HELLO again from Great Marton on the Fylde coast of Lancashire. I must thank old pal Ed Black for his typically smug post
(All Greek To Me, below), which was applauded by one of our growing band of readers in Ukraine (next biggest readership after UK, followed by USA then Far East).
I have been busy publishing and shall update you in the Your Books page. Similarly, our Serial Story is also about to finish.
Back at Edmonds Towers, meanwhile, She Who Knows has kept me on my toes.
Any spare time during this rough weather has been taken up playing indoor tennis and polishing up our dance steps. Here a neighbour has come to my aid. Michael Hall, a genial, larger-than-life dance and theatre school proprietor, has offered practice space at nearby St Paul's church hall.
"The only trouble," says She Who Knows, "is that you men don't know where you're going."
There is some truth in this, since it's hard to find a handy dancefloor on which to practise.
Up till now neighbours have watched warily as I go over my waltz whisks or foxtrot feathers in the back garden, often with a brush handle through my arms as 'partner'. Old Dennis, a graceful mover well into retirement, recommended supermarket car parks and trolleys as partners ("Off his trolley!" onlookers muttered).
But, as they say, it takes two to tango and you need the correctly timed music to stride out successfully.
At another teacher's class, the renowned Pat Rayner, I was encouraged by the ability of some other male leads. Instead of waltzing, many looked like they were manhandling a wardrobe around a room. In the quickstep they romped across the floor like runaway horses, then scattered all in their wake taking wide lunges in the tango.
So, thanks to Michael, we shall be dusting down our felt-soled shoes and portable stereo. Next step it's the Tower ballroom, Blackpool's mecca to the world of dance.
I shall hold She Who Knows firmly, lift my chin confidently - then do as I'm told.
So, keep dancing!