That's what it would be called if Norman Lebrecht wrote a book about me, I suppose. It'd be more of a pamphlet, I'm guessing.
Right, so ostensibly I did just write something for someone affiliated with same. I suppose I should say I was drunk when I wrote it and then go into rehab like prominent republicans do when it's found out they're boinking little boys. But actually I have no idea, it may have been brilliant! I was at work and the only thing my brain can process when I'm at work is how much I'd like to be doing something else, so really I haven't the foggiest notion. Wouldn't it be kind of fun, though, if it were accidentally (as certain among us used to say) a stunning indictment of Thatcherist Britain?
It was also long-winded, not to knock you over with that piece of news. Anyway Woody Allen supposedly once took a speed reading course and then read War & Peace. "It's about Russia," he said. So, since I am clearly the Tolstoy of people who write about Rose Pauly talking to you from beyond the grave, let's just say: it's about blogging.
Expected next opera attendance: Der Stupidfloot soonish. Which in a way is needless to blog, because Sirius is at this point more or less The Magic Flute Channel.
Expected next entry: a story of thwarted passion. And Erna Berger.