As well as dropping from the top to the bottom of B-grade, I acknowledge dropping my commitment to you, my dear rusted on readers. Take heart though, our mid life crises will come back to the boil in due course I assure you, with much nonsensical lusting for pedal powered devices. Without being unnecessarily boastful though, may I briefly explain, that I have been extraordinarily busy, escorting my mignons to marbles everywhere from Delphi to Pisa, then arranging our head-of-state's diary, and most recently informing representatives from dozens of local councils that they should construct dirt jumps beside cycleways—the uncanny thing about that little talk, was that people actually listened. Yes, I have been cavorting with the self-important, eating water-muffalo monsterella in Rome, and Oysters Naturale along Australia's East Coast, and not sparing you dumb rusted on... I mean, you intelligent gentlemen... I mean... it's my blog to let rot if I choose, is it not?
Oh, I've been to Niece and the Isle of Greece while I've sipped champagne on a yacht
I've moved like Harlow in Monte Carlo and showed 'em what I've got
I've been undressed by kings and I've seen some things that a woman ain't supposed to see
I've been to paradise, but I've never been to me
(Please, just click on Charlene, whose words span the decades touching spent bloggers)