Pip-pip
Good day to you all.
I am pleased to tell you that, as I type this, I am wearing a rather spiffing top hat, gifted upon me by a dear friend. Jolly good it is, too. It is ever so slightly too large, and I have no occasion or venue to wear it to, but clearing out my room uncovered the joy of simply wearing a top hat as you go about your daily business.
I also feel it is my duty to inform you that, as I type, I am listening to the splendiferous piece that is the overture from Ruslan and Ludmilla. A grand piece, indeed, and certainly one I would heartily recommend to my delightful chums, if I hadn’t recommended it already.
“But,” I hear you think aloud toward your monitor, “what is this post all about, hmm? So far, all you’ve done is talk posh because you’re wearing a top hat.”
Very observational you are, good sir/madam. There is a place for you at Hodgin’s Lodge For Exceedingly Wealthy and British Persons, this I shall ensure.
The true purpose of this biographical log entry is purely that of satire and farce. Oho, it looks like I led you on, thinking that at the centre of all these crumpets and cups of black tea would be a sensible and inspirational point, perhaps moral, upon which your educationally-starved brain could feast. Yes, I did just call you stupid, but remember that this is merely a Josh Hoke, a spoof, a cranium-giggle. Perhaps even a lark. Run along now, I must catch up on what the commoners are trying to steal on the book of Face. Those rapscallions.
