Although the editor has received many suggestions we shall nevertheless be writing our letter again this year. And if you think the thread is sometimes tangled you should see the bits that aren't here. Our notes during the year recording things for the end-of-year letter occasionally turn up again (more usually get mislaid) and when found they say things like "It's training the woodworms that's difficult -- all those straight holes -- and must need fat worms for the big holes". If even we have no idea what we meant we usually leave them out. Making wooden flutes? Swiss cheese?

We had originally intended to send this letter out as a set of text messages to all our friends with mobiles, or as we say now snd txt 2 all R fnds w mbls. (Shaw spent years trying to get English spelling reformed so that it was phonetic, and voila, it's been reformed overnite, though not quite what he intended.) That surely must be everyone we know by now -- any trend-laggards would just have to whistle -- but then we realised that deleting all those messages would cause an unacceptable increment in global warming. Besides, when we recently saw 10 one-act plays in one evening, at least 7 used a mobile as a prop, and it went swiftly from Clever New Idea to Boring Old Cliché without stopping at Acceptable Lifestyle on the way. So we're instead still doing it in what was the clever new idea ten years ago -- a word processor.

(BTW the word-processor-processor isn't getting much input from Jo at the moment. That's because she discovered Vikram Seth this year and hasn't time to stop. 'An Equal Music' -- highly recommended. Now on 'A Suitable Boy', which is measured in pounds, not pages, and determined to finish it this year -- currently on page 1271 and going strong.)

As ever the year has whizzed past. Don't you wish Christmas didn't come so fast? Maybe this year's faster because it doesn't have to drag a whole millennium behind it. Whatever -- this was yet another year of good intentions and broken promises to meet all our out-of-town friends more often, or even at all. How are we going to solve this problem? How about you folk just telling us to present ourselves at yours?

One of our cats died (the portlier one, Jones); the other showed no visible grief, just moved into all the best spots. T went to the US again -- they still have him as a marked man, even though he's changed his passport: "Have you ever been refused entry to the US?" asked the immigration officer, staring at the passport and the screen, and evidently he'll always need a visa now, just because he did what he was told on another occasion. Still, he got in, and proudly came out with a prize for softball. The prize was for "Most Confused Person on the Field", and we can assure you it was well earned. At last he has found some musicians in Corvallis, the little town where he has been occasionally working, and he came home with a lovely new tune called Korolenko -- do any of our readers ("You mean they read this?") have any idea why it might be called that? We don't.

We went to Palermo -- now there's a place. The hotel was so tiny that we had to have breakfast in our room, they didn't have a dining room -- instead the waiter went to the café and brought us those tiny cups of jolt-you-awake black fire and huge sticky pastries. Then we had to start the first road-crossing of the day. Palermo is where all good lion tamers start learning: the scooters drive straight at you until you lock eyes with them and they see that you're serious about walking in front, and then they reluctantly slow until you can just sail past their bows without actually getting scuttled on the way -- usually. Unfortunately Sicilians don't speak Spanish so we had a few problems in, for example, finding out why the villa housing the folk museum was a Chinese-style palace, let alone why most of the rooms were closed. ("For the millennium" was probably the answer; all over the world museums, palaces and even streets have been closed for the last two years and no doubt for the next two as well so that they can get ready.)

Thomas has been trying to slip gracefully into his dotage, to spend his time worrying about whether the daisies are going to flower this year. But alas, he got tempted into taking up the fiddle, and now dotage is impossible -- who'd dote on a beginner fiddler? Yes, that's IN ADDITION TO his viol, still moaning whenever he approaches it. The fiddle actually shrieks when he approaches, and the cat just suddenly isn't there.

They had said to him "Go on, learn the fiddle, you've been avoiding it all these years". They also said "It'll change your life," but this time they were telling Jo and Smith. We shall not Name The Guilty Men, lest reprisals take place with euphoniums. Still, it does keep Thos off the concertina, so it can't be all bad. He went to his first evening class, and prospective pupils gathered in wait, vying with each other to say how little they knew about the fiddle and how hopeless they were going to be. One woman who had actually had a few lessons ten years ago was desperately embarrassed and did her best to play that down. We all believed her - until Teacher made her play a scale. She was so well in tune that she blushed. Isn't that weird, that we were all trying not to do well at the very thing we'd come to learn how to do? The class is currently Ôplaying' a tune called The Dawning of the Day. The night before must have been quite something if that's what the dawn sounds like. Teach smiles bravely through it all. Whatever she's paid, it isn't enough.

Unexpected Meeting of the year: Rouge Dragon Pursuivant. T decided he really had to visit St Paul's (if only as an antidote after visiting the US Embassy yet again in pursuit of a visa -- see above). Full of Handel and gawpers. He gawped too, it's quite showy. Not so far away among the little streets was the College of Arms and the sign said one could wander in and look. Turned out only one room open, so to pass the time he asked the attendant some silly question (what happened to the College during the Commonwealth) and she whipped out RGP in a brace of shakes. A most charming and well-brought up gentleman, who at least appeared quite interested in the question and had the answers immediately to hand. Checking out their web site revealed that the Crown, bless it, pays the four heralds pursuivants (have I said that right?) a yearly salary of £13.95. Top of the scale, King of Arms (women need not apply, I suspect) is £49.07. Salaries last changed in the 1830's, it seems. Whatever pre-decimal figure was £49.07 converted from? And what does Rouge Dragon Pursuivant pursue -- a better paid job? And about pursuing that visa -- can T get paid as Vert Moose Pursuivant?

Down by the water the Millennium bridge was still closed, although a workman said helpfully it had been opened as a test two days previously -- presumably it failed.

And speaking of millennia, Boring Trip of the year was .... the Dome, ranging from trite (BT -- their message: talking is important to us) to utter bilge (the future of learning as seen by someone at Tesco). So much for going with an open mind -- the press had been right all along. Even the few potentially interesting bits were let down by the way material was displayed: for example, in the Talk section, they had tapes playing of two babies from different cultures, the same babies tracked over the first two years of development, to show how their pre-speech sound was identical at the start and had grown distinctly different within that time. But the sounds were proximity-controlled, they were on a busy and narrow route, it was hard to work out what was happening and even you had done so, to hear the exhibit properly you had to stand in front of each spot in turn, getting in everyone's way.

Best Dome thing was a group of young people doing a presentation about their town. Punchy and dramatic acting with good music by the young people's band. It was even interesting.

Slowest Holiday of the year: a week on a narrowboat. Thos had to travel steerage much of the time because Jo announced that steering was either going right or going wrong, and when it went right it was boring and when it went wrong it was stressful. Our friends (You Know Who You Are) came in two bundles. The first bundle rose at 5.30 a.m. By the third day we'd just about got used to that; then they went their way and the second bundle arrived, and rising was put back to 1 p.m. Had we known in advance we could easily have had both bundles together playing Box and Cox. Anyway, great fun, and the scenery goes past so slowly you have plenty of time to photograph it. Rumours that playing the flute on board brings out packs of water-rats swimming after the boat are quite without foundation. Flocks of ducks, on the other hand, were willing to follow us for ages at a time. Our first willing audience?

Busiest Time of the year was Jo's Industrial Remnants Tour, during which she played to cheering audiences -- whoops, wrong medium, she spoke to gravely affirmatory audiences in Glasgow, Manchester and Birmingham giving 6 papers in three weeks. Ooof.

As for Les Boys, all goes well, we believe. Owen has a job -- remember when rising young men were 'something in the city'? (Nor do we, actually.) Well, he's something in computing, and it gets arcaner by the month but it seems to pay. And Martin has toured all over everywhere, practically become salaried in his old age, unthinkable for a trad musician. Mind, he gets arcaner by the month, too -- after hearing him play one piece T asked what time it was in, and found that most of the time one hand was playing in 3 while the other was in 4 but after a while it switched to 5. And I was trying to tap my feet -- no wonder I had to have professional assistance in getting my legs uncrossed.

Anyway, they say it'll be a good year for daisies so do come and view the lawn this year.

TIE -- SYS -- TTFN -- (explanations of the current argot available on request )

--- Thomas and Jo