hwæt

I'm staring into the indeterminate distance at a café, trying to impose order on a seething welter of information held in caffeine-stimulated memory, tenting my fingers (as if for greater stability) on the eggshell-colored printouts covering the marble of the table when the bubble is burst:

"Anglo-Saxon"

says a knowing voice. I look up, confused, to see two men passing on their way to the door. They do not exactly look at me and they do not exactly smile at me. Then they are gone. The students at the next table, who had fallen silent suddenly, giggle. I shrug at them and try to return to my thoughts.

But now all the thorns and eths are mixed together. I'll be another hour putting this right.