There is a little spring in my step on Fridays. Not because it is the end of the week but because it is time to nudge aside the tome and ponder on the stray musings that will travel to you as murmurs. Friday is Murmurs of Mole day, but not this week, it seems. What should I have found when I tootled into my office on Monday but a little envelope, propped against the typewriter. M.O.L.E, it said, as if the letters of my name stood for some sinister multinational company or secret society. The note inside, faultlessly typed by my amanuensis, no doubt at a cracking 70wpm, told me that after all the excitement of the journey north, this week had been declared a Breathing Space. My amanuensis is terrifyingly strict in such matters and brooks no contradiction. Concentrating on the tome is allowed, even encouraged, but no books, no wireless, no films, no murmurs.
And so, dear friends, this is all there is this week. Any more and my amanuensis might think I am murmuring. Meanwhile I do encourage you to take Breathing Spaces. Perhaps I shall mull on them in my next post. Same time, same place.
