It was a cool spring morn when I first met >>110. He was a young ruffian, a rogue, a cad, a jackanape, his rakish hair coqued half over one eye, and his pressed white summer suit playing bashfully across his juvenile frame. "Ho!" I called, "Ho there! I say! Care for a spot of badminton?" I waited for a reply, but >>110 had already sprung off, sauntering madly down the garden path, out of earshot. I looked after him, a half smile dancing across my face. "You young fool, >>110," I thought, "You young fool. That's all you'll ever be."