A rather abbreviated letter column this time, because I was so tardy sending out issue #5. To illustrate the column, we were thrilled to receive a portrait of Dr Plokta from Terry Jeeves.

Julian Headlong

...Yes!...Yes!...there is a Mt. Headlong...also a Pt. Headlong, a Ft. Headlong, a Gt. Headlong, and quite possibly a St. Headlong...or at least a St. Julian...

...Yours superfluomontecognomenically Julian Headlong (AFBIST)... P.S. Plokta doesn't mean "press lots...etc"...it means "please look out, known thieves about"...all part of the Met's 1997 "Operation Fruitbat" scheme to cut down on Blatant Acronym Theft. [Presumably that's an acronym for Friendly Rozzers Unite In Tackling Blatant Acronym Theft-Ed.]

I was most distressed to find that the photograph of my tasteful naked man belt buckle didn't make it into this issue. Did the lens crack, or the film spontaneously combust? [Neither. My hand shook so much from the experience that I don't have a clear picture-Alison]

On the subject of photographs, I note the strange picture of Simo appeared last issue.

[Could you, perchance, mean this photo?]

I read somewhere that confession is good for the sole and my feet are hurting, so -- I CONFESS: the sinister hand in that photo -- (dramatic chord) -- is mine. Having gathered at the behest of the photographer we were dismissed as being "too normal" and, hence, unbelievable to the general public. As none of us could produce the requested "mouse ears, or something", the man was on the point of leaving. There were clearly no Science Fiction Fans present.

Simo then leapt into the fray and, indeed, the frame, dragging some other idiot with him, and was exhorted (I tell no lie) to "love the camera". I'm surprised my hand is in focus, as I cracked up at that point.

In my defence, I would remind the court that I am of unsound mind and the intense comic irony of the situation demanded I take part.

Perhaps Captain Pedantic can help me out with a puzzling question. The apostrophe is used to denote possession (as in The Sixties' Greatest Hits), to indicate missing characters (as in "'60", short for "1960"), and (sometimes) to form the plural of numbers (as in "Anyone who remembers the 60's wasn't really there"). But when you use all three of these together, as in the phrase The '60''s Greatest Hits, how many apostrophes should be used? [Captain Pedantic suggests "The '60s' Greatest Hits". The use of the apostrophe to form the plural of numbers is erroneous, and as 60s is a plural, the apostrophe comes after the 's'. Unless you are a greengrocer.]

And then there's The Wasp Factory, which reminded me of a little incident from a few years back that I've been meaning to write up for Bento:

It started when I was taking down storm windows one sunny June day (at least I did get around to taking them down -- this year it's January already and I still haven't put them up), when I found a wasp nest molded to the wall next to my office window. I was greatly upset. It looked a lot like something out of Aliens, and was full of buzzing evil nasty vicious wasps. And it was stuck to my house! What's more, it looked much too small to account for the number of wasps going in and out, so I was afraid it was only the outer and visible sign of an inner and insidious phenomenon. I was seriously weirded out by the whole thing, and I'm rather surprised I didn't have nightmares about it that night (Kate told me to think of white elephants, made of various different materials, which helped me get to sleep.)

The next day, after talking with some folks at work, I bought a can of Raid Wasp & Hornet Killer. I selected it over the Black Flag because it said "Sprays up to 20 feet!" while the Black Flag sprayed only 15 feet. That night, after the sun had gone down, I donned gloves, a leather jacket, and a face mask and hosed the thing down.

Kate was out of the house, so I was all alone in the empty house after I came inside and washed up. Suddenly I heard a tapping, tapping at my chamber door -- well actually at my office and parlor windows. It sounded like slow hail. It was wasps, flinging their hard little bodies at the glass. Some of them crawled about on the glass surface, flapping their wings like crazy as though they hoped to press through the glass through force of will. Evil little biological mechanisms, striped in yellow and black like any human-made dangerous thing. I don't know if they were disoriented by the poison, or attracted to the light inside the house, or whether they knew I had killed them and they wanted revenge, but tap-tap-tap, they continued trying to get in. And then, while I was carefully examining the window to be sure it was shut tight, I heard something even scarier. A humming. A droning. A buzzing. And it was coming from the wall. They were in the wall! If they moved away from the opening, where the poison was, and up into the wall they might make it into the crawl space, and from there they would have the run of the house. AAAIEE!

No, no. Wasps aren't that smart. The poison will kill them. They have to go in and out -- they will all touch the poison, and they will all die. I hope. Maybe I just heard the humming through the wall, and they were only on the outside of it. Yeah, that's it.

The next day I looked and saw no wasps flying in or out. I pressed my ear to the wall and heard no sound. Apparently they were all dead. I went out and gave it another squirt just to make sure. It's true what they say -- "A house is a box that contains all your worldly possessions, which sits outside all day in the sun and the rain, surrounded by things that want to eat it."

Dear Pod, Now don't get me wrong, this isn't a panicky "last ish or else" loc, before I disappear over the event horizon of the cabal's mailing list. No siree!

I've simply been biding my time while you, the brain behind the whole affair, complete your sojourn in-utero and put in a personal appearance.

I trust that now the cabal has some real leadership, you ensure that Plokta not only continues in its hugely enjoyable form, but emerges from the wastes of Walthamstow on an even more regular basis. After all, it's not as if your mom and dad are going to enjoy going out, or sleep or sex or any of the other things that fans rely on to make their existence bearable, is it? Away with all those fannish-time-wasting activities and on with the zine!

At last an explanation for Plokta -- although since I actually have a copy of Raymond's New Hackers Dictionary I'm annoyed at not having spotted it before this. After all, the clues were there: references to superfluous technology, a title designed to resemble letters from a keyboard...

The treatment Buck Coulson describes for removing dead flesh sounds painful, perhaps he'd like to try an alternative method. In some hospitals they have had considerable success in using maggots to clean dead matter from wounds. Apparently they are very good at selecting between dead and living flesh, and don't hurt at all. They just feel a bit wriggly.

I can't think of another fanzine which has made me more nostalgic for my youth or more regretful at having forgotten so much of it. I have vague memories of coping with the problems of sex during pregnancy, but no recollection at all of the details. My most vivid recollection of Madeleine's last pregnancy was of the husbands' visiting day, when no less than four candidates turned up, James White, Bob Shaw, George Charters and myself, all over six feet in height and obvious candidates for the role of father. I often wondered what the other mothers in the ward thought, and which one they fancied for the job.

Tim talks to God was nice, and his good opinion of Heinlein coincides with my own, based on similarly restricted correspondence. Heinlein wrote to me about forty years ago saying he would be in Dublin and would take the opportunity to visit us, but almost immediately sent word that his travel arrangements had broken down and he wouldn't be able to make the journey north after all. The occasion was marked by a notable piece of faan fiction by John Berry entitled The Night Heinlein Didn't Come.

Terry Jeeves' piece about delegation was a gem.

Murray Moore's letter about Slant and Hyphen tempts me to send him a specimen copy of Hyphen. What restrains me is the fear that he will find it almost illegible compared with modern fanzines like Plokta. Compared with yours, my reproduction is positively antediluvian. I wish I knew exactly how the difference arises, in the stencil itself or in its reproduction. [Dr Plokta replies: What's a stencil?]

I cannot let the position of staples in your otherwise fine zine go unchallenged. Both austerity and convenience point to the best position for the staple to be diagonal, at the top left hand corner.

Jean just bought a foot mouse. Yes, a two pedal foot mouse. A fore and aft motion on one pedal clicks, while movement in any direction with the other foot moves the mouse pointer. [Shh-don't tell Steve!]

At last, fandom has a superhero it can truly relate to... Captain Pedantic! (He's not a real Captain since he isn't in any of the Armed Forces... hee, hee, hee, let me push up my glasses with the tape on themà) The good Cap'n shouldn't be pushed to the side, for he can be a force of good in fandom, a force that points out the asinine behaviours of fans, and announces for the best, "Look at how this ass is behaving, and don't do this in the future!"

I got a call from Irish fan Tommy Ferguson, saying that Christina Lake would be coming up to Toronto from Boston, and Lilian Edwards would be coming up to Toronto from Chicago, and would we like to get together? A lovely time was had by all. Tommy promises to renew producing a fanzine as soon as the money supply stabilizes, but there are no promises as to the current status of his love life. After all, there's a whole new country to explore...

The idea of Euro gradings and rules for fanzines was brilliant. It's the sort of thing which could escalate as various fen send in their suggested rules -- "all fanzines shall be printed in a typeface showing due regard for the cultural heritage of their country of origin unless this conflicts with the officially sanctioned fonts. See 'Proceedings of EuroFandom Chap.45, Para 29.'" [You're quite right, of course, and we'll use Olde English from now on, though people may mistake us for Thog.] [October 1997: But not on the Web, we won't.]

Speaking of typefaces and fonts, thanks to your nice black type on white paper, I have no trouble reading the text, despite the small size and three column layout. I hate a gimmick favoured by many pro-mags wherein they use white (or even yellow) text printed on a dark green or blue illustrated background. Virtually illegible, yet they seem to think the mess is trendy. [Er, so you probably don't think much of the cover and wedding report then. Oops!]

All my very best wishes for the birth, Alison. Having given birth to a couple of daughters myself, I can assure you that it doesn't hurt at all -- though it may be rather different for the mother.

When I was born my mum was told that singing loudly helps you breathe better during labour, although whether this is true or it just gives you something else to think about neither of us is completely sure. She was too shy to sing She'll be Coming Round the Mountain at the top of her voice. She did however manage to win against my Dad at Chinese Chequers. [And Paul told us it didn't hurt-Ed.]