It’s Christmas. Whoopee.

What do you want from me?

Seriously. What do you want?

If you deigned to communicate, I might have a target at which to aim. As it is, I discharge my arrows blindly into the murky yonder, awaiting the Word. A yelp to announce a misfire. Co-ordinates for adjustment. A “hip hip hooray” for a bullseye. Be there even souls proximate? This Archer knows not. All He can say for certain is that He is here, with quiver, projectiles and a website in development. So throw Him a bone.

Last night, in the midst of imbibing a pint of petrol-station sherry, I tendered Pfidze a festive lark (my pile of board games has, over the course of lockdown, come to represent the limitations of human endurance, a mocking monolith of infernal ennui, and so it has been decreed that all ludal cons ...