It's been a long time since I corrupted serious literature.
Anna Raccoon has a wonderful version of the Walrus and the Carpenter of which I am profoundly envious. Mr. Eugenides has an excellent Shakespeare spoof.
So I have to get the thinking hat oiled and Hammerited. I'm looking at the Eagles' 'Hotel California' and you know what? I've just typed out the entire lyrics to that song without looking up anything or playing one note.
And now, I'm starting to think there's something wrong with me. You knew, didn't you? Why didn't you tell me?
Evidently I have far too many brain cells. Lots of them are just twiddling their axons and playing loud music. I'm sure I've seen a couple standing on my earlobe having a smoke. Fortunately science has a cure. It's called 'Laphroaig' and it's on sale at the local Co-Op. Not a place I usually associate with... anything, but don't knock it while it's there.
I need that medication. Before Labour find out.