Not King Odysseus, nor located on the Isle of Ithaca

 Hello world. James typing.

I would write if I could, but modern technology has pretty much shovelled its ugly face up everyone’s nostrils without seeking consent, and thus killed this thing we used to call penmanship.

As such, typing became a surviving skill. I’m sure professional typer-ladies hailing from the two world wars would gladly and grumpily testify. 

While they were slaving away on the cold and unyielding keyboards, outside, the bombs were dropping, and their fathers, brothers, sons and grandsons were falling. 

Aren’t we glad we have moved on from those days of terror and turbulence. Or have we?

The land of the ancient Armenians, the ruins of the eastern and orthodox half of our Roman Empire, otherwise known colloquially as the Middle East, still suffers from shadows of the warring past, right to this day.

Time to reflect, folks. There will be more rambles coming, but not tonight. Adelaide is in many regards a closeted university town of its own. It breathes in hushed tones and sleeps in soundless dreams. And it has lawns surrounding a river, plus college and chapels not too far beyond.

Has been so. Circa 1800. Not as ancient as what we have on a certain isle floating off the Continent, refusing to connect, but enough to carry on the spirit the likes of King’s and Queen’s.

Just not you, Trinity. Poets are generally not accepted in the kids’ club, unless you could prove by law and by layman’s terms that you are fit to mingle.

More to come concerning the feud between these two tomorrow arvo, plus an alarming counterpart right here in the little town of Adelaide. 

James