…and not in a good hey hey open another bottle sort of way. There I was - half way through writing a nice long funny (well it made me laugh) post all about musicians and Gibsons and magicians who worked miracles when I heard something. Not a noise outside, not a creaking floorboard, not the drip, drip drip of a phantom tap. Nothing that you could ascribe to imagination, neurosis or too much cheese. Nothing, furthermore, that I could blame on meeting several relations this weekend which usually heralds any urge I may have to attempt to conduct brain surgery with the aid of piece of 2×4 liberally sprinkled with rusty nails. Oh no. Nothing so simple as that. Instead, I’m completely pissed off in a in a cold, calculating, it-may-take-me-until-the-day-I-die (and-beyond)-to- make-you-pay-for-that-but-the-lime-is-a-patient-tree-and-I’m-quite-happy-to-wait-for-that-day sort of anger. Normal (or as normal as you’re ever going to get with me) blogging will resume later.

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