The lads get together for another spooky radio serial in good old-fashioned monochrome - see Dick's Toolbox for the story of how radio affected the young baby-boomer. (Mouse over the pic for a NY message).

Mike's Pith & Wind - Circular key
It’s New Year’s Eve. Outside is overcast and apprehensive – thunderstorms have been predicted and it’s as if Melbourne is holding its breath, hoping that it might rain, but worried about lightning strikes starting a new cycle of fires. Those who have been following my A Separate Reality blog, will know that my son Chris is staying with me over the holidays. He’s parked in front of the TV as I write, rubbing his hands anxiously and interminably, as he has since he arose this morning. I don’t think he slept much. He’s back on his full complement of drugs, but it’s possible the coffee we had yesterday at lunchtime got him so wired they changed sides. As we sat on the couch last night just before midnight, he kept looking into my eyes earnestly, as though he wanted to tell me something. It’s like living with a particularly annoying version of Jesus Christ, because he didn’t say a word, then or for most of the day, or for most of the week for that matter, but he’s been working on a new obsessive couch behaviour where he occasionally stands up for no apparent reason, turns around and sit down again, like some senile pet cat. Maybe Jesus was autistic - but I shouldn’t go down that path, because the general public has enough misconceptions about autism already.
Anyway, I’m not sure what we’re going to do to mark the (premature) passing of another year. I bought a bottle of bubbly in case we do decide to take up Ken’s offer to see in the NY at his place, or in case read more

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Dick's Toolbox - The Death of Imagination
One of the more frightening times of my overly imaginative life was listening to the BBC radio serial “Journey into Space”, which was broadcast on Sunday evenings when I was somewhere between the ages of eight and ten in the 1950s - I terrified myself even more by turning the lights off and sitting under the table on which the radio was perched. I think that I was alone in the house for some reason, so the eerie music of Van Phillips and the extra-terrestrial sound effects of the BBC Radiophonics Workshop were particularly terrifying. No words were more frightening than the monotone voice of the possessed astronaut over the ship-to-ship radio “My name is Whittaker. Everything is alright.” You knew it wasn’t.
Written and dramatised by Charles Chilton, it was the last radio serial to attract read more