more from Mr Buxton.

Jasper, what day is it?

They are excellently silly. From Mr Adam Buxton, a silly genius.

sign language, silly:

songs of praise, silly:

more of praise songs, silly:

there is much more where that came from, but I am tired and, well, I cannot be bothered this evening. I was meant to tidy up the bookshelves in the library but that still has not been done. Mrs H gets back next week and I fear that all I will have to show for two months of stay-at-home working daddy will be a bag of creased clothes and a new sausage dog called "The Marvelous Fipps". So, to this, I bid you goodnight. [Hektor exits, stage left].

I was going to write a blog play today but it seems that most of the characters blog less and less frequently, rather like me, for that matter. Where, for instance, is the twittering man of Landersonpike?, or the funny faced lunatic (not Brad, I know you are there, you rascal)?

Thankfully, there is the constant Olde Nyke, who verily splashes my gills with his good water, Subbz to and Mr Juzzzy to make up the compliment. I also would like to mention Avrillo in this interlude, who is, I contend, a fine lady who I would like to meet and say hello to. Likewise, the Bod that is Egg must be said in the face to face Hello at some point, likewise RTB and the merry RedleaderDaggersStratocaster who, I fear, will liken me to a bag of crisps. Emsbabee and the Cult leader could surely recruit some more falcons to drink coolade in Changleybiscuits, I think, and then this perhaps could spur them on.

I would like to meet you all, if you may. Perhaps a Warsaw blog meet? See wizzair or bmibaby or easyjet for that matter. Ryanair with its faulty planes does not fly to my city, thank fuck.

Toodle pip.

Hektor

THIS short poem, found, as it was, inside a harp, is dedicated to one of our own who at this great import deserveth kind roulettes of verse to flavour his good fortune and bid him safe passage in his wonderful pastime in the beringletted wonder of love!

We set sail upon a Friday night,
the moon as pale as rice,
Danced slowly round my finger ends
Like parsley flavoured mice.
A toad looked up my silhouette,
And solemnly proclaimed:
"to have said parsley flavoured mouse
doth boast my fruit, most brave!"

We turned the boat (the sacred Mouse),
behind the comb of dust.
And dolphins foamed and kissed our eyes,
Like a marionette's bonéd lust.
Kind answer token from the side,
looked out onto the roof,
That mild mannered duck beside,
Betrayed my golden hoof.

And thus and thus, we tended well,
and Clive cooked chickens too!
A bolder older onyx shell
Redoubled sconéd tempestuous shoe.
With all and cat shaped calamity,
Shaking the tree like wolves,
We sat upon the deck that night
and marked chestnuts with our gloves.