Farting Finnegan’s Wake…

… would be an appropriate thing to do, given Joyce’s whimsicality and preoccupation with bowel movements.  What gave rise to this thought was Mark’s comment yesterday: he was looking at a computer screen and uttered a series of incomprehensible syllables.  Now, this is not an uncommon occurrence in our house, but I can usually discern a couple of actual words in most of his utterances.  Not this time.  ‘What?’ I said, irritably.  ‘Don’t you recognise Finnegan’s Wake? he said, aghast.



It’s the third paragraph above.  The third paragraph is about as far as I got with FW.  I mean, for god’s sake!  600 pages of that.  It would be like living with Mark.


Moving swiftly on… I’m working on a parody of Victorian verse; it begins:

Do you remember a poem, Miranda?

Do you remember a poem?


I’d forgotten that was by Hilaire Belloc, who wasn’t really a Victorian as he died in 1953, but I think it belongs to the tradition of Victorian verse.

The talk at Tomatoes went well yesterday – it was on camels, needles and the parrot sketch.  Today I shall be mostly… leading the session at Yessim’s cafe.  Come along if you’re around:


It starts at 7.

Kirk out


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