Station XXX

Something short tonight, said the Bishop to the Actress...

...it doesn't bloody scan or stress as it should. How can one write poetry with an unbalanced metre? Or a head full of bombe? The line should end 'King', but that tends to the scurrilous, nay treasonous. And the line was not there, just the wrap.

I have had a fine week with the daughter of delight; said female offspring had not remembered the Gilbert Scotts' memorials, and thus was harangued by the aged grandparent. They patched it up over plum crumble, one keen on making, the younger keen on eating. Wonderful to see a relationship develop over two generations, buttered by nothing but floury nuts.

We visited Bletchley Park, home to the Roman-numbered base that became the centre of intelligence. WWII delivered many enhancements to modern life whilst it was decimating the European population, but surely the most interesting is the computer? We were treated to a tour of the site and its jewels, and left with fond memories of Bombe, Enigma and Colossus. There are too many mathematical theories involved for a divvy like me, but I think Number One Daughter garnered some useful material.

Gran took the lead during the tour. Having been a tour guide for some years in the grand episcopal domicile that is the sometime sub-marinal church in Worcester, Ma was happy to assist in the uncovering of the origins of GCHQ. Wrongs were righted, ships were wrighted, tales were docked. Can this get any more corny, Fray?

Best to remember that the people based among the Offical Secreters shortened the war, enlisted the poor, invented the lore and substantiated the saw. Rime Inextricable, a village deep in England.

It's all getting too silly, now. I bid you goodnight, and wish you purple dreams, as the actress...