The most pithy

There have been several hints today that I'm becoming, how to put this delicately?, acclimatised to the Rowden White. For example, all the computers now suggest my username in the drop box on Google (thankfully they do not suggest my password). Then, not only did the librarians immediately recognise me and remember my preference for PCs over Macs, but they even made a joke about my propensity to forget to pick up my card at the end- silly British guy. And, finally, to top it all off, when I typed 't' into the address bar, it immediately suggested 'TV Tropes' and then a list of all the tropes I've researched in my continuing battle to discover why life is less interesting than webcomics.
*Sniff* I feel so wanted!

In other news, I'm now part of a weekly writers' group that meets on Mondays, led by the eleventh doctor.

A deleted scene from 'The Doctor, the Widow and the Wardrobe', and indeed, the only bit where anything actually happened.

I think I'm at the forefront to become the next companion, being by far the most British, but there is a pretty Indian girl, and, affirmative action being what it is, it might be time to bust some kneecaps. And maybe dig out the bowtie Rosie made for me.


What else? I've become a minor celebrity in the ole Yarra due to my laureate-worthy musings; the upside, lots of people have told me I have a real talent and should write a book (so tempted to direct them to Darkwater library). The downside? Someone, who I don't know, came up to me in the kitchen yesterday and told- not asked, told- me to recite the same poem. I mean, I know I'm amazing and all, but try and control yourself, people.

P.S. Dan, your tree is coming- keep a weather-ear to the ground.