There comes a time in every man's life, when he decides to inflict himself upon the collective global conscience, in a medium entirely foreign to those denizens of chronicling antiquity - Pliny, Pepys to name a couple - and in a manner that is both presumptious and egotistical. Presumptious because let's face it, without broadcasting that this exists, who in their right mind is going to either find it or indeed read it, and egotistical because it is all about me!

Who am I? That is a very good question. I am the person tapping this presently beige keyboard, filling this patch of virtual real-estate with little more than the cranial flatulence that is the by product of a mind such as mine. A mind that is at once over worked and under used. A mind who when lost in the folds of the A-Z of logical thought would prefer to amble directionless through the backstreets of partial lunacy.

What do I do? I attempt to educate ... make of that what you will. A hat. A brooch. A pterodactyl.

Where do I do it? Wherever I feel the urge. Presently in a boot shaped peninsular of European persuasion in the fashion capital of the world where bling is a byword for good taste and sunglasses are compulsory even in subterranean clubs at stupid o'clock in the morning.

Do you know me? How am I supposed to know that? Either you do, or you don't.

Time marches on it's stomach and so I must make like a heartless croquet fanatic, and post ...