Slitherin

Among the many questions that swirl around the ever-fevered Gee brain is this: how fast can snails go? They seem to go fairly fast when I chase them away from our leafy veg. But how fast is fast?

This pressing question was the subject of this effusion just out in the Journal of Zoology from M. Q. R. Pembury Smith and G. D. Ruxton of the University of St Andrews. Presumably stuck for other things to do during lockdown, they measured the speed of  common garden snails (Cornu aspersum) testing them over a variety of substrates.

It’s perhaps no surprise to learn that snails don’t go very fast over sandpaper, and the coarser the sandpaper, the slower they go. Snails go fastest though over PVC over which other snails have previously slithered.

This brought to mind a conversation I had getting on for forty years ago with a school friend, one J. M. of Sussex. We were discussing the speed of snails, as you do, and he suggested that an appropriate measure of velocity for snails would be Furlongs per Fortnight.

From the paper, it seems that a snail traveling at top speed goes at around eight centimetres in any period of 30 seconds, or about 16 centimetres per minute. Amazingly enough, this is approximately 16 furlongs per fortnight, so my school friend was right on the money.

It would be interesting to compare speeds of various things in terms of furlongs per fortnight. My slow amble round the block with the dogs has a cracking pace of just over 8,000 furlongs per fortnight. The speed limit for a car on Britain’s motorways is 188,160 furlongs per fortnight. The speed of light in a vacuum is 1,802,617,498,752 furlongs per fortnight. Put another way, the speed of light in a vacuum is 112,663,593,672 as fast as the fastest snail measured by Pembury Smith and Ruxton.

This research raises more questions than it answers. Is 16 furlongs per fortnight really the top speed for a snail? Might they go any faster, perhaps with go-faster stripes? To be fair, Pembury Smith and Ruxton weren’t using thoroughbred racing snails, and were investigating what slows snails down, rather than what speeds them up. So there’s clearly room for further investigation.

At the risk of incurring wrath from any anti-doping agencies that rule on snail racing, perhaps a tiny amount of caffeine might help? After all, caffeine is known to make snails’ hearts race, which is why coffee grounds are toxic to them. A sublethal amount might stimulate snails and make them go faster. Pursuing further the principle that whatever doesn’t kill you makes you stronger, slug pellets might also improve snail speed. Snails certainly get a shift on when they see me outside late at night standing guard over the allotment, with a bowl of slug pellets and a pea shooter.

Within — of course — the boundaries of acceptable research on live animals, I urge the researchers to pursue this interesting line of inquiry.

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Cold

A pandemic is sweeping the nation. No, not that one – this one is avian flu. People with poultry are advised to keep their stock under cover. Chez Gee we have a number of semi-retired and fancy hens (that is, they haven’t laid any eggs for ages) but despite their largely ornamental purpose we have to follow DEFRA instructions.

The hens are kept in an area beneath the skeleton of a small polytunnel, the plastic cover of which has long since rotted away. Last time there was a bird flu scare we covered the whole thing with a tarp. This time I ordered some plastic sheeting so at least the birds could have some light.

Then we had some very high winds that detached the plastic sheet. I repaired the damage — but the next day the high wind tore the plastic sheet to shreds. I went out in the teeth of the worst weather I can remember in 14 years of living in Cromer and covered the hen run with a tarp. Not realizing that this wasn’t the same tarp as I’d used previously (are you keeping up here?) it didn’t seem to fit, and it too me three tries to achieve decent coverage, with the help of heavy-duty clips, cable ties, and as much bailer twine as I could scavenge.

Later on that day I discovered the tarp I’d used previously and covered the entire caboodle with that. Trying to do this in a high wind was rather exciting, as the tarp flapped angrily all over the place until I could secure it. The result looks rather like an air-raid shelter/refugee camp, but at least the hens are covered, and out of the wind.

A hen run/ air raid shelter/ refugee camp. Earlier today. Authentic snow.

During the course of this exercise I became severely chilled, despite wearing a balaclava, hood, four layers of clothing, two layers of gloves and stout boots. After half an hour or so I could no longer feel my fingers, which was problematic, as I was trying to tie knots and attach cable ties.

When I went inside I immediately suffered the symptoms of shock – panic, nausea and feeling like I was going to die. Going outside before breakfast was probably not a good idea. Mrs Gee (who is diabetic) let me into her stash of Emergency Jelly Babies and after snarfling about a dozen I felt a bit better. It took the rest of the day for my fingers to recover full sensation.

It was all down to the wind chill — for the air temperature wasn’t really that low — just a degree or two below freezing, in proper grown-up Centigrade (not that namby-pamby Fahrenheit nonsense).

Once I recovered and in the warm I recalled a book I’d read just a few days earlier — Erebus, by Pythonesque Explorer, TV Personality and All-Round Nice Chap Michael Palin. This tells the story of a warship which, decommissioned after the Napoleonic Wars, found new fame as a polar exploration vessel — first in the Antarctic under James Clark Ross, and then in the Arctic as part of Sir John Franklin‘s ill-fated expedition to find the North-West Passage.

Back in the day, ships that sailed in polar waters were regularly stuck in ice and had to stay there for the winter, in conditions which make my privations look like a summer barbecue on the patio. At one point, Palin tries to conjure what it must have been like to be on the tilting deck of a ship in a blizzard; or knee-deep in drifting snow; with temperatures well below zero; a wind-chill making it even colder; and trying to handle flapping sailcloth or tie knots in ropes that were frozen solid.

Hardly bears thinking about.

 

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Scrabbungulate

I’m not sure whether either of you know that I am rather fond of Scrabble. I can be found haunting the Internet Scrabble Club under the name of zedwave, (playing Scrabble online with people you know only as nicknames is, I suppose, an intellectual and therefore risk-free version of cottaging) or idly passing the time with some Scrabble app or another on my phone. A love of this game was incarcerated inculcated instilled in me by my parents, who were amused when the zoology-obsessed infant Gee played words such as ORYX. My parents now no longer dare play me, and I have in turn passed it on to the Offspring, especially Gee Minor, who regularly takes me to the cleaners.

During my time as a graduate in Cambridge I was a member of the University Scrabble club, and was thrilled when, during a Town-versus-Gown match, my opponent rashly challenged my play of the word ADDAX.

There are two ungulates in this picture.

Incidents such as this kindled the ambition, long ago, to write an article on all the exotic antelopes and other ungulates whose euphonious names can help one out of a tight lexical corner. Two feature in the picture you see here — the aforementioned ORYX and the ever-useful OX, which scores mightily if you can play the X on a triple-letter score in two words simultaneously, together, both at once, and at the same time.

So, yesterday, while playing online, I noted down all the Scrabble-friendly names of antelopes and other ungulates I could think of without looking them up. I discovered more than twenty without breaking a sweat, and here they are, in (as they say on all the game shows), in no particular order.

BOK, KOB, TOPI, NILGAI, ORYX, ADDAX, GAUR, ANOA, SAOLA, NYALA, OKAPI, PUDU, KUDU, GNU, ELAND, IMPALA, SAIGA, QUAGGA, ZEBU, DIBATAG, YAK, OX and the ever-useful ZO (can also be spelled DZO or DZHO).

I am sure you can think of loads more.

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Distrokering

You’ll both be aware by now that I’ve been usefully spending time learning how to record music at home, time I’d usually have devoted to live music. I’ve an album-length collection under my belt, and have even started playing music on other people’s records. One of these is now commercially available, and that got me thinking about making my own music more widely available.

Never one to let the grass grow under my gathering moss, I’ve now finished another album. It’s called These Are Difficult Times. Whereas Locked Down & Blue was a collection of more-or-less conventional blues, soul and rock songs, this new collection These Are Difficult Times is (in the main) an assemblage of longer, largely instrumental pieces in which I expose my inner Rick Wakeman. Yes, it’s all very Six Wives of King Arthur’s Knights of the Round Table and their Journey to the Centre of the Earth On Acid Ice. With banks of old-fashioned-sounding Moog synthesizers and Mellotrons and so progressive-rockily on, in like fashion. It’s appeal, I imagine, will be … er … selective.

Well, up to a point. The first track on These Are Difficult Times is actually a cover version —  of Birdland, a jazz-rock piece originally recorded by the band Weather Report on their 1977 album Heavy Weather. It’s much the most accessible piece on These Are Difficult Times. I have decided to release Birdland as a ‘single’ using Distrokid, a music streaming service. This will make it accessible in a variety of formats, and, wonder of wonders, incorporates a licensing agreement that allows one to record cover versions.

So, if you click on this link, Birdland  — as well as other bits of These Are Difficult Times — should be available on Spotify, and as well as and, notwithstanding inasmuch as wherefore, (deep breath) Apple Music, iTunes, Instagram/Facebook, TikTok/Resso, Google Play/YouTube, Amazon, Soundtrack by Twitch, Pandora, Deezer, Tidal, iHeartRadio, ClaroMusica, Saavn, Anghami, KKBox, NetEase (beta), Tencent (beta), Triller (beta), and MediaNet. So, not only have I become a session musician, I’m now a recording artiste. Fancy!

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Brian G. Gardiner (1934-2021)

Just a quick post to announce the death of Professor Brian G. Gardiner (1934-2021), communicated to me just now by his son Nick.

Brian was a specialist in the evolution of fishes. He was the last surviving member of the so-called ‘Gang of Four’ that shook up the staid world of biological taxonomy in the 1980s, with their espousal of Hennig’s then-revolutionary phylogenetic systematics, or cladistics.

The others were his close colleague Colin Patterson, his student Peter Forey, and their American colleague Donn Rosen, and loosely associated with others in the Natural History Museum such as Dick Jefferies.

I met Brian when, as an undergraduate, I spent the summer of 1983 in the Fossil Fish Section at the Natural History Museum, working under Forey and Patterson. I narrowly escaped doing a Ph.D. with Brian. Had I done so I might have succumbed to alcohol poisoning, such was the formidable line-up of empties that Gardiner, Forey and Patterson used to line up each lunchtime at the Cranley Arms in the Old Brompton Road (don’t look for it — it’s not there any more, but I evoked it, I hope, in my book Deep Time).

With his gentle manner and west-country burr, Brian was always very kind to me, and as happy talking about his mother’s recipe for lamprey pie as the minutiae of cladistics, or his avocation — trying to find the culprit of the Piltdown Man hoax.

I think it’s fair to say we shall not see his like again.

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Passeportout

Notwithstanding inasmuch as which nobody can go really go anywhere much, even if they wanted to, which I don’t, I found – quel horreur! –  that my passport was about to expire, imminently, if not sooner, and that failure to renew it would probably mean my sudden expiration in a puff of logic.

Straightway I hied forth fifth to this handy government passport renewal website (my, these things are much easier than they were back in the day, when one had to sharpen goose feathers, create one’s own envelopes and pay for the services of a small boy, fleet of foot, with a cleft stick wherein to bear one’s missive), filled in all the details (inside leg measurement, names of all my pets, and so on and so forth in like fashion), and paid the money (when was the last time anyone handled real, actual cash?*).

There were, however, two minor impedimenta. First, I had to mail the old (or just about current) passport to the Passport Authority. Mrs Gee has a ukase on visiting the local post-office-cum-general-store, as it’s rather cramped; social distancing is more of an aim than an achievement; and some Residents of Cromer seem yet to have heard about facemasks. So I found an envelope, a stamp I trusted to still be current, and trusted to the Gods. They smiled on me and the passport arrived at the Passport Authority mentioned earlier.

I also had to take a photograph of myself. That was when the trouble started.

Now, I usually go to one of those automatic photo booth machines. You know the ones. Whenever I sit in one it’s a battle to get myself in the right position without a small voice saying

Surely you jest, Fatso

or

We can’t get all of you in without using Cinemascope(TM), and if we had such a facility, you’d have big black lines top and bottom, which the Passport Authority won’t like

or some such. In any case, these being out of bounds, I had to resort to my own devices, specifically my iPhone, operated by Gee Minima, to take a photograph.

The first photo failed to pass muster, as it was on the wrong colour of background.

Yr. Obt. Servt. A few days ago. Background wrong colour.

The second photo failed too, as my face was too shadowed. I’d also shaved in the interim, though that wasn’t the reason given for the failure of this picture.

Yr. Obt. Srvt., Earlier Today. Face too shadowed.

So, Gee Minima and I are going to have another go, in natural daylight, whatever that is.

This exercise made me think about how unflattering passport photos are, and how much they make one (or me, anyway) look like someone that no self-respecting polity should allow within their borders. Some time ago, Gee Minor found a photo of this person

A person. Recently.

… pasted it on to a piece of paper with a picture of this other person

Another person. Also recently, though not necessarily of equivalent recency as the photo of the person preceding.

… with a diagram implying that I was somehow the product of some horrific miscegenation between these innocent souls, and pasted the whole assemblage to the door of my Home Orifice with the slogan

SCIENCE – HAS IT GONE TOO FAR?

Back in the day when I had hair, people who claimed to be my friends remarked on my resemblance to this person

A third person. Unrelated to any of the foregoing.

… which could explain why, when, back in the days when I traveled, I was on occasion called aside and questioned and my luggage inspected. That, and the fact that I have a swarthy, somewhat Middle-Eastern complexion, (‘ah!’ said an Indian colleague when we chatted about these matters, ‘you’ve discovered the “Brown Queue!”‘) such that when mugshots of suspected Middle-Eastern terrorists appear on the TV, it has been remarked that they look just like me. The person doing the remarking was … my mother.

Now, when your own mother thinks you look like a suspected Middle-Eastern terrorist, you know you’ve got problems.

* On handling cash. Some months ago I had occasion to drive into Norwich and use a pay-and-display car park — something I do almost never nowadays, what with one thing and another. The cash machine obstinately refused to accept the £1 coin I kept feeding in. It was some time before it dawned on me that since I last used such a facility the coin I was using had been replaced by a new design, and was no longer legal tender.

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Clichécollisional

Headline for this story, from the Daily Telegraph‘s landing page:

BORIS JOHNSON PLEDGES TO RAMP UP VACCINATION ROLL OUT

The italics are mine. Perhaps I am just unusually literal-minded, or oversensitive to cliché but this seems to mix metaphors such that they act in opposition to each other. If  ‘roll out’ means anything at all in this context, it is the ‘rolling-out’ of wheeled packing cases down the ramp of the extended tailgate of a pantechnicon. It is an image filled with purpose and expedition. To my mind, the term ‘ramp up’ means exactly the opposite — to push the wheeled cases back up the ramp whence they had just descended.

Therefore, the use of the phrase as above suggests that those who coined it have no sense of the meaning of the words they have used. Cliché implies words have been bleached of all meaning so effectively that they are just strings of letters without value. They are just babble, duckspeak.

And this is really why I dislike cliché so very, very much. Language is the only means whereby we can communicate with one another. The meanings of words may be mutable, but they are important. The use of language requires thought. One should be careful about the words one uses. Cliché results from thoughtlessness, carelessness, and lack of consideration for one’s audience.

To be sure, the use of cliché in newspaper headlines can have amusing results. My favourite is one from a report of the campaign in the Western Desert during the Second World War, during which Monty’s Eighth Army fought Rommel’s Afrika Korps:

EIGHTH ARMY PUSH BOTTLES UP GERMANS

The amusement results from just this collision — between the thoughtlessness of the use of the cliché’d term, and it’s actual meaning. If a term is used without reference to its meaning, it can mean anything — or nothing.

And that’s the … er … last straw.

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Bhooq

As I am sure you both know, I have been hard at work on a book. Refractory ‘t’s have yet to be crossed and the final recalcitrant ‘i’s dotted, but time waits for no-one, and as the remorseless schedules of publication get up on their winged chariot, unsparing of the horses, which of course are metaphorical horses, as no actual horses were harmed during the making of this book, not even mythical ones, you know, with wings, I see that a draft cover has appeared. You can find it should you direct your eyes leftwards. This is the draft cover for the US edition, and subject to change. I have also seen the cover for the UK edition, and it looks great, but that’s a work-in-progress and too young to be let out of doors on its own.

What’s the book all about? The title and subtitle should give it away. It’s indeed a very short history of life on Earth, in which I condense 4.6 billion years into twelve pithy chapters. Just like it says on the cover. But I’ve written it as a tale, full of adventure, of hair-breadth ‘scapes i’ the imminent deadly breach, and so on and so forth third forth, in which, no matter what disasters the Earth and environment could contrive, Life always picked itself up and evolved to greater … er … greatness.

I think it’s very nice.

But don’t just take my word for it. Here’s what some of my colleagues in the great world of academia have said, having seen the draft:

This is now the best book available about the huge changes in our planet and its living creatures, over the billions of years of the Earth’s existence. Continents have merged and broken up; massive volcanic eruptions have repeatedly reset the clock of evolution; temperatures, atmospheric gases, and sea levels have undergone big swings; and new ways of life have evolved. Henry Gee makes this kaleidoscopically changing canvas of life understandable and exciting. Who will enjoy reading this book? Everybody!
–Jared Diamond, Pulitzer Prize winning author of Guns, Germs, and Steel and Upheaval

Don’t miss this delightful, concise, sweeping masterpiece! Gee brilliantly condenses the entire, improbable, astonishing history of life on earth–all 5 billion years–into a charming, zippy and scientifically accurate yarn. I honestly couldn’t put this book down, and you won’t either.
–Daniel E. Lieberman, Edwin M. Lerner II professor of Biological Sciences, Harvard University and author of Exercised

A scintillating, fast-paced waltz through four billion years of evolution, from one of our leading science writers. As a senior editor at Nature, Henry Gee has had a front-row seat to the most important fossil discoveries of the last quarter century. His poetic prose animates the history of life, from the first bacteria to trilobites to dinosaurs to us.
–Steve Brusatte, paleontologist, University of Edinburgh and New York Times bestselling author of The Rise and Fall of the Dinosaurs

After such praise you’ll no doubt wish to inquire about access to the contents, even if the cover were to show a picture of two elephants sitting on a cake*.

I learn that it’s possible to pre-order it. You may do this in the Amazon in the UK, though I’m not sure if you can do so in the US, although other outlets are available, and of course you can get it via the publisher, St Martin’s Press (in the US/Canada) and the publisher in the UK is Picador.

Readers who prefer books in languages other than English might be consoled that translations are projected in (so far) Chinese (simplified), Dutch, German, Italian, Korean, Polish, Portuguese, Romanian and Russian, but word gets around, and there’s even a review on Goodreads (in Slovak, I think).

But when — I hear you cry — oh, when, will this tome be published? Well, the date that keeps coming up is 2 November 2021. It’s never too early to start your Christmas shopping.

*Q: What’s the difference between a riddle, and two elephants sitting on a cake?
A: A riddle is a conundrum. The elephants have a bunundrum.

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Studious

As you’ll both know by now, playing live music means a lot to me. I’ve been playing live since student days — before — and at times music has been the only thing that’s kept me going. Many of my closest, fastest and longest-lasting friends I’ve met through music. Whenever I’m not in some kind of combo, Mrs Gee complains that I am wandering round like a lost dog. ‘Go and join a band, or something,’ she says.

So I do.

My most recent combo, the D. C. Wilson Band, has been enormous fun, and also enormously busy. We’ve been a fixture on the pubs-and-clubs circuit in Norfolk for years, and the day when the band doesn’t feature at the Dereham Blues Festival will be like the one when ravens no longer live at the Tower of London. You’ll soon be able to hear what fun it was, as we’re just about to release a live album (hey, I guess you had to be there).

The pandemic put paid to that, of course. My last date with the band was in March, 2020. After that the scale of the pandemic started to become clear. I decided to pull out of the band until a vaccine became available. The band played a few gigs with a replacement organist; the singer did a few solo dates; until engagements petered out altogether.

After a few months spent doing what I now think was grieving, I started to pull things together, at home, arranging and writing songs with the band’s lead singer, as well as writing my own songs, and recording some traditional tunes. After that I started to get the Obscure Prog Rock out of my system. By then, I’d established a way of doing things, and at the weekends, rather than playing gigs, my home office becomes my studio: Flabbey Road.

Flabbey Road. Earlier today.

After a while I was asked to record for other people. I recorded some accordion for a song that a folk-musician friend was writing. I’d met the musician at an acoustic blues jam session and we’d hit it off – but all the recording was done remotely through the magic of the internet.

And, just the other day, I was asked to do a session for a record that people might actually download. The band is the Voodoo Sheiks, a busy blues-rock outfit that’s put out three albums in the past ten years. The drummer and sometime guitarist is a good friend — we’d been in a band together twenty years ago or more (remember what I said about my fastest friends being musicians?) — and he wanted me to add some Hammond organ to their next single.

Flabbey Road sprang into action. The Voodoo Sheiks emailed me a rough demo. I recorded some keyboards to go alongside it, and, this being the New Normal, I emailed it to the band. They piped it into their track and mixed it together. No actual personal contact was involved. The song is called Norm and it’s available to download here. It’s already had a rather nice review (though you’ll need to scroll down a bit).

So I am now a session musician. Fancy!

TECHNICAL DETAILS (only for those who like that sort of thing). I downloaded the Voodoo Sheiks’ demo and ported it into GarageBand as a stereo track. I recorded the organ track alongside it. I used various styles, rhythms and settings, secure in the knowledge that the Voodoo Sheiks would cut and paste, chop and change, copy and edit it to suit what they wanted. Then I exported the track and sent it to the band. Simples!

The organ was recorded using my Crumar Mojo 61 keyboard, which does state-of-the-art Hammond organ simulations. All sounds in Flabbey Road are mixed using a Behringer Xenyx 802 mixer before being fed into GarageBand, and monitoring is through a Behringer Xenyx 302 mixer.

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Microeuoi

Somewhere in Neal Stephenson‘s sprawling Baroque Cycle, two men are urinating against a wall — and remark on the simple joy of such an action. Both had undergone lithotomy, an operation to remove painful calculi, in their case, bladder stones. One of the men was a fictionalised version of the diarist Samuel Pepys, who had had a bladder stone the size of a tennis ball removed in 1658. In those days, the procedure was was done without anaesthetic. Despite the trauma of the operation, involving an incision into the sensitive perineum between genitalia and anus, relief from the pain of bladder stones was often thought worth the very real risk of complications such as sepsis, even death. As was, one presumes, the ability to indulge in a simple bodily process most people would take for granted. In addition, and notwithstanding inasmuch as which:

A Fact Universally Acknowledged

‘Poo-phoria’ is probably a function of the vagus nerve, which runs from the base of the brain to the deep hinterland of the gut, a wandering course that might reveal much about the evolution of both brain and gut, a subject that is too deep and wonderful to discuss here.

But I digress.

My point is the often overcooked overlooked joy of small and unregarded things — things that we very often take for granted. The recent and ongoing pandemic has, for me, sharpened this feeling. Deprived of stimuli offered by such things as company, travel, going to the cinema or dining at a restaurant, one is thrown back on simpler pleasures, which are sharpened as a result. I now regard (for example) clean laundry with more than the usual appreciation. With fewer sweet things or takeaways in my diet, the joy of a sugar, fat or salt hit can be exquisite.

Here’s an example. Mrs Gee is diabetic, and often has a packet of jelly babies secreted about her person in case of a sudden glucose plunge.

Some Jelly Babies. A few appear to have escaped.

Well, the other day, I came across an escaped jelly baby, and, reader, I ate it. The tastes and textures were wide-screen, symphonic, playing melodies of sweetness on my taste buds I hadn’t experienced for ages, possibly never.

Here’s another. After traveling into Norwich so Mrs Gee could get a COVID test, we found ourselves traveling homewards at about lunchtime. Mrs Gee’s diabetes means that she can’t skip or postpone mealtimes, so we paused on our homeward journey to Worship at the Golden Arches. Now, usually, Golden Arches fries have the taste and texture of old breakfast-cereal packets. Not on this occasion. Piping hot, perfectly crispy on the outside, fluffy on the inside, delightfully seasoned, they were fries from Heaven, ordained by a Higher Power as the Archetype of All Fries.

But the greatest joy chez Gee was at Christmas, when the our gift was having both Offspring — Gee Minor and Gee Minima — at home with us, simultaneously, both together and at the same time. The episode was brief but intense. Gee Minor is a fourth-year medical student, so soon had to return to the wards and learn how to make sick people better. But what with university terms for most subjects requiring students to work remotely, Gee Minima (final-year history undergraduate) is still at home. Which is great, as we get to watch The Mandalorian together. It Is The Way.

I Have Spoken.

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