England is back to more usual, civilised temperatures. The past week of the Fahrengezundheits climbing into the nineties (something on the order of thirty-three of the Celsiumoids) – all with humidity levels ordinarily only found in an all-in-wrestling camel’s crotch – were not to the tastes of Hutson minor. Not to his tastes at all. Several cheery souls who wobbled on at length about “how wonderful” the hot spell was have had to be …disappeared, with malice aplenty. The world taking itself a third of the way up towards the temperature of a boiling kettle is not “wonderful”, it’s vile and unpleasant.

I have been a grumpy old Hector. A miserable Hector. A Hector on the edge. A Hector just one more “lovely weather, isn’t it?” away from an axe rampage.

The nexus nouveau, the mooring du jour, the King It of Where-i-am.

Anyhap, the Cardinal and I have…