I am aware that I purport this blog to be primarily about travel, and that I have failed to post any more of my e-mails from the summer, or thoughts on Spain, France and Northern Ireland for ages. I know you miss the incisive wit of such pieces, and I promise I'll never neglect you like that again, baby. I didn't mean to knock you down the stairs.
Like all such statements, this one comes with a proviso. Prepare for a tale of such tragedy you'll be all Oedipal within seconds.
I am sat in a paper ocean. A semester's worth of notes are sprawled lustily across my desk, peeping coquettishly from behind my bed, even engaging in unspeakable orgies sandwiched steamily between my Oxford Classical Dictionary and a textbook detailing the thrills of ceramic analysis.
I haven't filed them because I had an argument with Hole Punch the First about six months ago and we are no longer speaking. It's all Hole Punch's fault, for complaining that he was overworked and refusing to relinquish a particularly generous donation of notes. I may have, in self defence, become enraged and smashed Hole Punch the First to pieces. May have, mind you.
My track record with stationery is not good. I have destroyed many Parker fountain pens in a fit of pique by stabbing the nib hard into my algebra homework. That'll teach you, numbers.
Hole Punch the Second is here and ready to begin his lifetime's work. I have high hopes. Let us hope they are not cruelly dashed, otherwise you will have to read more of this tripe about my predilection for stationery sadism.