Folks, writing isn't easy. It's a draining, soul wrenching, stomach churning, frightful dance through the red hot flames of the burning Phoenix. It torches, tingles, tickles and torments. It is the calcination of every thought, dream and lustful desire you have ever had. The memories, and the nightmares they hide, oxidize, turn to vapour, and twine their way up through your nostrils and into your lungs. They grab hold of you, to choke, smother and suffocate you. You cannot ignore such incense. To be roasted from within by one's own petition is a smouldering torture that cannot be extinguished. It must disgorge itself. It can be coaxed, but not forced. It is a stubborn, fiery, feline thing. It decides the terms and schedule of its release. This thing, this gift and this curse, will erupt, of its own accord, in a cloud of roasting hot embers. They will melt themselves into the fabric of your life, reshaping it, redefining it, retelling it. And, when you are finally done, you are either left with a beautiful new creation, ready to take flight in the minds of your readers, or you are left with a smouldering pile of ashes.

And some days, dear friends, you just can't be bothered.

After a year of enjoying the rare privilege of being a regular columnist for the Lowbrow Aristocrats, I have decided, with mixed emotion, to take a brief hiatus. I fear I am in danger of stagnating and growing stale. And, rather than sacrificing the quality which you have invariably come to expect, I am going on sabbatical. It is time for me to re-centre, and re-focus. I will meditate, study, and expand myself, so that I may come back to you with more than I am leaving with.

If that doesn't work, I'm going to go on the Mother Of All Benders, and I'll tell you all about it when I come to.

As a final gift, I have developed the following photo essay as a brief, voyeuristic glimpse into the Life And Writings Of Flipperson Wheyside, Esquire.