Araucaria's "holiday" prize crossword in the Guardian yesterday, and it was a doddle- far from lasting me through Christmas, I had it done within the hour. Is the old Master losing his touch?

I'm disappointed. This from a setter who would regularly churn out alphabetical jigsaws - no numbers, just the knowledge of the letter the answer starts with, and its length- with rhyming clues. Or magnificent conundra like "Damn'd siesta! My God, I'm not Gunga Din! Heel, hounds!" (3,4,3,10,2,3,2,3,3-3,3). Hours of innocent fun.

It's less than 6 months to the Guardian's 25000th cryptic crossword- I hope he lasts to see it, and I also hope that I'm wrong, and he's just temporarily dumbing down for this pallid latter age. He is well into his eighties, after all.