Sad Sack

I have become aware of an individual known to myself only as ‘sad sack’. The individual drives a European licensed white Mercedes, and may be Belgian. My awareness of the individual began whilst I was researching (unsuccessfully) the poet R J Beasley. Later that night, I climbed on the roof of my old secondary school and gazed at the playing fields beyond. This was a short cut out of a cul-de-sac. My later acquaintance had been unable to find a way out of the atrium area, after a visit, accompanied by Sad Sack, to a kebab emporium in Stirlingshire by the name of ‘The Fountain’.

This fountain of knowledge, renowned for its late opening hours especially but not exclusively on Thursdays, provided sustenance at 2am last night, for the three of us (me, my later acquaintance, and Sad Sack. I had arrived earlier by public transport. From the roof of my old school buildings I could see the blurry image of the town beyond, however, probably in part due to watching High School Musical 3 earlier that evening while half asleep, the important features seen from the roof were features of the roof itself – skylights; tarmac; plant pots – a roof garden. It wasn’t quite a Buddhist mountain retreat, but it was in the same vein.

On the rooftop, I unfortunately awoke, but I feel I will return there. This morning I have been in heated debate about fonts, arguing vehemently the importance of frills; serifs; floweriness, against the notion that pure information is always best imparted through a runic purity and simplicity of font such as Century Gothic. My feeling is that warmth of feeling is of intrinsic importance to information content to be preserved and transmitted. I now realise that there is a connection between my visit to the Fountain, last night, and this font discourse. The font is the fount. The warm information has been imparted…