After time consuming examination of blood and height and weight and all that, it turned out that I have that dreaded disease which Shakespeare sang thus:
Thou cold sciatica, cripple our senators, that their limbs may halt as lamely as their mannersI have not recounted the story of Matthew Rawlings charing in ISO20022, in F2F in December, nor David Frankel giving ever more exacting remarks about various things (December/February), nor a recent joyful workshop, nor a planned workshop in Oslo, nor Tony Hoare's visit and what chat we have had, and of course how Scribble is going (or how Gary is proceeding with this), because of this: anyway I now know the reason.
Perhaps I will anyway write here about something harmless since I cannot think and do nothing intellectually consuming.
