I (sometimes) call myself Mr. Pondersome. I'm a rather wordy, weirdy person. I say hullo a lot. I write a lot more. While you're here, why not give some of it a read?

Saturday, 25 September 2010

Last of the Summer Poetry (a.k.a. my final load of verse written before the 2nd year of uni)

Hullo again!

Well it's that time again. My summertime antics have come to an end and university is once again beckoning me back with gradual, coldly familiar fingers. So, before I have properly returned, I have decided to update my hobby-blog with the last pieces of poetry I have written before the homework and coursework starts to flood in.
The first is a riddle poem called (somewhat unimaginatively) "The Writer's Riddle". Riddle me this, Batman! You'll NEVER guess the solution! Mwahahahahahahaha!
But enough of that. Meanwhile the second poem is a longer free verse piece entitled "Just This Once" which was written whilst I was burdened with the knowledge of my imminent return and the fresh uphill struggle that will doubtlessly be placed before me. WARNING - could be harmful to cheery dispositions. Sorry about that.
Anyhoo, here they are. As always, enjoy!


A God made through the mark,
fingers drawn by mental strings;
I dye all blankness dark
with a thousand thought up things.

Ruled over by the yarn,
whipped forth by expertise;
I weave and then I darn,
my work is what I please.                   

Through my hand I help you see –
can you find the word for me?


We’re boarding
I’m boarding
                        with                 more,
my baggage wound
round my wrist –
Colour bubbling to them
while thin lips read                                         ‘COMFORTABLE’
and other pale lies.

                                    I’m bored of this
                                                            like you
but it comes in bursts
            by condition.

I may not take off this time.

I’ll try –
            Unsteady wings can still flap – right?
                                    You don’t have to hold my burden.

Just nod
            and smile
                        and be there.

I did it before,
                        I know the routine.
I know.

Just this once
                        let’s hope it’ll              take...

Anyhoo, to wear a cliched phrase down to its very bones, That's All Folks! And it really is until further notice. I'll let you know if anything changes :).

Thanks for reading,

Mr. Pondersome

Tuesday, 21 September 2010

"Neglected" (a.k.a. my harrowing take on childhood play and beyond)


Ever considered the possibility that there is a prison-like regime being run in your attic? Ever wondered what it might look like if a humble cuddly toy was objectively assassinated? If so, then please seek help. If not then may I draw your attention to the short macabre yarn below?
In a moment of sheer disturbed madness I have created a short piece about my take on the secret life of toys. For a while now I have been fascinated with the concepts laid down by films like the "Toy Story" trilogy and "Small Soldiers" and books including "The Indian In The Cupboard", and always had a gritty realistic perspective in mind. If toys lived then surely they would be akin to the ways of civilisation and therefore adhere to strict systems, wouldn't they? After years of creative excitation then (pretty much) immediate scrapping, this tale came out.
So without further ado, here is "Neglected". Please don't judge me too harshly - especially you, Teddy!


 His first mistake was running. His second mistake was running from me.
                He made a good choice on where to hide though. This territory is devoid of inhabitants, unfamiliar. It's rare that the door is open here; he saw his chance and he took it. The only downside is that he doesn't know this area either, he's just as lost as me. Equal ground. Stalemate.
                This place isn't wholly unknown to me though; I've been in here before. Hell, we've all been in here before. It's just things have been modified. The organiser had a drastic change of mind (like they all eventually do) and she decided that everything else had to go with it. Within weeks the entire population had been transported elsewhere. It was fortunate that the second younger organiser had taken an interest or else we'd have all been out on our asses. However some of us weren't so lucky.
                Running into this area, I see nothing's the same. The colours gone in a big way (from cream to violet) and the terrains completely different. It's still a mess but a new kind of mess. More intended.
                As I stumble over the strange mound of cloth beneath my feet I realise that even the smell's all wrong. The air's thicker, more rancid. The windows are closed and covered, that's probably made it worse.
                I hear shuffled footsteps. It seems my not-so-little runaway is having trouble with his footing too. I hear heavy breathing and muttering. He's scared. I have a chance to wear him down. Maybe he'll come quietly, stop playing chase. I check my gun anyway.
                I'm proud of her. It took damn near months to punch and prod a hole through the rigid barrel, even longer to alter the firing mechanism. She may not look much like a gun but she sure as hell fires like one. I throw in an extra pin-shard. I may not want a casualty on my hands but I sure wouldn't mind some firing practice.
                As I meet with the corner I gradually lift the trim. He isn't hiding under here. Or maybe he found a shadowy corner and got lucky? I knew I'd need a light for the belt; the fugitives always go into the dark spots.
                I feel myself physically lose patience as I move on.  I'm really not a thrill-of-the-chase guy. Of course he sure as hell isn't going to jump out now and hand himself over. I don't expect him to.
                I lean against a tall length of wood and peel some gum-like material from my boot. I look up at its long rectangular top. This certainly wasn't here before the change: it's far too big and spilling with junk. Maybe if I climb up it I can get a good vantage point, pick him off as he makes a move. Nah. It's too far up.
                I don't hate the guy much either. It's just a job. He made a break for it before and me and a couple of others caught him in the lower portion of the building. He was trying to climb on top of the sofa, trying to get noticed. He doesn't realise that there was a reason why they took him up and hid him away. He isn't right anymore. If he'd just stayed in his box, none of this would've had to happen.
                I mean I'm up there too and I'll admit that it ain't pretty but that's where we're supposed to be now. We're done, we've served our purpose; the organisers don't need us anymore. Sure, I may have a little more value in their eyes (I've still got all functioning limbs and I'm ready for action) but otherwise we're no different. Life isn't great where we are, but that doesn't mean we need to run. He'll see me as a traitor of course, a figure who should sympathise with him rather than follow orders from the other side, but I'm really not. I'm just one of the able-bodied who still understands the way of things. I'm no traitor.
                He's made a mistake. He's checked to see where I am. I recognise that blue furry paw, that big green glassy eye. I fire. The pin-shard embeds itself on the corner where his ear poked out. He's startled, he knows I'm sick of waiting.
                I break out into a run. His leg brushes a pile of glossy magazines. The pin slices through a curving page. I'm getting closer.
                "Stop!" I shout, though there's really no point in saying it.
                He's already rolled behind cover: a big red shoe. I'm not going to waste more ammo. He's moving across to the bed; probably making his way towards the bedside table. There's so much stuff there I doubt I'd ever find him, not from down here. I need to get some height.
                I leap and start climbing up the covers. After some flailing and slipping I'm on the bed. I hurry towards the table and look down. He's still trying to get his paws around the etches and marks in the corner. I could just pick him off here. He realises and turns to run for the door again.
                I slide down to the floor. He's scrabbling through the doorway, clinging onto the side with both paws. Little bastard's trying to shut me in. I fire a pin-shard - it misses him but scratches off a flake of black paint. Both paws disappear; he's just going to run. Like hell he will...
                I rush across threshold and I'm back in the hallway: neutral territory. He's stopped, bent over and panting. I've finally tired him out. I'm near to collapsing myself. I aim the gun at him carefully.
                "No more running, Hugo." I tell him.
                He turns. His big blue furry button-nosed face looks at me pleadingly. The crack across his left eye glints in the light. "P-please. There's nothing for me up there. I've-I've still got so much to..." He starts crying. Aw jeez...
                I bite my lip. "You know that's not an option any more, Hugo. You broke out and you broke regulation." I hate saying that. 'Regulation' - it makes it all sound like a goddamn dictatorship.
                Hugo's still crying. He just wanted to return to the good old days, there should be nothing wrong with that. But there is.
                "Are you going to come back? Quietly?"
                He speaks. "I want to...I want to...NO!"
                "Are you sure?" Please say no.
                "Y-yes..." He whimpers, "I'm not going back up there! 'The Attic'! They should call it 'The Dust Room'....'The Forgotten Room'!"
                "What's your name?"
                "What's your name?!"
                I gulp. "Henry."
                "What's stopping you, Henry? What's stopping you from 'following orders'? Do it! Keep things the way they are! Keep things the way you think they should be! DO IT!"
                "DO IT NOW!"
                I shoot but I daren't look. It's soundless but somehow I know it's done.
                I look back. All I see is white fluff. Stuffing. It's over. It's done. It doesn't feel right.
                I take out my communications device. It's hard to believe but it used to be an earphone. It's amazing what the tech-guys can make out of the junk laying around. I flick a hidden switch at the side.
                "The fugitive has been neutralised." That doesn't sound like me. "He's gone."
                A scratching of static then a familiar voice.
                "Good job. Where is he?"
                "The hallway."
                "A clean-up crew will be down in a few minutes. Just sit tight." Click.
                It's true, the clean-up crew are that quick. Thorough too. They'll probably pick up all the stuffing and lay it out beside some pins and thumbtacks, along with his body. They'll make it seem like he'd simply fallen out of his box and got himself caught. They're good when it comes to 'accidents'.
                I daren't look at the body. It's not my first, only one in a line of countless other 'accidents'. Still, it doesn't feel any better. It never does.
                I find a doorstop and sit down on it, laying my gun down carefully on the carpeted floor. I wonder why it is that they do it, why they feel the need to run. Nostalgia, I guess.  At some time they were all used, all loved, until loved to death. I guess that that need to be loved, to be used, just doesn't go away; particularly for the bears. It's sad but I can relate to it.
                I remember the play-house. I remember the family. I remember the happy, care-free life we lived within those bright, plastic walls. We weren't just a family, we were the perfect model of a family, like the sort you'd find in a little girl's fantasies about growing up. But then the dust got thicker and thicker and pretty soon we were alone. The only attention we got was when Barbara fell from the window and snapped off her leg. They took her away, declared her 'broken'. Then they took the kids, because a single-parent family doesn't make the cut for 'perfect'. Then it was just me. The Attic beckoned soon after.
                And now here I am. Henry Happylife no more. Just Henry. Henry the truancy officer, Henry the catcher. Henry the killer. Henry.
                Maybe Hugo had the right idea - get out and get found. Get out before you become the problem. Either way it's too late for me now.
                The door in the ceiling has opened up and the steps are descending. I hear them coming. Time to act the professional.
                I pick up my gun and put it back on my belt. They may need a hand.

I apologise. I really do...
Thanks for reading,
Mr. Pondersome

Friday, 17 September 2010

An Angry Woman Waits (a.k.a. an old recycled poem)

Hullo again,

I don't know about you but I have quite a few thoughts and ideas that I don't often follow through on. Well, not fully anyway. These can range from simple passing domestic thoughts like 'Maybe I should start the washing-up' to dramatic literary ideas such as 'Maybe I should give this character a history of inexplicable and often disturbing encounters to make him extra angst-ridden'. Among the latter ideas are shards of forgotten or deliberately ignored poetic verse.
Back when I was a far younger young man I was very angst-ridden and so wrote an awful lot of dark, brooding poetry (or as I refer to it now, 'grumpy depressive guff'). Among this poetry floated an odd little line that clung on with black spindly talons and refused to let go - 'an angry woman waits'.
Well it took some time but I've finally worked it into something. I'm a great believer in getting yourself in the right mood when writing a particular piece of writing and today (thanks to all sorts of bad shit going on) I have managed to adopt the perfect mood for this odd little line. Below is the final, extra angst-ridden result - not one, but TWO grim poems - a seething haiku and the bile-ridden rhyming verse poem that grew out of it.
And here they are! (All those with a gentle disposition when it comes to loaded language please look away now).


She said 'no problem',
grinned white and bore with the words,
but the seethe-bomb blew...


She doesn't speak
she forces words,
she just won't lift the gates.
She will not leak
unless she's hurt -
an angry woman waits.

She doesn't shout
she mutters bile,
she must control the fates.
She will not spout
until she's riled -
the angry woman waits.

She doesn't grab
she lets you drop,
she has no time for spates.
She'll gently stab
and will not stop -
that angry woman waits.

And on a lighter note, I'm heading of :D.

Thanks for reading,

Mr. Pondersome

"8:15 at the Goodwill Bar" (a.k.a. my attempt at contemporary realism in fiction)


It's been a while but I'm back again! I have found a story to keep me busy and it certainly is quite a big one for me. This is the first official time that I have (fully) written a text set within the parameters of the real world (I know, I know...what took you so long? :P).
Anyway it's called "8:15 at the Goodwill Bar" and, without giving too much away, it's essentially a short tale of love and attraction, comparing the courtship days of old to the modern dating scene. Take it how you will, it's only a short three-page yarn still in its intermediate drafting stage.


8:15 at the Goodwill Bar, he told me. And here I am, perched on the second bar stool from the end, as instructed, working my way through a handful of warm peanuts. My pint's ready at last and frothing like mad at the rim. I wrap my fingers around the glass; cold and sticky. I hate it when they're sticky round the sides. I groan and sip it anyway.
            This is stupid. Greg's notorious for getting this sort of thing wrong on several occasions in the past - I mean, what does he know about picking up women? When we were out last Wednesday, down at The Curve, he got shot down by at least four girls. There may have been more but I had to go to the toilet at sometime. Still, he 'highly recommended' that I come here. I've never been here before and, as far as I can remember, neither had Greg, but he swears by the place. I believe what he said was 'It's amazing! There's this guy there who always comes in at bang on quarter past eight and he's the best you've ever seen! I'm serious! He's the best wing-man ever!' Well who am I to criticise? He did get off with some red-head girl on the evening. I remember distinctly because when I saw him at work the following day he was late and had that giggle. Greg always has this slight giggle for hours after he's gotten lucky, it tags on to the end of everything he says. Also, as you'd imagine, he just wouldn't shut up about it. By the end of the day everyone in the office knew she was 'a natural red-head' and 'busting out of her top'. Maybe this 'best wing-man' did help.
            It just seems weird to me though that this guy, being a total stranger, is willing to coach you through picking up girls. I mean, there's got to be a cost, hasn't there? He sure isn't doing it 'in the name of love and happiness'. Unless he gets off on it. Urgh, that'd be twisted. I wonder what his game is?
            It's 8:20 now and there's no sign of him. Could Greg have just made him up? Maybe he thought he was being helped, but in fact it was all him. That doesn't seem too likely. Still, if old Greggy boy can get some here I'm sure I can. Out of the pair of us I'm the one with the looks, and that's saying something.
            Hang about! Looks like we've got a taker for the far bench! Doesn't look like much, mind. A typical bar fly, I'd say. He's even got the ruddy stubble-chin face and the overdeveloped beer belly. What is he? Sixty? Nah, he's fifty; he just looks old for his age. Sad. Well I don't think he's the guy, poor fella. He looks a bit weepy, probably has an even shittier life than me. I think he's mumbling. I can barely hear it but he's definitely mumbling to himself. Something about 'Katy love'? I really shouldn't be listening to it anyway, isn't my place.
            Christ, there doesn't look to be much talent here tonight. Just old biddies and skinny girls probably too young to be out this late, let alone getting pissed. I knew it was stupid to come here looking for a chance; it's just not one of those bars. Maybe if I finish this beer-like swill quickly I can get out of here and down to The Curve in time. It's ladies' night there and it's about now that the remaining girls are sufficiently boozed-up and lowering their expectations. This place is dead.
            I drain the glass and then realise who's stood across from me. A slightly tall leggy Asian babe. She just glanced at me. It may be the booze but I think I recognise that look. Maybe this place isn't so bad after all.
            Now how should I go about this? She's moved into a better light and she's a lot more attractive than I first realised. Oh shit, this is ridiculous. I'm literally empty-headed. Come on, there's got to be something you could say! Come on, you bell-end!
            "Your eyes." It's the drunk, I think. His voice is so gravelly, it's untrue. "Your eyes are so, so glorious. F-from this light. I just cannot, cannot believe-"
            Come on! Her drinks almost ready!
            She turns. She's smiling, she's definitely smiling.
            "Hi there."
            What now? I need something quick and effective. But I can't think that fucking quickly!
            "Your eyes," Shit, where am I going with this? "are so glorious from this light. I just can't believe it." I laugh nervously. "I, erm, I can't believe I actually said that. Sorry." Well, that's blown it...
            "Thanks." She's still smiling. I could still be in here. But what now?
            "My name's Rich, by the way."
            "So, Aneesa, what're you drinking?"
"Just a spritzer." Her eyes are really actually quite stunning. Plus I love the way she's playing with her fingers. "Why? Are you offering to pay?"
            "Sure." I fumble for my wallet. She's actually going to let me buy it. This is going well. I buy another pint for me as well.
            "So, what else do you like about me?" She laughs at me but it's a good kind of laugh.
            The old drunk's muttering again. "-lips. So l-luscious, and warm."
            "Your lips!" That works. "Oh, I'd have to say you're lips. They're so luscious and warm. Um, I mean they look warm. I can't say for sure. But I'd like to find out." I half-expect a slap, but I look to be doing well enough. I swear she's moved a little closer to me. Is that alcohol on her breath?
            "Oh? Well that's really my choice, isn't it?" I think she's already a bit drunk. This couldn't be easier. "So, you're a sweet-talker. What else do I need to know about you?"
            "B-but I don't need to say anything." It's the bar fly again. "Not with you, nope, no..."
            "Well there isn't much to say really." I'm getting the hang of this. "I'm more interested in you." Bullseye.
            "And I'm more interested in tonight." Her hand rests on my lap. I like where the fingers are creeping to. "Are you free tonight?"
            "Definitely." I smile. "Let me just finish my drink."
            "Good. And I'll just freshen up." She walks ungracefully towards the Ladies. She's drunk, there's no doubt about it. I'll let it slide.
            I down my pint in one and grab my coat. As I launch myself off the stool towards the door I catch sight of the old drunk again. He's staring into his pint of stout, like he's looking for something in there but not too closely. It's almost like he's...what's the word? Bemused. He looks up and nods at me. I can't quite believe how bloodshot his eyes are. I nod back.
            "S-she's a keeper," He says, but not to me, or anyone in particular, "My cuddly Katy. M-my angel dear. You'll-you'll never know, never, how wonderful, how s-sweet..."
            Aneesa returns, grabs my shirt and beams. "Ready to go, handsome Rich! Your place."
            I gaze at her. "Sure." She's wobbling a bit to the side. Best get her away before she starts sobering up.
            I push open the doors. As they swing back I hear the dying bar rabble for the last time.
            "-an angel! B-be good-"
            The doors close and we're gone.

Thanks for reading,

Mr. Pondersome

Sunday, 5 September 2010

"On Display"

Hullo again!

Recently I've been rather busy working on a (very) short story. Well, not so much working, more renovating and tweaking. Sculpting, if you will (inside joke, for now...). Anyway it is called "On Display" and is a first person narrative with a riddle at it's centre. I can't tell you any more or else I'll spoil your reading of it. Well, I can also tell you that it's set in some sort of gallery but that's absolutely all that I can say. Just give it a read, provided that you're intrigued...


What kind of word is 'avant-garde'?

I hear it a lot, standing around here. It normally comes from those people who touch their chins lost in ‘thought and contemplation', those types who clutch their glossy paper guides and, on occasion, lift them up for a quick scan. Poseurs. I don't like them much, they're always dressed up in a way that puts most of the others to shame. They get stared at a lot but don't realise why, don't really care. It's their uniform, I guess. Uniforms for toffs.

To be honest I don't know why I bother standing around here. There are dozens of other places I could be. Dozens. Like in the old dusty workshop with Trevor. Trevor's a real mate, a real guy. He doesn't use words like 'avant-garde', 'cubist' or ‘exquisite’, he doesn't say things like 'I really love how the artist incorporates this feature in order to achieve the final profound message of the piece' and act like he actually knows what the hell he's talking about.

I miss Trevor. I remember those days he spent just talking to me, smiling at me, treating me like a person. I remember that time when he draped some silly red scarf over my shoulders, popped a top hat on my head and took a few funny pictures for his mates. Those were good times, me watching him as he chiselled away at his latest project. He was always so happy at work; he literally threw himself into it, stopping only for food breaks and the occasional nap. He's probably working on something right now, keeping busy.

Wish I could say the same. Here I am, in a brightly lit room with blank white walls, among all sorts of guff. Colourful, garish guff, that's all I can say about it. It amuses me how they laid it all out with loads of space between each piece, in hopes that it will make it all stand out and look better. It doesn't, it really doesn't. It's still ugly-looking nonsense, only now its spaced-out ugly-looking nonsense. Display may be essential to design but it can't save everything.

Then again I'm not much of an art fan myself. Never could understand it. I'm more of a simple sort with straightforward tastes; perhaps a little stuck in my ways but I'm happy. I wouldn't be here if I wasn't happy being in one place. Well not happy, more content. Standing still is what I do.

Not like any of these people, they're always moving around. They're never in here for too long, even the dawdlers. I suspect that a few of them only come in to get out of the rain to warm up. I can't say I blame them really; more often than not this place is better than out there. I can remember one time when I was being moved around, we were out in this particularly bad traffic jam on the motorway and I ended up sliding backwards, scratching the back of my hand on a rusty nail at the rear of the van. Those movers really should make their passengers in the back more secure, if you ask me. I'd tell them that if they bothered to listen. Anyway, when the organisers found out, they just shifted me to a corner of the room and did their best to hide the mark from the onlookers. They can't show they've failed in front of the viewing public. No, it just wouldn't do.

Still, I was lucky. I know someone who, while being moved, lost an arm. Well, up to just a little above the elbow. When the organisers realised they completely freaked out, coming up with the story that it was 'all part of the symbolism'. If she herself was distraught she hid it well, behind that stony face of hers. She’s only a few metres away from me now. I'd wave at her if I could but then I'd probably use the wrong arm and end up looking foolish.

She's one of the nice ones. The rest of them have little time for anyone else; always gazing off into the distance away from each other, always lost in their little own worlds. Then again I can't really say I'm much different. There isn't much else you can do when you're stuck in a place like this. Daydreaming tends to be your only option, that and staring back.

I kind of hope that one day I'll see Trevor again. Neither of us were particularly happy when the day came for me to leave; he wasn't content with the way things ended and I wasn't either. Plus I didn't like the way the movers led me out. By the leg and the arse. Is there more of an undignified manner of parting ways? I hope he returns, saying there was a mistake and just bring me back to the workshop with its familiar musty atmosphere, back to the early days. It probably won't happen though.

No, he's forgotten about me. He's probably moved on, chiselling away at his next project, making light friendly conversation. My future's sealed elsewhere. It's far more likely that some old jumped-up suit of a man will waddle in one day, look me up and down, sniff loudly and pull out his thick leather-bound wallet. Then I'll have to move again, probably plonked in a big garden somewhere in the South of France, with a good view of a few shrubberies and the water fountain. With my luck it'll probably be one with a winged midget pissing water at its centre. I could try conversation but it'd be hard to overlook the pee stream.

But that's a long way off, they keep saying. Apparently, as far as pieces go, I'm nothing much to see. 'A damaged piece by a virtual unknown, with funny-looking eyes that follow you across the room'. Charming. Then again, I'm glad that's the way it is. Well not glad, more comfortable. As comfortable as you can get standing on display all the time.

Some more of the dressed-up poseurs are drifting by now. I wonder how long they'll be here for.

Thanks for reading,

Mr. Pondersome

P.S. Please bear in mind that this is still a rather pulp-y work in progress and more redrafting may be needed. Hopefully I'll get there in the end.

Friday, 3 September 2010

"A List of Vital Things" (a.k.a. one of my silly poems)


Noticing how sparse my blog still looks, I've decided to display a poem in order to fill the void. After all, what better way to give an example of my writing style than a concise yet unconventional rhyming poem?

The poem is called "A List of Vital Things" and was written literally hours ago. For a while now I've been considering lists: instruction lists, goal lists and wish lists in particular. I suppose this first came out of a bedtime imagination splurge (you'll come to learn more about these weird creative sensations I have during the midnight hour, hopefully with a far punchier name) which I managed to keep in my sleepy mind to be properly organised later. Anyway, without further ado, here it is. Enjoy!!!


1. Grab a pen.

2. Mark a line.

3. Make it fine.

4. Emboss it.

5. Cross it.

6. Escape the box.

7. Break the locks.

8. Run off the path.

9. Free the wrath.

10. Keep the pace.

11. Feed the race.

12. Crease the brow.

13. End it now.

14. Do it again.

Thanks for reading,
Mr. Pondersome

My First Blog


I am Mr. Pondersome and this is my very first blog post! I know that sounds a little sad considering the movements in this awe-inspiring technological age that we live in (take the phrase 'awe-inspiring' as you will), but I'm really quite excited.
So I suppose that now would be a very good time to say what kind of person that I am and what sort of stuff I'll be blogging. Essentially I am a writer (a poet most prominently) and therefore I will be posting an awful lot of my written work. Now that can range from just a cheeky haiku to a full-blown science fiction short story serial - I'm still pretty new to the whole writing business so my choice of genre and style will probably change a lot. Think of me as a bamboo shoot bending in the breeze, then add a couple more pounds and a somewhat neurotic and eccentric nature.
Anyway that's all I have to say for the moment. Watch out for the next blog - hopefully it will be something interesting, brilliant and a perfect representation of my work (most likely the latter).

Thanks for reading,

Mr. Pondersome