It's true, I've fallen far behind in my recording of the scabrous doings of the drawing group, an absent Boswell leaving untended his gaggle of disappointed, wilted Johnsons. I've been drawn back into the world of grindstone-dulled noses and midnight oil, after having thought I was finally loosed of its surly bonds. And what do I have to show for it? I've been insulted by a Hollywood agent! What greater validation of my comedic writing skills could I desire? I only wish it came with a little statuette. One that I could proudly display on my mantelpiece along with my crocheted bacon strip, my plastic Xmas garland from last year, and my prized collection of Amanda Kavanagh prints, whose subject is obstensibly dunes at Fire Island but which look to me just like familiar mounds of pubic hair. speaking of which, isn't it sad when a man of a certain age has to resort to a comb-over? I feel like I've strayed from my theme again. I could have sworn I had a point. Ah, Boodles and San Pellegrino Limonata. When a potent anaesthetic is just what the doctor ordered.