A Matter of Maith

Fear not, my flock. While my performance on the day in question admittedly left more than a little to be desired (I was away for most it), I feel the main issue here is one of profound misinterpretation. This is not an event that, in the words of a certain beehived contemporary, draws to a close. Rather, it is a drastic shift in practice that shall continue for as long as its exponents can sustain it. Maith, then, was merely to signify the beginning of the renaissance, not the whole of it. Renaissances are seldom confined to twenty-four little hours.

Nevertheless, my pitiful eighteen words could, with the addition of an extra letter, have spelt disaster if it were not for the efforts of a certain beehived contemporary, who gallantly stepped up to the plate in the absence of the promised one and bunted the fury of expectant fans. This semi-Herculean feat has since earned the lion-faced Limey a certain prized place on my altogether uncertain ladder, and with it the infamous platter of dubious merit. While not yet a second home, as it is with Bodo Yodo, it is, at the least, a favoured hotel, whose staff now know him exclusively as Oh, him again. Congratulations think sorry I are in order. Sorry, I think congratulations are in order.

But it will take more than just a few cursory nods to the eighth to bring about this cultural revolution. It will take persistence, hard work and perseverance. And it will require absolute vision — or, failing that, competent dictation software. Your propheteering narrator will not let you down. Again. Well, he may.