Which often resulted in the peasant muttering "Lairdass!" under his breath.

Now the perplexity on all this is that all of us -- you, me, BWL with his brilliant fancies, even Khandu, walking through the long black miles of his self-imposed exile -- all of us, I say, are of some ilk or other. As the old song puts it, "Everybody's Somebody's Ilk".

Of which ilk are you? Have you traced your nature to find out of which (of the many possible ilks) you are? Are you a happy ilk? Or, do you (like Donald Trump, and others of his ilk) suffer, behind a facade of complaisance, the pangs of a yearning desire to find better, more rewarding ilk of which to become?

A