The birds have all stopped signing. There's just the sound of cicadas frying in the heat of the glorious Devonshire afternoon. Dogs have scuttled, yachting into the undergrowth, their tails tucked cravenly between their legs. The natives are looking up, sniffing the air. They know...By the pricking of my thumbs, something wicked this way comes. Windows are being barred, children chased indoors, daughters are being locked away... Regardless of the high, scorching sun, there is a darkness to the north..... They... are coming... The wind plays something Wagnerian, softly, teasingly, lost before you can grasp it, but you know it will return. Return and grow to ride along beside them and around them and before them. They...are coming... It will be soon, they gather at their dens, they call themselves to arms and then.....they will come. And before we can hide the flapping of flat 'at brims at 120 mph will rend the stillness in twain. "The Northern Massive is upon you!" the women cry. I see them stand like whippets in the slips, Straining upon the start. The game's afoot: Follow your spirit, and upon this charge Cry 'God for Harry, England, and by Gum!'
Not really mate. I did a 1300 print run this morning stood next to a printer dumping the exhaust from two 2 kw dryers into the room with me so this afternoon I decided it was the weekend.
