Tuesday, December 15, 2015


In my career as a sound engineer, such as it was, I worked on two episodes of a TV show with a person who habitually and pompously steered every conversation round to his preferred discipline, in this case oenology. I once mentioned to him that I grew up in Cambridge, and he reacted to my words like they were chewy tannin. Swilling my folly, splurging it didactically back into a spittoon, he briskly got me thinking that perhaps I didn't grow up there after all; and I learned that the Anchor pub is not in fact on Silver Street, and that red wine is kept in obfusc bottles.

Inner speech is accompanied by muscular movements in the larynx; cogito-glot.
I suffer in-ear, each morning, each morning, translating myself, and when sleep's gussets blot