Tune, from Thurs. onwards, I'm emancipated like a serf in 1861. Flat-out-tune. As such plans hatched before the date, and revisiting texts is becoming surplus when added to plan hatching, ergo, a variety of missions appear like 'visions of Zim' and the 'cares and whims' of a tune free for the Summer are unwieldy.
Consequently, got a friend, he's moving in to Avon Cottage, going to keep everything in 'Proportion' and there will be a grand range of work produced by 'Spratt Writes, Scotch Draws'.
And so as such I introduce to the stage a triangle of tunes, designated for limited, wide audiences: I, understand, the, paradox.
"Welcome to Tunington."
"Thank you."
"Tip!"
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