Space Is Dark. It Is Cold.

Boggins is at a funny age. This is the trite but only possible reason that he finds himself listening to old Hawkwind records, and re-reading Michael Moorcock potboilers like "The Warlord Of The Air" and thoroughly enjoying both.

Here's a lovely lyric, Hawkfans:

Lives of great men all remind us we may make our lives sublime
And departing leave behind us footprints in the sands of time

so far, so Longfellow. We continue:

Of hewn stones the sacred circle where the wizened sages sat
Let us try to remember all the times where they were at.

- pure Dave Brock.

So your thoughts they were expecting
assault and battery on the human anatomy
Assault and battery on the human anatomy, man.

Ah, those ear-splitting nights at the long-gone Queensway Hall, Dunstable. The acoustics were immense. Pardon?

I am indebted to Betty for getting me going down this particular memory-lane again.
Lyrics purloined from here. Hope they don't mind.

Next week: Trumpton, probably.