h2g2 The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy: Earth Edition

Good morning Dai.

Funny thing about legends: they hardly ever live to tell the tale. But then those that do spur the rest of us dull souls on to wider spaces. I think that was Christological, but my polysemy has gone so deep I can't be sure where the rabbit hole comes up again.

Speaking of rabbits, I have returned to work which means that both William the Rabbit and Caramel the Other Rabbit are put out with me for being away so long. 'As constant as the Northstar,' their eyes seem to accuse, 'constantly in the darkness: where's that at?' (Joni Mitchell) Dusty the Donkey, however, was delighted to see me again and came running and hopping from across the paddock opening his mouth with heehaws so full of happiness that they could only be expressed in silence. Such is the way with donkeys.

Thank you for your kindness. I persuaded Mam to give me a Welshcake which, it turns out, are not too dissimilar from our own pancakes. You, I believe, throw currants into the batter while our American cousins throw in cranberries and we, of course, throw in blueberries. I am afraid I have downed all the Jamiesons but have left you some tea in a white mug (no sugar, not even demerrara). You may have to microwave it.

I must be off, but ever so briefly, to haul in the big bucks which can only be had by teaching art. (hopelessly bereft and self-deprecating smile) Bore da. Ani.

Hello Ani

How are you? Long time no speak - glad you enjoyed the welsh-cakes [don't tell Mam but they're not a patch on the ones my Nan used to make - cooked slowly on the Raeburn]

I think I'll pass on the cold tea - especially if it has to be micro-waved [truly an instrument of the devil]

Well if you must serve mammon, you must , but don't stay away too long - we'll keep a welcome in the hillsides

See you soon, all the best and God bless

Dai

Hello Ani. Hi there, Dai.



Ha! Such wisdom. My Dad would kill me seven times over if he caught me nuking tea.



What is a Raeburn? Woodstove? It was my friend L (Welsh, then Scottish, then Irish, before settling in Canada) who taught me about Welshcakes. She didn't call them such. As far as I knew they were simply pancakes deprived of a certain amount of water. Eventually, I put 2 and 2 together. Out in the woods we did not have a Raeburn. We had a Coleman stove (propane, I gather). I am sure I annoyed L greatly by putting 'things' into our breakfast, particularly blueberries which she (as a bear person) considers to be food not to be touched by mere mortals. I (as a crow person) don't care.

Not too bad. And you?

The buzz is that you made off for 'furn climes.' Then I had to be off for things too. Work mainly. I am also hunting down an ikon-writer from the Coptic Church (St Marks, what else?). Hopefully she will accept me as a student. Also taking a course in abstraction from Toronto School of Art. (I know, you say courses are for horses. I'll have to be a horse then.) The teacher wants me to make disjointed floating mountains out of crumpled paper. I am really not a mountain sort of person. However maybe a post-millenium disjointed floating ikon can be had from a mountain. The trouble with abstraction is that it feeds my craziness. It's also difficult.



Mammon does have his ways.



OK.



Thank you.



And to you. Ani.

PS: Are you really compiling the Tales of PW? How far back before me do the stories go? I have been toying with writing Legends of PW. It would have to be Legends of a Virtual PW, though, and already that complicates things. Legends of St Lawrence Market is closer to home, but Bruce Best is already writing that one. Maybe I should just start writing Legends and see where it wants to end up.

Hopefully not on a burning submarine 100 miles NW off the coast of Ireland. My Cousin (back in London now) says that nothing can be done about the submarine because they (the Brits) can't stop laughing long enough to get down to any serious business of redress. He (always looking to oneup me) can't believe that I don't care and that I view the whole business as simply another chapter in the Twisted and Bitter Saga of the Canadian Armed Forces and their fascination with junk. I say good on the Brits for unloading said junk on the gullible, which in this case is us.

I have offered to send a canoe team to tow the thing up the Thames and run it aground at Waterloo Station. Let this be worked out, I say, in a civilized manner with a contest among equals to reach Mornington Crescent; no snibbing below the diagonal, south of the river is on, loser takes Aiken and Archer, winner takes France. However, Cousin says MC is a non-existent game! Imagine my horror to hear such a thing out of an English (albeit repatrioted Italian) mouth! The nerve.

One of our sailors has died. So I am retracting my previous comments about the submarine incident. Ani.