The Lost Blogs' Home.

Stay home and read this blog.

This is great reading and I don't even play. I love the ratings, the lost ball count and particularly the cumulative food and drink cost.

... from the weekend supplement.

Read this blog instead.

So, they're travelling through Australia, right; when a woman who - on a working trip in Britain several years earlier had nursed their daughter's eczema - recognised them, and approached them, saying, aren't you so-an-so from Oxfordshire? It's, as the writer says, a small world.

Read on. Just click on a country and away you go.

Is this the oldest guy to have his own blog?

He died in 1899.

(The Ranger notes: no disrespect is intended to Mr Moody or his descendants and adherents. Mr Moody was clearly an admirable individual and blogging his life is a great way to make history accessible.)

I didn't say that. This blogger did.

Well, we'll see, I guess.

Well, it's one way to sell houses.

Shame it doesn't say to which country you have to travel.

Visit the monkey cage and read some of Monkey's wacky anecdotes and thoughts.

He is in turn whimsical, fascinating, astounding - and sometimes slightly tasteless! But he is very entertaining.

You will notice that Monkey replies to everyone who comments on his posts. Try it and see.

I fear that Monkey will one day run out of anecdotes.

Complete with a wedding countdown, venue details and photos of the happy couple.

But you've gotta love the wedding registry, neatly organised into gift types.

Whatever would Miss Manners think?

Japo checks out some blogs and posts various musings and images.

Actually, Japo is neither Japanese nor in Paris.

It's either a place where you play golf or a list of web pages.

While The Ranger must be completely impartial when reviewing weblogs, he has provided links in the sidebar to blogs which very kindly link to The Lost Blogs' Home on their pages.

Should your link have been omitted, please email The Ranger or comment below.

PS: Speaking of links, whenever The Ranger hears the words 'The Links' he cannot help but remember one of the most spine-chilling tales he has had the good fortune to read, many years ago - The Pavilion on the Links, by Robert Louis Stevenson.

Yesterday's Lost Blogs' Home blogger was six, and today's wishes to be six again.

I remember when I turned six. I got a small plastic train with join-on carriages and had a party with some friends. Cakes and fairy bread, pin the tail on the donkey, drop the hanky.

Yes. I think we all wish we were six again.

Well, that was an obvious link, wasn't it?

Canisha, aged six, posts her very first poem with the promise of more to come. A nice first effort comprising a quatrain and a quintet with an interesting twist at the end.

Look out Frost, Eliot and Dickinson.

Wine Dude enjoys food, wine and life.

Visiting Nona's Courtyard Cafe somewhere in Southern California, Wine Dude ate the stuffed chicken breast with black beans and a coconut curry sauce. He began with a Qupe Marsanne which was blended with Viognier: 'Absolutely delicious with apricot, plum and deep fruit flavors that really were juicy and satisfying. Followed up dinner with Babcock's 02 Pinot Noir.'

Lots of wine and food links to check out.

Nite Hawk likes words.

Like trinket.

I started reading Nite Hawk's post (April 12, no permalink) on this word and realised I have one of those as well!

A cedar box ... except that mine is an old clock just like this. I have stored stuff inside this old clock since ... well, since I had the clock, which was when I was about 12 or 13. It came from my grandmother's house after she died. My older brother got his hands on it and ... painted it iridescent yellow! It was the sixties, OK? Everything was painted iridescent yellow. Then he gave it to me. Thanks, bro.

Anyhow, in my iridescent yellow clock there is a feather from a pigeon, George, I once had as a part-time pet (i.e. he was 'free range' but came to my house for food. I would lie on the ground and George would stand on my stomach and peck wheat grains from my chest. Cool.) There are tickets from some film festival or other full of punched holes corresponding to the respective attended sessions. (I practically lived in the cinema for two weeks, yet I am now largely sceptical about 'art-house' cinema.) There is a locker key from my last year at high school (what! throw that out - are you mad?) There is a timetable from Year 10, my favourite, at high school, completed in blue ink from a Sheaffer pen. There is a small diary of my trip to Perth in a '67 Valiant towing a Franklin caravan with my uncle, aunt and cousin when I was fifteen. There is my daughter's plastic wristband nametag from when she was born. And an envelope containing her first cut lock of hair. And a 'thumbnail' photo of my son, aged 5, in his first year at school (they send home a 'thumbnail' photo so you can order larger copies, but how can you throw out the 'thumbnail'? That's right. You can't. Into the old clock.)

So. Check out Nite Hawk's Wonderwords.

This is one of the few sites that works well in white out of black, because there is a night sky background, and the sombre words look like so many cold, glittering stars in the lonely middle of a clear moonless night.

Anonymous works 24/7, and when he doesn't, he thinks he should be.

The Firm is cracking down on paper clips and you need a code for photocopying. Anonymous quotes the code. Figure out his law firm, break in at night and get free photocopying. Except you won't, Anonymous and his colleagues would probably be there, working.

(By the way, they make more money pro rata from the manual labour task of photocopying than from lawyering. How does that work?)

This is good. Lawyers can write. When they have time.

But: paragraphs please, Mr Anonymous.

Oh, and go home occasionally. You have kids and a wife. You really should meet them some time.

This is the web diary of a new puppy.

I'm going to get me one of these, because they are cute beyong belief and also, I have discovered they are a heat-tolerant dog due to their silky fur which is light and airy yet deflects the heat.

I haven't told my other dog yet. I hope he won't be jealous.

John noticed his mum was depressed, but Billy next door said she was demented, so John hit Billy.

After long bouts of staring at the walls, John's mum brought home a strange video with people clapping and falling to the floor.

John was not impressed. Then John's mum let out next door's dog so it could be as free as she herself had become. John's dad said it could have had her arm off, and spent the evening drinking with Uncle Greg.

(John's mum would possibly not be impressed with some of John's links.)

I mentioned the Spam Poetry project last week.

Joe Bloggs, affronted at the volume of comments the 'junk' poetry site is attracting, issued a challenge of sorts by posting a Shakespeare sonnet.

The result was predictable.

Joe Bloggs, nil. Spam poetry, heaps.

I don't know. Ask this guy, who has a 'Magister Mundi Sum' masthead, an SPQR permalink and frequent Latin phrase sign-offs. Cool.

With a Nader for President banner together with links to the Republican Party and the National Rifle Association, you can't exactly pin him down on his allegiances; but you'll have fun trying.

Astronomy, performing arts, aeronautics, philosophy, religion, a Science Olympiad, history, engineering, the Great War Flying Museum ....

I'm surprised he has time to blog, and yes, there has been a slight hiatus [L., fr. hiare, hiatum, to gape; akin to E. yawn.] lately.

Oh. Take the What D&D Character Are You? quiz. I'm a Good Lawful Human Fighter Traveller or some such.

Well the answer is so obvious you've guessed it already.

Julian posts on all manner of subjects with a conservative philosophy bent.

Arrogant? On Roger Scruton, he quotes John Derbyshire of National Review Online as saying:

'The problem is, I can't read his books ... It is just that I am not smart enough to understand him.'

Julian disagrees (April 1, his permalink doesn't appear to be working):

'Maybe I am more arrogant than Derbyshire, but I think the problem actually lies with Scruton. He can't write for toffee.'

Cop that, Roger.

Then, I'm no expert on Scruton. You be the judge.