Still on standby for the guys to finish at work and send over the materials that need to be reviewed and compiled.In the meantime, this is looping in my head: “‘Twas brillig, and the slithy toves/did gyre and gimbel in the wabe:/All mimsy were the borogoves,/and the mome raths outgrabe.” Happy birthday, me. Beware the …

The fountain pens insist, you see, that I write with them, and abandon this typing business. Now I have short journal notes written on random pieces of paper. These notes are not compiled in any organized way; they have accreted on my desk like barnacles or needy acquaintances. I’ll be 37 in a couple of …