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Imagine, for a moment, that your brain is a cheap, plastic kite attached to a kinked piece of grimy string tangled up in your skull. And it is a very blustery, overcast day with changeable winds. And you are not very good at flying kites, and so yours gets caught in the high branches of a diseased Dutch elm tree. And despite throwing heavy sticks at it, you can't dislodge your brain from its arboreal prison, and so it is claimed by a demented squirrel called Alphonso who nibbles away at the battered gray cells as if they were the last acorn nuts on the face of the Earth. This is me staring uncomprehendingly at a rogues gallery of tax forms.