as a child in north wiltshire, i would stand beneath the telegraph posts besides a quiet country road and listen to the soft whistling of the wind in the wires, believing it to be the composite sound of many voices whizzing back and forth between malmesbury and tetbury, faster than the invisible jet fighters ( hawker hunters from kemble ? ) that sometimes used to break the sound barrier far above us on sunny days
of the seven deadly sins, the eighth and worst by far is emotional blackmail ... the diligent practise of this subtle and ancient art creates a constantly evolving darwinistic moral vacuum in which the brightest new manipulative ideas and stratagems flourish ... and which only you, or i, can fill !