Return of

For the passed few weeks, I've been mulling around Yorkshire pitching my sitcom ideas to washed-up executives wandering the moors (as some of you may have guessed), and I feel it only right that I should let you under my flood gates. Upon return, it has struck me in a rather wintery way that we, the people, are the product of they, the other people, and that this distinction, important though it is, is utterly trifling in comparison to some of the other ground-breakers of human conditioning. Nevertheless, its concoction was the third most important occurrence that occurred during my Yorkshire sabbatical.

Higher up on the list is an incident that took place in a bar for trendy folks, the name of which aptly described how much life there was in it. I had merely chanced upon the small cavern at the end of an alley and decided to wet my palette non-alcoholically when out burst a steady stream of acquaintances, near-friends and a friend, almost knocking me to the tiles. In their hands, each had a snapping cell, which they all held in front of them and pulled faces at. Kudos for Ben for not once wrinkling into the 'Oh my God! I'm having such a great time! Whoo!' face in that batch, though.

After I had washed myself of that encounter, I was beaten to death by someone who I saw fatally fall off a tall building, and was glad that I was; there's good living left in me yet.