From a secret bunker

Monday morning, never a good time, Public Face on, wrenched off the chaise longue, weaned off the Wincarnis [well, just a tiny drop on the corn flakes]. First often-unpleasant task, the in-box, the usual 'Hello ... I wanna do a PhD from your University ... and I can't afford, can you help please?' [that is not made up, by the way, merely shortened]. Still getting the mysterious announcements that people I have never heard of are following me on Twitter, when I haven't squawked in living memory [well, all right, the memory isn't what it was...]

Then the blood freezes, literally freezes. Never mind the chaise longue, fetch the commode. 'Phil Bradley is following you on Twitter'. How? Why? .....WHO?

OK, OK, it's Crail who needs her legs smacked. In detention, ASBO, scold's bridle.

MUST remember to keep my mouth shut and abide by Thumper's dictum. But the memory isn't what it was...

Image from the Wellcome Collection. And don't we think that little bell on the top is rather jolly?