I have been asked who I am. It has been suggested that I am one of the Cold Salad crew, and even that I may be Old Boore. That suggestion can be firmly squashed, since as some of you may already know Old Boore is a splendid lady in her nineties, addicted to sea-bathing, and living on the south coast of England. However, it was Old Boore – she prefers to be referred to here only by her nom de plume – who is responsible for my appearance on this page, and I feel therefore I must consult her before identifying myself properly, which I hope to do tomorrow, together with a comment or two about the recent kerfuffle about anglophone spying agencies doing exactly what one had been assuming for years that they were there for (though how they had the nerve to prompt friends in the media to produce articles on the wickedness of the Chinese trying to do the very same thing is a mystery.) I can, though, also deny being a member of the Cold Salad coterie although all except a couple were well-known to me. (If newcomers would like to learn how they acquired and then dropped that sobriquet, please visit again tomorrow.)
Meanwhile, since I am producing nothing of my own today – spent most of the day finding accommodation for a visiting professor in phonetics who had broken his jaw in trying to demonstrate the Oshkosh double-click consonants to the rugby class who misinterpreted the whole thing – I will sign off by citing something my eight-year-old nephew put beside my porridge bowl this morning (sly little bastard).
Investigate, investigate, till the public’s thoroughly bored;
that’s the way the ‘innocence’ of the guilty gets ensured.