Given the untrammelled display of genius consistently on show here, you may find it surprising that I have so few followers, or as I like to think of them, students. Yet on reflection, few people share with me the true gift of appreciation for the eclectic mix of topics that appears herein. Most blogs are tiresome pedestrian affairs, droning endlessly on narrowly confined topics like a dog racing in a trench. But the dull-eyed casual browser finds this arrangement to his advantage, recognising that if the first post he sees is on the topic of book-binding in the tropics then the next one hundred are likely to be also. However I admit no such impediment to the broadcast of my opinions, considering as I do that the mind is in its nature akin to a giant laser beam in a hitherto secret moon-base, blasting forth energy across the void to sear its impression across the green fields of history. Thus in this blog I will canvas myriad topics without regard to their popular appeal, considering only the degree to which such conceptions have seized me in their grip during the progress of my daily activities and impeded the free flow of my more productive thoughts.
A raging Bruxist, I grew up on an ostrich farm until I was mistaken for a woman one time too many. Leaving my angsty post-teen life as one of three only children, I flew to Stockholm where I unexpectedly won the Man Booker Prize for lengthy blogging about being short. I'm perplexed to report that I like painting tiny Romans.