Et in Arcadia ego

Robert is not one to disappoint his public. I see the stalwart few have come back again and again, rampantly and fervently in search of their master. Fear not, saplings, for he has returned. My summer in what I now shudder to call home was a raving success. I saw the mastery of Stoppard's Arcadia on stage, I absorbed the spectacle of Blur, live in Hyde Park, I had my senses flummoxed by Derren Brown, I cried laughing as Stewart Lee broke the final taboo in comedy, and saw my beloved Southampton trounce the pretenders, Northampton. I traveled to Copenhagen, Berlin, Prague, Munich, Paris, Brussels, Hohes van Eiffel, Rotterdam, Amsterdam, and sunny Marbella. My mind is richer for it, dear reader. Do not think that I was holidaying on these trips. Oh, no. My travels were penned, etched into the pages of a journal, aching to sprout from their surroundings. I read philosophy and science, clutching at the very straws which sprung me to these places, reminding me of friends, moments, and loved ones. Plenty has passed since I have been away and not a stone will be left unturned. The inexhaustible bank of my memory will be stretched and violated in every which way in order to bestow such gifts upon you, do not fear. There is more, but it shall wait.