Daily Blague

I've been so grownup and serious for a while that you may have tuned out. Here I am, about to go to Byzantium for a week of yakking nonstop about mosaics - it's pukathetic, really. Happily, the Blogosphere has not let me down. The ongoing freak show never sleeps.

I can't decide which is the worst of the four photographs from which I chose the one here. It's an innocent, Sixties era ski mask, and, like so many Sixties artefacts, it's totally horrific. What might seem colorful to Betty Crocker's fans has, to a more discerning eye, the gasp of taboo transgressed. Exploded brains, for example. But if you think that an artful mask might keep you warm during the kind of serious blizzard that we haven't had in a while - or perhaps we have; I never get out - then here is your Lorelei.

If you think that that's bad, then don't check out my next canapé. It's truly gross, in conception if not execution, and anyone who has ever played the piano will assure you that there is a real limit to - well, they simply can't be doing what it looks like. Or can they? Male anxiety knows no end. This is a British splash if ever there was one.