I was quite worn out after my exhausting marking schedule, so my companion and I took the opportunity to slip away to the charming little seaside resort we have been visiting for some years now.*
I returned, dear Reader, to the smell of lightly singed marigolds wafting into my oak-lined rooms from the braziers placed around the base of the Humanities Beacon.
Things are getting serious.
We strike again.
But this time, for two hours.
Times like this require decisive leadership, and I wasted no time in issuing an email to my staff.
Strike, I wrote, according to your conscience, but you may wish to follow my example by doing so at one-minute intervals throughout the day. You must hold your breath while striking.
(I wrote all this in capitals, dear Reader, changing from black to red halfway through for added leadership).
I have just struck, dear Reader.
It is going to be a slow day.
* Imagine our surprise to discover that our naturist practices are no longer welcome – it seems that some sort of international conference is to be held there, at which the only one to be allowed to remove his top is cousin Vlad (of the Ural Lambs).
** I have just learnt that the last two words of my message went missing in my email to all staff. Cornelia (First Aid Rep) is resuscitating some of the dimmer-witted now, although I gather it is sadly too late for poor Jess.