We’re on holiday – well, some of us are.
Summer has returned and in now habitual fashion, the newly vacated DTW offices have taken on a distinct Marie Celeste bearing. Creaking timbers, the unmistakable aroma of stale sherry, cigars and charred office furniture – not to mention a gaping hole in the schedule – consequence of Mr. Editor Kearne’s precipitous departure to fortify his appetites at some unspecified summer retreat deep in the Andalusian hills – lord help them.
In the unaired half-light of our ninth floor headquarters, mystery abounds. The whereabouts of Myles Gorfe remains a pointedly unanswered question. His seasonal ticket to Granada lies unopened upon his desk. Packages of secondhand blue oval spares from as far afield as Bosnia–Herzegovina pile up, yet nobody, least of all his estranged wife Brigit appears keen to investigate his disappearance.
Even the normally felicitous Mr. R. Herriott has exercised his unalienable rights and chosen to absent himself from the premises – for the purposes of rejuvenation he informed me earlier in the week. By fax. All a bit odd, especially since we aren’t in possession of a fax machine.
All of which leaves your lone scribe bemused and adrift as both caretaker and janitor of this gently listing vessel. But there are one or two compensations. Firstly, since all work and no play makes Eóin a dull boy, I now have full and unimpeded use of the DTW hobbyhorse®, allowing me free rein to flog it to my heart’s content.
In addition, now that it’s possible to access the DTW archive without having to first obtain a handwritten form in triplicate from editor Kearne, I have scaled their increasingly precipitous heights (at enormous personal risk I might add) to pluck a selection of older articles from their current resting place for your edification and delight.
The summer schedule (such as it is) will begin this weekend, and run each Friday – Sunday until the start of August. I hope you will enjoy revisiting these pieces once more and bear with us over the coming weeks, at least until our errant holidaymakers’ return.