Iron Lunch
(That's a typo that happened when I was looking up Iron Lung and frankly, now I'm thinking that could be like a slang term for a really fucking challenging lunch, like the leftovers that you don't want to go to waste but at the same time you just categorically can't be bothered with them because, for example, you might be pathologically sick to the back teeth of pasta salad and could quite happily get through the rest of your life never having a painfully boring pasta salad ever again, maybe. That's an Iron Lunch.) Also Farkas. And Beansy. Colluding over a couple o' cones. Here we also have Alan, in the lobster pose, with a bit of fluff stuck under his claw (but if you try to get said fluff out from under his claw, he will try to take your face off. He's very clear about his boundaries and I respect that.) Now onto the point of this post, which is to catch up with a disorganised assortment of encounters, with varying degrees of recentness. They're all ...