This blog often reminds me of a neglected garden hidden behind old, high walls. Curious readers clamber over that crumbling brickwork barrier then drop down into a bed of words overgrown with nettles and weeds. Regaining their balance and bearings, the readers immediately spy a statue of Atticus Nethergood carved in the style of Rodin but with the skill of Deidre Bumm, aged five and half. The interlopers don't know this ill-proportioned monstrosity is Atticus Nethergood, of course, and assume it's supposed to be Socrates. Everyone makes that mistake.
Nearby is an ornamental pond whose stagnant waters conceal the sunken wrecks of many ill-navigated paragraphs. A plastic model of the Flying Dutchman sails endlessly around the pond perimeter. Local legend claims that anyone who sees the phantom ship - which is everyone in the garden because you can't miss the bloody thing - shall get brain tetanus from accidentally stubbing their toe on a rusting heap of misused adjectives.
There is a gazebo, too, naturally, and a greenhouse. The latter is full of withered triffid plants still tethered to little wooden question marks. The former overflows with withered Bright Young Things who are obviously neither bright nor young these days, but very definitely can be defined as "things." They curl up like faded commas and uncertain apostrophes, perhaps only sleeping until called upon for droll commentary or to spit out some stinging epithet.