A curate's egg this one with me talking into a large-ish foam square with an old but rather good Thomann condenser mic.  Don't think it touches the echo of this room.  Lots of clicks and rather consumptive breathing sadly - a cross between one of the Brontes on their last legs and Darth Vader after a jog round the Death Star - so vocal quality being maintained across the series.  Really selling this experience, ain't I?

Meanwhile at the coal face of textual interpretation we continue with the Hound of the Baskervilles with limited attention and poor work ethic.  I'm thinking about the chilli on the hob downstairs.  I'm a bit hungry.

Hence the abrupt ending as I scramble down the stairs, having failed to reach the end of Chap 11.  Plagued by guilt about this? Well a little bit (see Protestant Work Ethic).

5/2 Diet day today.  Ugh.