you may, of late, have wondered at the absence of any new posts from your muse, Alex Jones.
I am come to tell you that Alex cannot make any entries this week. You will hear the reason in
time, but I shall tell you only that, on this occasion, no needles were mispositioned.
While that lady labours at an essay on Elephantine women and ancient Jewish marriage law, I am
your temporary host for a variation in the paths that you traverse on these pages. There shall be
no discussion of knitting or boyfriends (excepting a note of respect to the hospitable Tom) ...
but of what shall we talk? This day bears for me stuffed peppers, a splash of the ocean and a
sufficiency (not far off a surfeit - as if such a thing were possible) of crumpet.
The stuffed peppers are for the Jones family party tonight. There shall be dancing. Peppers
shall be stuffed from within and from without. They're really quite addictive. Still, I can't
forget the chocolate pudding that Miss Jones makes. It would knock your mum into a cocked hat.
The ocean pounced at me this afternoon and my feet are still drying. I had never visited Hurst
Castle and the spit at Keyhaven. O woe. It's remarkable. The blusters of wind, the chops of sea
and the graveness of the heavens enclosed me, as I stalked the stones under the guidance of the
Crumpets are the food of those aspiring to greatness in the coming year. And of me. They
stustain me. I stayed up all night painting ionic columns and cockle-shells in an orgiastic
explosion of psychedelic pastiche.
Now I must depart this electronical filigree, this gauzy sheet of ether, and accept the
hospitality of the terrific (in all ways) Alexandra. May she return to you soon.
Thoughts are, of course, with our friend Mel.