Have yourself a merry Fib Sunday

Once again, as in olden days, happy golden days of yore, we find ourselves in the midst of Fib Sunday, dear reader.

This is actually the second time I've tried to cast Fib Sunday into cyberspace today, my little maid. On my first attempt, clicking the publish button resulted in the appearance of the spinning beachball of death, all thanks to the instability of the Netscape browser and their refusal to develop a new version for we Mac users. The wankers. I would have called them a bunch of cunts, but I think the C word is a bit strong for a Sunday, don't you agree, my love?

Tip for today: click on the save as draft button with every sentence you type, darling.

If you don't know what Fib Sunday is, hen, or indeed, what's going on, click here for the original instructions. Please ask permission from the bill payer.

In brief:

1) I take the topic as given in last week's final entry, write a Fib and give a new topic.
2) Your reply to the topic is in the form of a Fib in the comment section.
3) You then supply the next topic.
4) The next visitor replies with a Fib on the newly given topic and then provides a new topic and so on...

A Fib is a six line, twenty syllable poem with a syllable count by line of 1/1/2/3/5/8. The only restriction on a Fib is that the syllable count follow the Fibonacci sequence. An example of a classic fib:

One
Small,
Precise,
Poetic,
Spiraling mixture:
Math plus poetry yields the Fib.

Last week, in the turmoils of self-doubt, Matty (the last man standing) was unsure whether to offer his own topic of Skeeter Davis or to continue with Kapitano's Pump up the volume. Unlike Alex Salmond, I have the moral authority to do what the hell I like, so am combining the two:

In
tune;
Future...
...and the past:
MARRS and Skeeter sang,
"It ended when you said goodbye."

Next topic:

Little Christmas.