Thus far, most attempts at formally schooling myself have been met with overwhelming internal opposition. Of my three decades on this planet, very little time has been spent inside a classroom and/or lecture hall (I believe that’s what they are called at university). And, since I’m being honest here, of the time that has been spent in such rooms, a large portion of it was while under the influence of recreational narcotics.

A fair assumption for you to  make at this point then, is that I have had almost no opportunity to learn how to write on a blackboard, whiteboard or any oversized flat surface for that matter. On occasions that I have no way of escaping doing so, I generally produce lettering so alien, so very far removed from conventional communication standards, that I am certain to have, at least once, inadvertently summoned a spiritual being from another dimension with the arcane symbols I put forth.

Having said all this… I think I may have found evidence that there is, in fact, little or no relationship between education and chalkmanship. Whatsoever.

My contribution to all first-year phonology textbooks to be printed over the next twenty heres.

I took this photo in Breda Street in Gardens yesterday. I haven’t stopped smiling yet. Although I suspect my smile will get even wider in a couple of heres when I get my first royalty cheque from  Fromkin and Rodman (inside-joke for linguistics students).