My frosty screen-flecked eyes could not help (and they tried) but notice your advertisement leering up at them like some fearsome delirious sea beast, enchanting them with spirals of the most exquisitely perplexing mixture of pleasure and pain. Their foam besplashed sea boots regaining their once proud position of steadfastery, and composure being stuffed back into its plush velvet carrier case, focus did assert herself on the matter and resolutely decided that a courier must be dispatched with harking squawking tales of yore (both fireside and seaside), many inquisitions and a fresh basket of plums. Upon their return (mais hélas, sans les prunes!) the master, one Rory Thunder be it known, was summoned up from his downy cloud-tufted perch with its radiating beams of song and light infinite. His chariot destrapped, his locks unbounded (even by the great lakes of the east), his ventricles pumping alternately warm then cosy with the news of the days transpirings and perspirings, he cast a quizzical look at a timeless night sky reverberating silently with the thrusts of a thousand beavers and raking up the last, careless free rays of day before remarking: “Looks like rain.” It was then I felt the need to hock shoes and socks and sod all to come join your epic enterprise, whose great pith and moment are known to all. CV attached.