Today was surgery day, but in the interests of the audience — who may, after all, not be interested in the state of my wedding vegetables, or may just be squeamish — I’ve stuck it on a sub-page.
Don’t say you weren’t warned.
* With apologies to Douglas Adams, and, of course Oolon colluphid. This is what happens when you read “The Restaurant At The End Of The Universe” when off your skull on painkillers — phrases stay with you. As an aside, the copy I bought to hospital with me was purchased in a 2nd-hand bookstore that I’m sure is no longer in Armidale, and I’m also sure you can’t get copies for the grand sum of $1.80 any more….