It doth seem that my concentration is mightily disrupted once again.

 I have been working on a new play for Christmas, a comedy about a cross-dressing, ship-wreck surviving, poetry loving girl who finds herself at the centre of a not-so-average love triangle called “Twelfth Night” or “What You Will”.

 But my attention is constantly distracted by the wretched Padgets over at the damned 2be Studio.

 I simply cannot stop myself wandering across the way to see what they are doing in their little shed.

 In my day, it was part of old Possett’s farm in Windsor Street and I would regularly traipse through there on my way to visit my beloved Ann at her cottage in Shottery.The old man would rail and shout at me: “You young scoundrel, Shakespeare, keep off my land or I will whip you soundly!”

 “Fie Sir,” said I “Keep your gob shut, you fart-livered clotpole or I will pickle thy member in newt’s piss!”

 Now I am invisible, I can see all things without being seen and can watch the Padgets creating wondrous works of art each day from paint, inks, pencils, pens and the like.

 I must tell you now good folk to find out more about these artists and seek out their work.

 I say, get thee to without hesitation and feast thine eyes.

But, for now again, I bid thee good fortune and a common-kissing farewell.