This is Sledge's neighbour, the Professor. I have sadly to report that Sledge Trovatore has gone completely mad. I'm doing what I can to help him but I fear the worst. The only reason I can post this is that, in his delirium, he kept repeating his blog password. He never was the sanest person in the world at the best of times. I suspect it all began when he started to fantasise about a young horsewoman we sometimes see passing by around about beer o'clock. He even made up a name for her.

The only thing that seems to calm him is if I put Mussorgsky's modest offerings on the stereo. It started with Pictures at an Exhibition. But the latest signs are not good. He keeps asking for Songs and Dances of Death. There was a rare moment of lucidity this morning when I read him the Times crossword. He managed to solve about half a dozen clues before lapsing back into incoherence.

He says he has two good poems left in him. And I think he would be a lot happier if he could just pick up his battered old Martin 7/28 and play something ... anything. I mean any kind of shit, like The House of the Rising Sun or The Boxer. And I'm supposed to be an expert on popular culture!

What do I know? Will report on his condition in due course. Meanwhile, as he himself would say: OIF. And no doubt it will be his signature that will appear below this post.

Crispin Orwell