I carried with me a vague awareness of the political state of the world. I had actual views on things. I made mid-conversation gags that mostly paid off. And yet, four months into babyland and I have reached brain rot.

Frank Fisher’s butcher’s shop had been in business, he liked to tell people, for more than 300 years. A while back, a signpainter was commissioned to advertise this fact on an outside wall, in case any strangers should pass through the market town of Dronfield in Derbyshire and feel compelled to stop and inspect a time capsule.

Well, although we haven't discussed the views of all those who make precise reckonings of being and not [being], we've done enough on that score.

This spelling (mic) seems to be a holdover from port labels on old stereos and tape players. Yet people had long since decided that the pronunciation spelling mike, which dates from the 1920s, was more sensible and convenient.