I'm sitting in Dodger hut in the Hopkins thinking its about time for me to write the piece de resistance for Heels 73.
Outside its gently snowing and the landscape is indescribably beautiful. Tree boughs bending under their load seem to sigh and then shake themselves free of their white weight. Every now and again a distance roar catches the ear as volumes of snow thunder down to the valley floor. The view from the grot is incredible, and one is inclined to sit and linger. All is white and all is still - or not quite. Nick is chopping wood to feed the hungry fire in front of me and Marion is busy building a snowman. The occasional paradise duck manages to get airborne and honks overhead. The scene is one of amazing tranquility. How can one convey in words the profound effect that such surroundings have on one? It is not my intention to dwell on the situation with such inane comments as "this is what it's all about", but in my benign superiority I feel regret that the bulk of the populance have neither the time nor the inclination to experience such delights - such are the joys of modern living.
Instead of sitting in these serene surroundings I should be at home attending to this rag, but I'm sure it will rear its head in due course with gentle maladministration. Marion is whipping up a batch of scones and it will soon be time for another stroll outside. All that remains for me to do is to express great appreciation to Mrs. Gilman without whose skill on ye olde typewriter this volume would not have been born. Thanks must also go to Lauchie Duff who survived my verbal batterings to once again set up the photo pages.
Time for a quick brew, a scone, and then back out into the wonderland.
There was a young lad called Rod
Who gave his mama a prod
To type so superb
This rambling old blurb
Called Heels '73 by God!