The queen is dead boys

Good morning humanity. I have deemed all those people caught up in the fad of microblogging to be too smug by half. I cannot condense myself down like the glorious drippings of beef and red wine and the noble triumvirate of stock vegetables and then drizzle. And so I am restarting my blog, worrying less about pictures and more about the spelling. My old blog is called oculardexerity, because it is only a word I normally type sixteen times a day, so the once my spelling of it needed to be right, it wasn't.

In other news, Bagpuss is dead.

I did him in.

He came round one evening in Paris, gillswigging the ol' Vieux Papes and half a gauloise hanging off his lips. That dropped and set fire to the carpet. Then he made himself an omlette. I fled the country, with nothing to defend my honour save a kitchen knife wrapped in our finest tea-towel.

So he is dead: "He was found out?" "Yes, the doctors found out the Bunbury couldn't live, so Bunbury died." He is in Paris somewhere, I don't doubt. So far I have had a postcard and an e-mail and a Facebook message, the last of which told me to fuck off.

I will post him the link to this blog. If he can resist replying, that means he is actually dead.

Today I was stuck on a bus, the smallest in the world. I sat talking to Dante, who rated it highly -- or lowly -- especially when his iPod ran out. Dante is a sucker for twee indie pop. Camera Obscura occupies the third cirlce of hell. For tea there was monkfish. I christened him Thelonius, then had him with potatoes and mange tout. I did.

Wind is in the west, a barometer gives no accurate indication of my mood, and the music is Grizzly Bear. I have only heard the new album, not stolen it.