(no subject)

I am glad I am not living under the conventions of a Victorian novel, or romance:
For we consider time spent alone with a friend is time spent alone with a friend, but in the Victorian novel time alone with a friend who happens to be a woman is assumed to be time alone in the mutual absence of pants -
An assumption that leads to dismay, despair, and a morally pointed death in poverty or France.

I reiterate that I am opposed to the Victorian novel, I regard it with a sneer,
I say the Victorian novel is the smallest of all possible small beer.
If I had mustaches then at the Victorian novel I would twirl them,
And if it were a greenhouse and I had pebbles, I'd hurl them,
And if it were a cormorant on a rock with wings furled, I'd unfurl them,
And if it were a knitter then every knit it knotted, I'd not only unknit but unpurl them.
And if it were a mediavalist with a attachment to correct period usage, I'd "forsooth, thou saucy churl!" them,
And finally if it were a convoy of boats, then in the Maelstrom I'd whirl them.

In other news, the minature of scotch from lebannen is obscure but good. Coleburn 1972 - the distillery closed in 1985 which would tend to explain why I didn't recognise it. I *think* this is the 30 y.o. which has a few tasting notes on the web.