Miserable sods. I'm alone in the building, working on Threshold Concepts. There's been a meeting complete with a posh buffet in one of the classrooms, and all the lovely food is locked in there, taunting me, waiting to be thrown in the bin. It won't be long before my friend Richard arrives from Glasgow: he can smell a buffet from miles away and will happily chew through a door to get to one.
Which reminds me of one of my favourite jokes:
Q. What do you call a fat goth?
A. Vampire the Buffet Slayer.
Thankyewverymuchladiesangennelmen, still available for weddings, birthdays and barmitzvahs.
(Quote is by that cynical diplomat of the Golden Age, Henry Cabot Lodge).
