No exquisite diatribe in the socio-geographic background of this blog is needed to unravel the early gardens we have been manured in. We are most of us
from The English School. The question therefore of caring about the recent climax of post-retirement histrionics by a group of home-makers and
la politiques of recuperating late-comers with pre-owned SLK's, especially as its tele-echo is smouldering the sandstone walls and the brown fibreglass chairs of our past, is already affirmed. Not least due to that past being partly the future of our memory, what has us on the streets and pavements and keyboards amassing the flour of the earth, collecting yeast. Because nothing rises by itself, not even that acquired symbol of misplaced prime-time Hellenism, without kneading. Not for laurels and burned to the bone heroes we are here. And after all nothing goes better with butter than freshly made bread. That was at least one of the reason we are
from a school, a school that mostly would not have us either (when one speaks of gardens it might be that one speaks literally of gardens). And even when its smoke was blown in our eyes - smoke as we of 15,16,17,18 would see it - it was not our dear mom (bless her), nor our forceful grandfather who would, over tea and biscuits, stand in our place. But us as such. Egoistic, proud, hairy and pimpled. No ideological back-packs, no assumed moralities, no paroxysmal wet dreams. In an unashamed paternalistic tone then, the following goes out as much to leavers already left as to leavers of tomorrow:
May we petition you, Sahun illustrious, then, to put his prentis' pride in your aproper's purse and to unravel in you own sweet way with words of style to your very and most obsequient, we suggested, with yet an esiop's foible, as to how?*
*James Joyce, FW 422: 19-22
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