With the obligatory bow of reverence in the memory of martyrs and of those great and holy, your chronicler imposes again upon your patience this day in Annus Cretinus Five Thousand and Something. May the three billion and seventy-nine million gods known to humankind (with the exception of Anubis, who had Poor Dietary Habits in the Age before the AdVent of P****dent and therefore Suffers from Terrible Halitosis) smile upon us all and upon our ponytails or lack thereof .
Be it known, O Thousand-Headed God of Readership (assuming 10 heads for each distinct reader and 970 for the Antipodean Gods known as Koala B Logs - bear with us, O Thou of the Statistical Minds), that your chronicler has serendipitously embarked upon Rigorous Research into the Theory of Six Degrees of Separation, with particular reference to its relevance in the Mythical City of Kol. Whereupon he has discovered that as far as This City is concerned, the Theory is All Bolls (i.e., no more than the fluffiest cotton wool. Didst surmise aught else, Gentle Reader?)
Be it known, therefore, that while your Faithful Chronicler was sluicing and shovelling at the Only Truly Italian Watering Hole (having shamelessly accepted invitation thereto, in flagrant violation of All Norms of Frosty Decorum), he chanced upon a Pleasant Young Man with a Secret Sorrow. (Two SSs, in fact. One, that he cannot Sleep All Day as well as All Night. Two, that when he Wakes, he is Still in Kol) And lo, verily it came to light that aforesaid PYM is Brother to One who Blogs Even from Bangkok (your Faithful C, O Reader, now has Special Information [he said with unctuous modesty]). As one God of the Blogs would say, Fun Came. As he might further say, phone call also came, with Bewildered Voice at the Other End. Thereafter, Melted Chocolate came, followed closely by Pangs of Guilt, but Fun Stayed.
Aforesaid sluicing and shovelling was the aftermath of Very Happening Jajj Konsaart, where Latin percussion set Chic Young Things to Shaking Their Fundaments (of Assorted Sizes, ranging from Almost-Not-There to Ohmigawd, the Latter Type being Draped in a Shade of Pink louder than Mick Jagger in concert) in Close Proximity to Nose of Faithful Chronicler. FC, being of a Shy and Retiring Nature, retired post-haste to the lobby, ostensibly to Have a Smoke but in truth, to avoid Possible Gaseous Complications resulting from Too-Many-Canapes-for-Fundaments’-Owners-followed-by-Too-Much-Motion-of-Aforesaid-Fundaments. Besides, the Owners of the Two Most Proximate Fundaments, while Beauteous Beyond Compare and Rivalling all the Houris of Paradise (which opinion, be it known, is based not upon Alarmingly Unobstructed View of Fundaments [Ladies’ Pants are worn at Subterranean Levels these days, soon they shall be Indistinguishable From Leg Warmers] but upon [a] Occasional Glimpses of Physiognomy in the Course of [Their] Twisting and Writhing and [b] Chronicler’s being More Gallant than Truthful), had obviously Forsaken Deodorant in favour of Eau de Gorgonzola.
Since your Chronicler can conceal No Detail, However Slight, from your Puissant Gaze (this is where you Steeple Your Fingers and Look Faintly Smug), FC must confess that Latin Percussion was also infectious enough to move FC into Faint Shimmy-and-Shake while smoking in the lobby. Let it also be Very Clear that Faithful Chronicler has no Delusions about Looking Cool while Trying to Rrrumba, which is why he Stopped Abruptly when he looked around and saw Faint Smirks in the middle distance. FC thereafter coughed and wiggled shoulder-blades vigorously in Attempt to Convince Snotty Young Smirkers that it was just a Violent Coughing Fit / Bout of Epilepsy / Casual Round of Swedish Exercises. Fears, however that such Attempts at Dissimulation Came to Naught, as Evidenced by Wider Smirks.
Which was why Hasty Retreat, followed by Restoring of Tissues in Pleasant Company including PYM and his Charming Better Half, was So Welcome. Despite your Faithful Chronicler’s occasional outbreaks of Foot-in-Mouth Disease, as witness Stupid Attempt to Identify Accent as Originating from Devonshire and being Politely Snubbed by Host who, it transpired, has lived in Belgium and Dubai as well as Devon and Melbourne. Faithful Chronicler restricted subsequent pronouncements to Appreciative Growls over Ravioli and over Melted Chocolate.
Which only proves that Research, if Pursued Faithfully, is Its Own Reward. Having Delivered Himself of which Homily, your Faithful Chronicler commends himself to Your Several Graces, hopes he will continue to bask in the Sunshine of Your Benign Indulgence (which latter may be Benevolently Manifested in Trifling Tokens of Goodwill, we accept both cheques and credit cards) and Retreats Discreetly to the Dining Table.