Dib Dib Dib

Ah, for those of you with RSS, this must be like that rain that was missed by the desert that Everything But The Girl predicted. This predicting, obviously, took place after they had turned their backs on folk music and discovered Italo-house. So, ahem, a post. Not one with links, nor with research, nor even one with pictures. Just a brief, overly personal, dispatch from the North Lincolnshire countryside where I await, and plot, my nuptials.

Here in Linky, as it has never before been dubbed, there is little internet, at least none that my brood ever dared install, and so googling, and finding racy images is too time-consuming. The alternatives included asking Migigigigiguel of Nutrament to log in and guest post things like "That Ratner, non, quite the bastard? Why don't you listen to enough Neu!" until my readership returned to its mean.

Still, I've discovered the future, and its scouting. The idea that in the opening decade of the 21st century a small district in nothern England can still find 300-odd teenagers to go around in odd uniforms and concentrate on this like decency, self-reliance, and respect for one's self and others is oddly touching. I want you all (btween three and four of you, by my trend lines) to go out and abduct 15 people each, and you'll have a troop right there. DOB DONE.

No music, although I am toying with the idea of posting a few tracks for Cutesome, even though she will never hear them. They will be touching, they will be sweet, and they will consume bandwith like I consume pork pies. In all a worthy endeavour, since Cutesome is the light of my life, and has been my rock, and comfort these last few weeks.

Come back in two days and see if I can make it more mawkish...