3 Coy HKVDC

That ol' man blogger, he just keeps scrolling along ....

Just when you think you've read it all, another knave slides from the pack.

In the past two days, two pleasing mails have thumped onto my e-mat:

Out of the blue, a message from a sleuth for the venerable Royal Asiatic Society, commissioned to "write the history of 3 Coy HKVDC" (whate'er that is) and chasing details of my late Uncle Leslie who, I find, "was killed leading 7 Platoon on the north slopes of JLO", wherever that be.

The chap was down in my birthplace of Oz, bumped into a cove who remembered that Leslie and my dad were bros, RAS scribbler googled papa and got my graveside post.

Result: I'm able to put him onto Leslie's daughter and my favourite cousina whatever removed, after whom #1 Daughter is honourably named, and presto! the dude has the chance to chat to the family archivist. How dashed satisfying is that?

Natch, I couldn't resist that headline up there to send all future coy Googlers into a tizzy.

Serendipity #2: Outta the blue, my favourite Kefalonian sheep-shagger and Jake Gyllenhaal's-battered-elder-brother lookalike, Z, bestirs himself from the bliss of the connubial couch to make contact with a good comment on my Corelli Mandoline jab.

The piratical cove owns so many fond memories (and thank you, Wells sahib, for the join):

As a CS rep, grepless in Gaza, I feared asking advice from those cruel Leads, fingers rippling across keyboard, a GC here, a Blackbook there, cocooned in their cans as they bopped away to impossibly fashionable indie bands.

One's shadow only had to fall across the Z man's keyboard than he'd whip off the headphones and be at your service.

Musical Duets: I pride myself on being able to strum along with *anyone*.

Z mouths a mean organ, so one lunch break we dove off to the kitchen where we totally failed to make sense of a single note.

I don't know why I find that so funny. Possibly because of all the dullards and bores with whom I can hardly be in the same room, and yet I play expertly with.