Gone With The Wind.

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Nope, it's no use. Can't get the hang of using artificial intelligence to do these write-ups. Convincing though the above lines may be to the untrained and unsophisticated reader, they just don't quite do it for me, so I'm going to revert to real intelligence; which is a pity, as my supplies are somewhat limited.

I am writing this very slowly, as I know that some of you struggle with reading, so it occurs to me that, by the time you see this, Lurch may well already have crossed the threshold which many dread - I'm talking the big seven-oh here - and joined the ever-increasing ranks of LVH3 septuagenarians. About time too, as he's been sixty-nine for the last decade. He would not be alone in experiencing a deep sense of gloom and despair; the French can't even bring themselves to say the number in question - sixty-ten, that's what they call it.

Realising that he is now way past his prime and living on borrowed time, Lurch took the sensible precaution of setting an A-to-B r*n, starting from the top. It's all downhill from here, mate. Surprisingly, Upperskirt did not take the A-to-C option on this occasion, possibly because she was on familiar territory. Who can forget the milk tanker to Clapham Station, or the time she went ninety degrees off-trail ten yards into a Garstang r*n? Mind you, she excelled herself earlier in the month, when she set off for Cyprus and ended up in Venice; that's what I call seriously off-trail. Obviously the pilot did not realise that the small fluffy white clouds were actually celestial flour-heaps, showing him the way.

Only one slight hitch on the r*n - Lurch forgot to turn off the wind machine. Under the circumstances, the markings survived amazingly well.

Post-ambulatory prandials courtesy of L&M chez Addams, whose residence was harder to locate than the trail. A bit like the Hogwarts Express really: you charge headlong into the council depot gates and, on regaining consciousness, turn right into Diagon Alley; number seventy-one-and-three-quarters is on the left just past Gringott's Bank.

Full marks to Morticia for laying on the best hash nosh of all time, and setting the bar high for others to clear (not the septuagenarians obviously, we struggle with ladder stiles). You've found a good one there, Lurch - you should seriously consider keeping her.

Many happy returns Lurch, and likewise to visitor Double Decker whose birthday was today. Didn't ask her age, as I'm not too keen on hospital food.