Happiest Secondest Little-Girl Birthday . . .

. . . to the genuine Buggins herself. How could this have happened in only a year? My dear, my dear, you are wonder its full self!

Ouch

Jesus. Harsh company, Herr McSweeney.

And otherwise . . . I'm as sad as any ex-head over Syd, sure, and listened longingly last Tuesday, ached over "Golden Hair" . . . How wretched, then, that as tribute such papers as the Independent printed the whole of the lyrics to "Wish You Were Here", as not penned by Syd. (Link not provided; here's some extra contempt instead.) Look, man, that mawkish bollocks has nothing on what should be his genuine epitaph, "Octopus." Yea but it took his dear death for me to look up

hey ho, huff the Talbot
Cheat! [or cheetah] he cried shouting [or shouted] kangaroo
so [or it's] true in [or so through] their tree they cried . . .

Err . . . on second thought, no link there neither. Sorry and thanks, sweet Sydney.