the quixotic and the silver


My favourite type of ice-cream is a 99 Blake.

Salutatory notification from M.A.Devereux (Nonvelist, Write-Ah, and Or-ther):

Calling all cavaliers and claviers and clever edwardlears!

Having just finished “The Tempalimpsest” (and eagerly awaiting its arrival in cinemas and theatres, which I believe is happening approximately this afternoon or maybe at the very latest tomorrow morning – for time is of the Peter Quince essence), I was surprised upon waking from my slumbers that I had not, after all, retired from not being a full-time writer but was, instead, carrying on not being a full-time writer and rushing like Tokyo rush-hour to my porridge and my ginger tea and then polishing it and warsawing it off as fast as possible so I could get back to my wordgutenberg.

At some stage there may or may not be a story here.  It might or might not involve a knight who discovers that he can catch people’s dreams on his ipad using dreambots and then transmute miserable stories into happy ones.  And, perhaps, a summer nuptial.  Perchance it may feature an ice hockey puck which is disguised as a goodfellow of an Erithacus rubecula.  And possibly there could be a technicolour dreamcoat, although some Argotnaut or other might have already donner-vanned that amazing idea.

rackham your brains

rackham your brains

Who knows?  Do you?  After all, whose human write is it anyway?  If you can write it better than me, why should I even bother getting my hypertext quills and quartos out in the first place?

Perhaps, if, at some stage, I become a full-time writer, then progress on “A Midslummer Knight’s Dreamboat” might accelerate, perhaps exponentially.

Caloo Calais!  Right now, however, I must off to earn a pittance of pitta-bread and therefore must



Post-Scriptum.  The harvest combinatorical link below is not my work, but I had to include it here.  Isn’t it miki-lush?

Post-Post Scriptorium.  Retweeters and sharers of this page at other social networking sites will receive an autograph from me next to a picture of a mini-Stonehenge on a napkin (if I manage to organise it, which is easier said than done, since my literary agent and promotional potentate, Mr.Invisible-Nonexistent, is pretty awful at admin)

Tread softly, Dear Reader, for you tread on my dreamweave.  I wish for the dishcloths of the seven-eleven.  My status has hit rockcake bottom, no matter how much I update it.

To bee or not to bonnet, that is the questia.

Shall I write, or shall I quit?

Or shall I quince, or shall I quincunx, or shall I quixt?

Dream on, lovers and livers.  Music makers & narrative shakers.


May we clamber up our amdrams and camber all our ampersands. 


Mayday merry marry on, robins and goodhoods.


Hermias & Afro Ditties.


Uberons.  Titanitease.


Con brio, confetti please.


No fetters.  Say cheese.