A word is a currency. There's a run on Will's accounts. Now we may revalue his intellectual wealth. He's a pauper. He thought he was a philanthropist. Unwrap his gift, the box is empty.

Carry on Mr. Self. You write in ice. Your words are frozen. Sparkless. Lifeless. Time will melt you to nothing. You are pianola, never composer. What you find difficult, others intuit.

Now I can only teach you as much as you can learn. Lesson the first:- collecting words won't make you richer, if you don't know how to spend them. Just more staccato. Why don't you buy a new laptop? See if that helps. Get the same one Nabokov used.

And while you're at it, get a new voice. You dreared out of the world service last night and annoyed me greatly. Download Hawking's, it's more tuneful.

As for smacking children's heads onto concrete, we'll put that down to your being 'dangerous'. Like a thespian's rehearsals.