In which we discover that Ernest is the ideal name. Though of course, we knew that already…
Jack. Charming day it has been, Miss Fairfax.
Gwendolen. Pray don’t talk to me about the weather, Mr. Worthing. Whenever people talk to me about the weather, I always feel quite certain that they mean something else. And that makes me so nervous. Continue reading
We are all toy robots
Yes, it’s a bit puny. Oscar Wilde wasn’t wrong, unlikely as that may seem, but those of us named “Ernest” tend to march to a slightly different beat, and like anything unusual, we’re occasionally valued for our point of view. Or ridden out of town on a rail.
Actually, the name of the blog is taken from the frequently heard comment, offered by someone who knows me to someone just coming up to speed, that while whatever I’m doing may seem a bit out of step, in fact I’m just “being Ernest”. Again.