This is your puzzle. My first is Vanessa, the crimson-barred rank Of horn-blowing, trap-spotting, Sam Hood who sank. My next is a walker, a silver cross cart, An optimist’s hull with which shallows to chart. My last in the place where the chorus once stood Has scraping and hitting and metal and wood. What three…
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My generation grew up with computers. At primary school, BBC Micros took hours to programme, and Donkey Kong was passed around the playground. By secondary school, the intrepid few dialled up their PCs to BBSs, and Windows was pretty but frustrating. In sixth-form college, a lunchtime stampede fought over the few machines connected to the…
