I seem to remeber reading in my youth, a French novel by Husyman - Au Rebours, I think it was called. About this chap, he used to be a sensualist. He imagined things by giving himself experiences. The bit that sticks in my mind, he imagined visiting England, by sniffing a piece of tarry rope. God alone knows how the rope summoned up England in his mind. (I read this hoping to become a cultivated person when I was too young to realise the damage was already done at the time of my conception.)

What I was thinking, as the neighborhood little shits threw snowballs at my double glazing, and I was defrosting the car windows - perhaps we could just have a large vodka and lime or something similar - with two chunks of ice instead of of one - concentrate really hard on the ice. And who knows we could sate our desire to experience winter.

happy new year

to everyone

big al whittle