Mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa.

Mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa.

Practicing Latin phrases exhausted Julius. He dreamed of new languages, new lands and new

and exciting ways to wear his toga - what if one wound the yards of heavy wool about one's head, as he had seen the desert nomads do? Or perhaps pinned with a fibula at the neck?

How about tied around his waist like a sumos mawashi? Or a dhoti wrap like Bapu Gandhi? Or fold it on his head with a coil like a shieks ghutra? Then he realized the Togo party was

geriatric KKK rally! He dropped to his knees and crawled for the door, desperate to escape with his neck intact. Once outside, he ran for the nearest freeway, where he flagged down

a semi truck driver on the highway. No one else had stopped or even slowed for him. Not many people hitchhiked these days. The truck driver told him where he was going

And I tagged along. "Fold me once, fold me twice and fold me once again.", the folding stories sang four years after the hostel served us Yorkshire pudding and oxtail soup with

pressed edible flowers, crispy crackers and a dollop of cream drizzled with garlic aioli. It was a most excellent meal, followed by

a performance of a lifetime. The royal family were delighted to have the Archman as guests even if they'd stolen all their valuables on their leave.