Nasal, high-pitched whine

Friends, I have had it up to here with processes in nasalisation. I have glottal stops and non-palatalised labio-dental fricatives coming out my ears.

I love my job, but every so often it is brought home to me how little I actually understand about the material I work with. Nice discursive papers about history or politics or ancient textiles lull me into a false sense of security, but this hardcore linguistics stuff? It's a rude awakener.

OK, whine over. Back to the grindstone.

Gourmet

I got home from choir and sat down at this machine and flicked through e-mail, and a most peculiar feeling came o'er me stealing, and what it said, this feeling (for it had a little voice, the way such feelings often do), what it said was "a snack would be nice".

Not just any snack, though. A most particular comestible concoction was craved by your humble Radzer.

Popcorn.

And coffee.

So I ups and goes to the kitchen, and I sets the corn a-popping and the kettle a-singing, and pretty soon the kernels are exploding, rat-a-tat, and the kettle is roaring, and I'm shaking the saucepan like it says in the instructions and trying to avoid being scalded by the tendrils of steam that escape through the lid-handle joint.

I made my popcorn, to cut a long story short, and then I made my coffee (decaf, of course). And then I ate and drank.

The punchline? There isn't any. It was delicious - exactly what I needed.

G'night.