A Iz Fer Orsiz
Abi Frost

Well, just over a week to go as I write, and yet here I am, not with any short interim rubbish

(albeit with the linespacer set wrong), but with a bloody great huge thing. I have discovered, you see, the secret of writing giant Ann Warren-type monsters. You simply prepare an apazine sandwich; write miles and miles of inside stuff immediately after receiving the last mailing, then wait and write a front and a back to preserve topicality. It seems like cheating, but there you go.

//GLOOM & DOOM CORNER//////////////

Bloody hell. Blo-o-ody hell. What is the point, I ask you? As the night wore on, we were reduced to cheering SDP victories. Now, you may think that's no big deal, but I was pretty surprised.

On the other hand, some comfort may be salvaged. There were two SDP members I was glad to see get in; Wrigglesworth, who beat the ex-Front man at Stockton, and the Limehouse Boy -- not only for local pride, but because the Labour candidate standing against him happens to be a particularly nasty piece of work well remembered from Oxford days. And now here he is, stomping the evil Jenkins. What did I say, Lilian?

And then one can always fantasise about groups of wet Tories defecting to form their own little gang, sometimes voting with the Thatcherites, sometimes with the Liberals (there won't be an Alliance by that time). I have made a resolution, by the way, never again to refer to Mrs T or her supporters as either 'Tories' or 'Conservatives'. Why should that lot take the name of either Dr Johnson's party or Mr Macmillan's? Thatcherites they are and shall remain.

And then there is the restoration of hereditary peerages. Various people have speculated about what will happen to the dreaded Wilson -- it used to be the tradition that retiring ex-Prime Ministers were given an earldom. (The excellent Macmillan refused one; Wilson, of course, abolished the whole thing.) But no-one seems to have thought about Mrs T's great enemy, Edward Heath. He, as the man said, 'has no children'. But on the other hand, if he is made an earl, there's nothing to stop him acquiring I mean ... he doesn't have to beget the brat himself. Any male child born in wedlock and not repudiated by the mother's husband can inherit a title. Personally, I can't decide whether it would be more fun if the 2nd Earl of Bexley were black or Russian ...

Oh, but how could they be so stupid?

The only answer is to eat, drink, be merry, and do no work. Get stoned for socialism. Throw bread rolls for the people. Desperate fun rules. To help you, here are some party balloons:

I wonder what's on the next page?

So what is this? This is mailing comments, is what this is. You are surprised, no doubt. From time to time, though, something comes up in the apa which I feel I have some sort of duty to reply to, having some knowledge or whatever that seems likely to be of use to someone. Besides, it segues nicely into the continuing saga of Answers to Correspondents ... so here goes:

//MAUREEN PORTER//////////////////

I am on difficult ground here, since I don't want to seem to be slagging off your doctor's chosen treatment or her diagnosis. So read what I have to say critically, and only listen if it seems helpful in your own case.

What you have sounds like the THING I have. Many years ago (in Oxford, as it happens) it was diagnosed as depression, but I prefer to think of it as the THING, since somehow that sounds less like something that is my own fault. Its symptoms are lethargy, a disturbed (to say the least) sleep-pattern, a general inability to cope with life or get down to things, and a black, echoing self-hatred. When it decides to arrive, it slowly builds up for about a month, then stays at its most vicious level for six weeks or so, then suddenly vanishes. I suspect it is caused by some chemical deficiency in the brain or body, for two reasons:

1) A change of diet can sometimes help, especially in the building up stage. Identify what you eat most of (in my case, recently, LCP chips) and give it up for its opposite (LCP salad). It may, of course, just be that doing something helps; but anyway, a healthier diet does no harm and is probably a good thing in itself.

2) Do you know the feeling of being, say, stuck on a bus in a traffic jam and able only to think of how much you long for a cup of tea? (Or a large gin, or a bar of chocolate, or a bacon sandwich ...) When the THING is on me, I have exactly the same screaming ache, for ... something, but I don't know what -- all the time.

So don't knock doctors who try to fend it off with drugs of various kinds. If they could come up with exactly the right chemical it would be a great blessing. I have to admit, though, that nothing I've been prescribed ever seems to have worked, and some drugs have had strange side effects (like the time I found myself wandering through the traffic in Shaftesbury Avenue convinced I was the Queen of the Underground). So it would be worth writing down what you've been prescribed, and an idea of its effect, so that you can tell your doctor next time.

Because, I'm afraid, if it is the THING, there will be a next time no matter how much counselling you have. (This is not to say that counselling, like eating salad, may not bo a good thing in itself. If, as you say, you have a generally low opinion of yourself, then you need to talk that through with someone anyway -- since, from what I've seen of you, it is certainly not warranted.) Once you have it, you have it for life, as far as I can make out. Oddly, though, once you get to accept this, it is a comfort.

My first, serious attack took place during my first term at Oxford, probably the worst possible time for it. Naturally, I couldn't seen to complete any work, and as the essays and translations piled up, I began to think that the reason I couldn't finish them was that I was not intellectually up to the mark. I'd always had a sneaking suspicion that Somerville had only taken me because of a clerical error, even though I was interviewed for a scholarship, since I (naturally enough) regarded myself as only averagely bright. The THING fastened malignantly on to this daft idea.

I confessed all this to my dear tutor, who poured lots of brandy down me, and said that there had certainly been no mistake as far as she was concerned (what sort of idiot did I take her for?). Further confirmation came when two friends drunkenly raided the cupboard where they kept the old scholarship papers, and told everyone their marks; mine were disgustingly high. Obviously, the reason I didn't get a scholarship was that I'd been too overcome with shyness at the interview to say more than three and a half words.

But the THING was still there, and it soon found another weaselly idea to batten on to. If I'd been so damn brilliant a year ago, why couldn't I cope now? Because, it suggested, I was going insane; Oxford had cut the link between reason and me, and I was simply never going to be well again ...

Total and utter rubbish, of course; the nearest I ever got to insanity was that time in Shaftesbury Avenue, which was entirely the fault of a drug. But the thing hung on, and blighted my first year. It wasn't until the second attack, towards the end of my undergraduate days, that I realised that none of the things I'd believed about myself could possibly be true. I needed to go through it a second time to discover that it could really go away, and come back again, and that I could still survive. It is like the asthma I had as a child: crippling during an attack, but nothing at all to do with the reality of my life.

So, Maureen, learn to live with it now. Note down for future reference what makes it better and what makes it worse; learn to recognise the build-up to it, and to distract it when it is small and weak. But never listen to a word it says.

//ANNE WARREN///////////////////////

I have experience of depression, and I have experience of duplication (who said the two go together?). I suspect your machine may not be at fault in the rather pallid look of Ravenschild 3. Forgive me if I'm wrong, but did you use the right sort of paper? It feels like ordinary typing paper to me. Duplicating paper is rougher and more absorbent; it is made to accept duplicator ink. I know it's a nuisance buying another kind of paper, but you need the right materials for any sort of result. It also takes a bit of fiddling to get the ink flowing properly, but don't ask me -- as far as I'm concerned that is why god in her infinite wisdom made Rob Hansen.

It's also possible (and here I am definitely on shaky ground) that your typewriter is not the best for cutting stencils. The typeface is composed of rather thick strokes, and it may be that they are bruising the stencil rather than cutting it. ((Private note to Lisa: can you ask Chris if this is what he means by a 'shaded typeface'? He uses the phrase somewhere in the last Deadloss, and I've never been sure what it meant.)) If it is a golfball typewriter (the face is rather like the one that came with the Remingtons at my old place of work), the problem is easily solved; if not, well, you have a problem. I prefer duplicated fanzines to photocopied ones (I think it's something to do with the surface quality of the paper), so do persevere if only for my sake.

I may have more to say to you later, but I need time to work it out ...

//KATE DAVIES///////////////////////

Thank you for those few kind words, and I mean that most sincerely. I don't want to carp, though, but I'm puzzled by your definition of the saving grace of a critic. What has the ability to 'take it as well as give it out' to do with criticism? It's a virtue, yes, and anyone would quickly lose patience with someone who persistently showed a lack of it (I name no names, not even J ...); but surely, one should only judge a critic, as a critic, by whether what she has to say makes sense? There's plenty around who can take all the blows the world can offer, but simply lack critical judgment.

I seem to be the only person alive who enjoyed Channelcon except Eve Harvey. It can't be anything to do with the intellectual content of the programme items, since the only ones I saw were a panel in the fanroom I was on, Angela Carter's and John Sladek's GoH speeches, a panel with la Carter and J Saxton, and Performance which is one of my favourite films. Not having been a skiffy fan to start with, I tend to regard the programme as a bonus. I wasn't at Albacon II, so I can't say anything about your comparison of it with Channelcon, but Albacon I convinced me that too much entertainment at cons tends to be divisive. Only the hard core fannish fans, and to be fair, some of the costume fans (I remember Lisanne well) were determined to make the convention something for themselves; the rest just sucked in the entertainment, and made squeaky noises when they got bored.

//CHRIS ATKINSON/////////////////

Blimey, it's odd you having this valedictory feeling. I did too; the reason I produced LNRB was as much a desire to force myself to do one thing or the other as to pay my debts in the fanzine world. And, apparently, so did Jim Barker. It seems to me that there are a lot of excellent things about fandom, but also a lot of bad ones; don't feel like being more specific. I can't decide whether the answer is to encourage new, not necessarily sf-oriented people to join (increasing the chance of good things) or to somehow to splinter off into some small, tight, cretin-proof subfandom. Both options seem to carry a risk of actually achieving the reverse of what one wants. So for the moment, I stay; and I'm sure glad you do too.

(That's enough comments.)


Sew wot elsie's knew? Hear wee hav Hellun McCarthey bangging orn abaht people's speling an 'good, clear, unambiguous and properly spelt English' ter boote. Uot my gonner do bout dat, eh arsk maiself.

Self indulgence
rules OK →

Wel, mi furst reacshun woz tew sai 'Fuck off, McCarthy' an leev id ad dat. Aphter orl, itt's cleer an unambugos, an thu onley bit dat issunt gud Inglidge is a propur nayme, an eye evun splet it properley. Butt de trubble wiv reeding stuf lik McCarthrey's malecoms iz thut ay alwis ennd oop givin de implucatons ov wot iz sed moor fought van de stuf itsewf rilly diserves. De must blaytunt rubidge orften cuntains de jirm ov sum inneresting wyder reflexions.

A rilly deturmined bytch, whu wonted ter ster itt inn ve appa, wud staht, noh dowt, wiv a thew remarcs too ve efect vat Heilan iz a tuch selectif inn hir targits. Wy ar Patt's exclumation poynts orl rite an nott Eunuch's, den? Moor two de poynt, Kayte Davys (eksullunt riter doh shee bee) carnt spel fore tofie. Inn fakt, shoe misspels wun ov de sayme wurds in WP5 az Elees didd an gort slaged orf fore. Eye addmit vat hir virsion -- plaguerised (botum ov paigo fore) iz moor creatif dan Eleeze's -- indede itt iz pusutivly Jokeyan, butt stil itt seams a litul unfare. Stil, as yew kno eye'm nott thut soht ov purson, sew, lik Sisero, eye shull waive orl dat asydo inn a retorical flurrush an git de bust ov bof wurlds.

Wot rilly distubs mi is dat Hellun seams nevvur too hav cunsidered de reesuns wy wun shud tri two spel curectly. Luk att hir malecom two mi: 'I won't recognise any individual as ((a stylizt)) if she is trying to convince me of her greatness in language more appropriate to an idle teenager ... who doesn't think there's any point in working for O-level Eng. Lang. because she doesn't need grammar.' Itt duz nott seam tu hav uccured two Helin dat wun duz nott akwire gramma bi wurking fore eczams. Orl wun kan akwire dat wai iz ann eczamination certifucat. Az itt happuns, iff eny tinearjar arsked mi advize, eye wud tel hir tu git hir O-level Englidge, becos manie employas an almoste orl univizzities rikwire dat kaulification, an itt iz nott duffucilt tew git. (Eye gott a topp graid inn itt att de aje ov fortine, fer instants.) O-levil certifucates ar fings wee git fer soshul reesuns.

Butt granma iz anuther mater. Harf edjicated people orften fink gramer iz a sett ov rools dat yew kan lern frum a boke. Itt iz nott. De grama ov a langwidge is de wai de spikers constict paragrafs, sentuncis, an frases owt ov de basik yewnits -- de wurds -- an de wai de wurds ar inflicted two cary aditional meenings. Itt haz bean argewed dat dere ar az menny posible grmmers az dere ar spikers.

Dere ar elemunts ov Inglish grammor dat wun cud lern bi roat in de wai Helin aperes tu egspect, an eye agrey wiv hir inn fyning neglict ov dem iritatting. Eye meen de rools ov concordd. Ar, sez shee, den zere ar rools arfter orl. Yiz, butt dose ar speshulised rools dat relait tu de inflicshun ov ther wurds inn de languidge. Englidge spikers hav perticular problims wiv dem. Englisch, yew sei, iz a hyly advarnced langwidge, im dat itt hez lorst nirly orl itz influxions. Onley a thew reraane, noteabley inn pleuralls an inn virbs. Sew Ingligge childrun dew nott git de sensitivitie in handleing relaited infltizions az, sai, Frenje childrun dew, an Englidge spokers frekently putt a pleural virb tew a singuler subjekt, especialy inn cumpix sentuncis. De arnser wud bee two teech orl childrun Lattin, becos den thay wud hav tu cowp wiv a grammor dat duz nott depand orn wurd ordar tu convay meening, butt orn de conkord of de influxions. Butt toda dat iz reguarded aa a nazty elietest fing tu du becos menny teechers wir to idol an fick too lern Lattin demselves.

Ef orl childrun lernt Lattin, den de generul kwality (inn Heillun's tirms) ov speling in Brittun wud impruve two, becos kerect speling depanz on a nowledge ov de histery ov de langwidge. Att leest, doze hu hav studdyd sai, Lattin an ann irlier forme ov Englidge rairly seam tu hav truble speling longue wurds, tho tu orften dey/wee mak typoz, wich iz a diferent isu. Doze hu ar nott sew privilidged ar forsed tu relie orn de diktionary, altho lukking upp spelings iz nott the porpoise itt wuz rilly intendid fer.

In Kayte an Eleez's misspelings (chust tu tayk dem az random eggsampils) wee akserly kan sei ann innaresting historical phenoumenon at wurk. Whan eye waz a gel and wint ter darnces, speling wuz taykun fer grahntid. Wun betraid wunself az nott owt ov de topp draw bi misprununciation, ore de uze ov nun-'U' wurds. Enhywun hu uzed wurds wiv ecsotic routes (dat iz, nott Unglo-Saxun ore Frenje) userly new hou tu spel dem, sints dey hed lernt dem frum bokes. Eye recal myselve att de aje ov ate ore nein, torking eggsitedly about de phunny riting ov de antient Ejiptians, wich eye hed jist red abaht inn a boke eye hed bin givun. 'Higopicklifs', eye corled den, an cud nott unnerstand wy al de groneups larfed. Butt ef eye hed bin arst tu rite de wurd, dere wud hav bin noh problim.

Toda, tho, hyly intelijunt an articulite peopul, sutch az Kayte an Eleeze, lern mutch ov dere vocabulery frum oril sorses. Sew dey rairly misprunounce, butt insted tak prununzyation az a gide tu speling. Dhis iz a fatel fing tu du in Englidge, becos ov de cozmopolitan natcher ov de routes wee uze. Morovere, Englidge is nott cunsistent inn de prununciation id asinnes tu de vowuls, inn perticuler. Sew, altho dere hav bin atempz att speling reforme, sew dhat de orfography wud cunform mor klosly wiv pronounseeation, dhey hev al foundad. Wee mak moor vowul sownds dhan wee hev litters fer; an wee hev too majer rejunal disagrements (norf/saf) abaht de prununciation ov dese sownds inn Ingland alown, nevver min al de uvver cuntries dhat speke Inglish.

Wot innarests mi az ann hysterian iz dat dis chanje inn de soshul ramificashuns ov speling iz dew too technologicul chanjis, an changis inn de medya ov eddication, inn dhe brawdest sents. Toda, menny peepul's furst experiunts ov wot sociologusts corl do nun-restrikted coad -- de wyder, Latinayte vocabulery assosiated wiv de middul clarse an espesherly wiv 'innerlectual' discours -- iz thru tellyvision ore radieo. Dere iz nuffing rong wiv dis inn itselph, unliss wun iz sentimentle abaht printt culcher (eye amm, a byt, butt aye recogneyes mi sentimentalitie fore wot itt iz). Sew speling, especialie ov ecsotik wurds, iz becumming de-regulareyesed, jus az, juring de sevunteenth an ateenth senturies id woz regularisd unter de influents ov de medeeum ov printink. Menny wordes wir regularizd moor ore liss att randum, az Hellun wil se ef shee luks att a propar dixunry, sutch az de Oxfurd Inglish Dictionery. Dere speling haz litul tu du wiv dere routes ore dere sown.

Eye fink dis is al a fasinating indikation dat langwidge continews to devulp unter der inflewence ov soshul chanj; Hellun ses it as a sine dat dhe wurld iz goink two de dawgs. Mebbe itt issunt importent. Butt were eye muzt kwarell wiv here -- becos, ef eye doughn't, evrifink Orksfud Englitch stans fer gos owt dhe winder -- is hir nayive azzumption dat dere iz wun ritten langwidge dat iz appropriat tu eddicated aduwt riters. Dere is nott. Unlis won is riting fixun ore dramer {an dus conserned wiv dipixun ov karakter) wun uzes langwidge dat iz apropriete tu funkshun -- wot won haz tu sa an dhe medeeum inn wich on sez itt -- nott tu won's one stashun in lif. Eye most azzurme dat whan Helun didd Latten shoo nevvur gott az fur az Sisero, fore ef shee hed dun, shee wud hev encountared de noshun ov deekorum, won ov de elementry principals ov retorik. Deekorum kan be summerised az de idcar ov uze ov apropryate kodes. Whan Helun rites ov 'language more appropriate to an idle teenager ...' id iz nort cleer weather shee refurs two mi use ov de wird 'arse' ore two Linder Pickerskil's uze ov 'thru' (sew mutch for lick ov ambugewity!) bt ze poind shee ignors iz dat nyver ov uz iz enny kynd ov tinearjar ad orl. Wee ar bof adulz, using a langwidge dat haz grate ritches whitch ar nott confyned too wot iz cunsidered deekorus inn do skollrum. Wee ar bof artisds, plaing und exprrimunting wiv de resourses off Englidge, an stretjing our oun mussles lingwistically.

Helun wil sa dat dis is a grandioze wai tu deffend tu litul wirds, an inn a sents shee iz rite. Butt wot iz att isu iz moor dan doze wurds; id iz de freedum tu rite freelie. Ant, alsew, tu rite wiv unnderstanding ov de kodes wun iz usink. Were Helan criticyses Jaky Beckson's gramer, shee obviuslie has not notized dat Jaki is imitatting de maner ov a farye tail, an dat hir punctuashun eggactly mirors dhe porses a muvver taks whin teling a furry tail tu hir chile. Jakie's 'misstake' iz nott a mistak att al; id iz de deliburat akt ov ann artiss. Artiss du not cunfirm to titeassed an imaginry-'rools'; day du wot de wurk demanz.

Eye hev noh spice tew deel wiv de inconsistuncies inn Hellin's feory ov stile, az sett owt inn hir malecoms tu varius people an inn WP4. Ay hev tu arnsa hir direk kwastiuns tu mi. Kwikly, den, since ay'm board wiv dis evvun iff yew arn't: lyne tenn ov yor coments tu LP refurs tu 'a few great stylists'; the nects sentunc apears tu giv exarmples. Eye down't fink dere is enny reesun wy yu shud pick up evry refrunc in my riting; dey ar djust dere, putt inn for mye oun pleashure, an orfen subconscius ennywai. Dis iz paht ov wot eye meen wen torking ov de ritchness ov langwidge.

Eye don fink eye wud min Helin's dogmatizum sew mutch iff shee caired az mutch fore de meenings ov wurds az dere speling. Inefficient is nott a synonim fer her favorite wurd sloppy. Id meens puttink two mutch effort intew sumfink dan de djob demanz; witch is wot eye amm doeng hir. Ow wel, maybe, stile is ineficient, two.

Butt itz al ther is, inn de ennd.


I'll tell you a funny thing. I'll tell you a funny thing ... I finished writing all that (now there's a funny thing) and realised that, along with the spelling, I'd acquired a strange and rather infantile style. I don't much like it, to be sure, but it's strange, isn't it, how what one puts down on the page can change in this way?

We are indeed the tools of language. Whatever Miss T eats, turns into Miss T, but she turns into what she says. I've found this before, often when writing polemic. Adopt a mandarin, Oxford-don, style, and you end up saying things that would be happier in a Black Paper (oh, go and look it up, kiddies).

Perhaps if I took elocution lessons, I would end up reconciled to the Thatcherites. Alas, I was born talking proper, and I simply couldn't bear to strangle my tongue in that manner. And this, I think, is the core of the present political situation.

What we have is a war between those who found it necessary to take elocution lessons, and those who did not. We, the goodies, are the upper classes, the intelligentsia, and the working classes; they are the jumped-up shopwalkers. Wo know that one's place in society depends partly on luck, and partly on a very unpleasant sort of pushiness; we would rather have nothing to do with those who rise through the latter. They, of course, mistake their own pushiness for some kind of virtue.

I feel better now I've worked that out. If it's all to do with language, then we will win in the end anyway -- because our language is what they aspire to. All we have to do to defeat them is chop and change a bit. There is good precedent for this.

'Ain't' (for isn't), in the 19th century, was an upper-class colloquialism. (See, for example, Tweedledum and Tweedledee in Alice.) Now, of course, it's working-class. There must be a lesson in this.

More balloons to hail the new age!

I expect Linda has told you about our trip to Newcastle, so apart from a brief enthuse about the Metro (enthuse, enthuse), and a demand that you send us your fiver now now now, I shan't say much about it. But there was one thing that intrigued me.

Harry Bell told us about an ancient Geordie tradition of his childhood. On election day, he said, they used to get their parents to make them a thick pad of newspapers, on a long string. This was called a 'baister'. In town, scenes like this would happen:

((A slum in Gateshead. Ragged, shoeless mites creep pathetically towards the Salvation Army soup-kitchen, in their lunch hour from going up chimneys. Enter the young Harry Bell, swinging his baister:))

YHB: Haiow'd'jer voate?

RSM: Cunsearvutive!

YHB: (belabouring him about head with the baister): BAISTER!

(Harry, preserving an admirable impartiality, says that the result would have been the same if the kid had said Labour, Liberal, Geordie Liberation Front or indeed for that nice Mr Disraeli.)

At half past four on Friday, I must say, I felt like reviving the tradition. However, the only people about were Dick, who'd already been given the Chinese torture for voting Liberal (how weedy wet can you get, already?), and the rector's peacock, who, judging by his screams, felt rather as I did about the election.

At my school, the nearest we had to election traditions was a skipping rhyme based on the song I know as 'Vote, vote, vote for Mr Lansbury', which was used all the year round any way.

//WHO CARES ANYWAY?///////////////

'That was got over, and so may this be'. Worse things happen at sea. It ain't what you do, it's the way that you do it. Jesus wants me for a sunbeam. It'll all be the same in a hundred years.

Words of comfort? Yes, but that's what I'm afraid of.

Still, there are things to look forward to. Watch out for the next Out of the Blue, with a letter from Mike Ashley -- it's a killer, a creaser. This time next mailing, where shall I be? Miles away from LCP. And it actually looks as if there is going to be a reasonable summer, for a change.

And then there are the apa elections. I shall vote for anyone who stands in London. The majority of members are either in London or near enough to come to the Tun; this keeps postage costs down for all. Indeed, I am sort of standing myself, reluctantly.

The reason is that I would like to suggest a change in the rules. I suggest that we go over to twelve mailings a year, while keeping six mailings as the minimum contribution. Last mailing was huge and thick and indigestible; and I've mentioned before how the long time lag tends to kill off enthusiasm for discussions in the apa.

Think about it -- you'd get more mailings for the same amount of work. A longer time to prepare your own stuff, but a short lead time if you wanted it. Jelly beans all round -- except for the poor administrator.

Which is why I feel I ought to stand. I'd be a lousy administrator. I don't have an office photocopier, for a start, so everyone would have to do their own; I lose things, I forget things, and I still haven't sent out all the copies of my last fanzine. But I don't feel I can suggest something that means more work for someone else without at least taking the risk of having to do it myself.

So don't vote for me. I mean, I can't even spell wrong. You can all have fun looking for right spellings, if you like. But you'd better know the parameters: the intention was that every word should be misspelt, except 'a'.

((Gentle reader)):



comes from Abigail Frost, 69 Robin Hood Gardens,
Cotton Street, E14, in the Parliamentary
constituency of Bow and Poplar, where we all voted
for Ian Mikardo, thank you very much. Well, the
Liberal was called Eric Flounders, which is too silly for words....

The Women's Periodical 7 (1983)