Warning: this newsletter contains spiders.
My encounter with a bitey dog.
My plan for celebrating Chrismas with a bottle of expensive bourbon has gone a rye.
I've been revisiting some of my older cards. Some of them are inexplicable.
Some games of cricket can last for weeks. In fact, I think that's one of the reasons I moved to America.
I slightly injured myself. Then, whilst forced to do nothing at all, I began to wonder about my own mental well-being.
And then I was locked up in a holding cell, wondering what to do next.
This sort of thing happens to me quite a lot.
Snakes. Why did it have to be snakes?
And also: the people who enthuse about them don't know what they're talking about.
For possibly the final time, I visited the Countway Library of Medicine.
Well, here we are in the middle of a pandemic. So, uh -- how's it all going?
Ten years have passed since that horrible, awkward night and I'm still trying to process it.
For about a month or so, Boudica and I had almost daily arguments about the existence of Yetis.
I’m getting a bit wary of opening newsletters at the moment.
You know what The Script is - it's the ritual with which we signal to one another that we're not alarmingly unusual.
I don't care who you are, there's something other-worldy about having your conscience called-out by a three-year-old.
I'd been ignoring Halloween for the past decade.
So a friend got himself a cat, and now he needs my advice.
I'm back
My dog has tried to kill me on ninety-three occasions.
It was around this time last year that I did something fairly foolish.
In which I contemplate the renting of a bobcat.
Sometimes, I make mistakes.