The Old Bookworm was in the grip of yet another of his wearying fits of nostalgia. I can always tell. The condition is usually accompanied by a misty-eyed stare into the middle distance…

“The old bookworm arose, twitching eagerly, and I sighed. It was his birthday, and I knew what this meant; another day of pandering to every of his whims, which normally verge between the esoteric and the frankly unspeakable.”

“The old bookworm has begun to twitch. It is, perhaps, the gaggle of youths playing songs rich in reference to knife crime that have him so on edge; on the other hand, it might equally be the whinging child…”