly eccentric) sister gave me a lifestyle tip yesterday during one of her sumptuous luncheon parties held in her elegant country home. She is receiving some lifestyle coaching second-hand, through a friend who is attending a class and who is passing on the gems week-by-week. The tip I received is to draw up a chart of all of my friends and to categorize them thus:

1. Drains – those friends who only steal your time, resources and energy; the self-obsessed;
2. Radiators – those friends who spread their energy and warmth and so are uplifting to one's life;
3. Enemies – those who pretend to be friends but who would actually destroy you if they could;
4. Inspirationalists – those friends whom you might aspire to be like (people of inspiration).

So, I have drawn up an Excel spreadsheet and down the left-hand side column I have typed in the names of everyone I know. Well, not quite everyone because that would take me a month of Sundays to complete, but the names of the people I see regularly, at least. The next four columns are headed up with the above four categories and against each name I have put an 'x' in the relevant column. It's quite interesting to see how the balance has worked out. Unfortunately, my sister hasn't yet learned (second-hand, of course) what conclusions can be drawn from the final statistics, nor what action one should take from the completed table, but mine doesn't (so far) show such happy results. There seem to be more 'drains' than there are 'radiators'.

And why is this? Well, maybe that's the point of drawing up the chart – it tells us more about ourselves than it does about our friends. From the figures, it would be safe to assume that I have allowed myself to become surrounded by too many of the kind of people who take me for granted, who abuse my friendship and my hospitality (and generosity too), and who are not prepared to give me very much in return. Whether they do this consciously or not is irrelevant; it's more relevant that I allow this to happen.

So what should I do? Cut those in the wrong columns out of my life completely? Or should I just be more aware of their motives and deal with it? Whose responsibility is this anyway? The estranged Mrs Pilgrim recently called me a 'loon-magnet' and perhaps she was right. Is there something of the victim about me? Well, if so, now is the time to put that right. I'm not going to focus on those two columns that seep negativity into my battered life – instead, I shall focus on the other two groups. And to those people who fall into those categories, I say: Thank you, thank you, thank you.

Welcome To The Cabaret!

The last time I had anything to do with theatre (well, apart from the time when Great Aunt Dolores had her disastrous run as Phaedre in Paris's Comédie-Française), was when I was a member of a travelling theatre company in my student days. We took an old van, some mouldy costumes and a few tatty flats to Austria, where we managed to baffle the locals in a string of remote alpine villages with our somewhat tortuous interpretations of Ibsen, Brecht, Rattigan and even some Pinter. I was a dreadful actor, and probably an even worse stage manager, but it was a fun trip and we all became firm friends and thought we were all heading for stardom.

So, it is with some delight that I am helping to organize a festival of new stage writing here in Nottingham. Basically this is a writing festival, but it will culminate in the performance (by professional and semi-professional actors) of the winning scripts. We intent to invite the submission of scripts, mainly from new or emerging playwrights, and we shall have some independent judges who will select the winners whose plays will then be performed over three days in various venues around Hockley in Nottingham. This will take place in the summer of 2010.

I'm working in conjunction with the already established Halden Theatre Company (click here for details) whose productions are both professional and effective. This will be a quality festival and will hopefully produce some new talented writers for us to talk about. I'm so excited by the whole idea and even though it's going to be a lot of hard work, it will be hugely enjoyable. One of the best things about it will be the opportunity to network with so many creative people in the city. It means spending time with both new and established writers, as well as liaising with the venue managers and working with the actors too. On top of all that, there's the added satisfaction of knowing that we'll be pushing out some superior and innovative new writing to the public. Everybody wins!

At the moment, we're having a heated debate about what to call the festival. We want to find a name for it that's seductive, slightly zany, evocative, and also representative of the message we're trying to send out. We're throwing ideas around like mad, but haven't settled on anything yet. When we do, and we're ready to broadcast the details, you'll be the first to know, gentle reader. In the meantime, we're having fun. Again, everyone wins. Wooh!