It's time.

Time for a girding of loins and a taking of deep breaths. The photocopies are amassed. The cursor on the empty word document blinks with an extraordinarily sophisticated combination of expectancy, mockery and taunting hopelessness, given that it is, after all, merely a cursor.

For Lebanon must wait, in order that I sit inside and write about Lebanon. And not of flowers or food or fairground rides, but of war and politics and the foolishness of men.

Now. Let's see.