Cheers.

Picture the scene, dear reader - You and I are in the pub, when I ask you a question -
"Would you like a drink?"
Now I'm guessing two things would happen. The second one being you would get back up off the floor.
And there's a fair chance that you would be quite pleased, and accept graciously. But -
"Do you like a drink?"
might result in two slightly different things happening. The second one being that I would be getting back up off the floor.
The difference is subtle, yet potentially violent. One word different seems to imply that you may have a problem. It's a strange insinuation, that I've never really understood. Practically everyone I know has been known to partake of a tasty ethanol-based beverage, with no sense of shame. In fact most people I know, including myself (quite possibly more myself than others, to be honest) could be said to show a certain sense of pride in having partaken of said beverages to excess.
But as soon as that pride is questioned, or the insinuation made that you have a need for it, things get uncomfortable. There seems to be a control level, a cut off point beyond which the social exclusion zone kicks in.
You like having a drink, you're good at it, but you don't need it obviously...
One minute you're sitting on your favourite hard wooden chair with the mystery sticky bit beneath your feet, slap bang in the middle of a gang of best friends, with a warm glow in the cheeks, a grin on the face and the buzz of multiconversation in your ears.
Next thing you know you're sitting in the same chair, same sticky bit, but the realisation slowly hits that there is no strand of the multiconversation that is any of your business. And instead of being in the middle of a gang, you seem to be on the periphery of a different group. It seems your gang are now at home, whispering about how you just didn't know when to stop...
This line in the sand interests me. Where is it? How are we supposed to know? As far as I can tell, I managed to pass the test and came out safely on the other side. But I really have no idea how I managed it. Maybe some people are just not so lucky.
My current line of work brings me into close contact with these unfortunates every day. I spoke to one a few days ago who was in the Navy for most of his life with an exemplary record. He travelled around the world, had a massive social circle and had a drink with all of them wherever he went. He retired with a full pension, and a raging alcohol dependency. He now lives alone in a bedsit drinking two full bottles of cheap whisky a day waiting for his next seizure.
Another one I met yesterday is 29, his doctor doesn't think he'll see 30, and he recently woke up on a riverbank with a broken jaw and internal injuries, and no explanation.
Totally different people, with one thing in common. They just didn't hear the bell for last orders.

all change...

We trained hard… but it seemed that every time we were beginning to form up into teams we would be reorganized. I was to learn later in life that we tend to meet any new situation by reorganizing; and a wonderful method it can be for creating the illusion of progress while producing confusion, inefficiency, and demoralization.
Petronius Arbiter, 210 B.C.*

Who is watching over me? Who decides what happens to me next? The discussion of God, destiny or fate is for another time, but right now I would really like to know which celestial Grand Master is moving me from square to square. Sometimes I don't even see the move coming, the first I know of it is when a mighty pawn comes along and knocks me sideways clean off the board. Other times I am quite happily sitting in place, happy that I am exactly where I should be. Then out of the blue appears a looming Bishop, and I just know that I have no choice but to pick myself up and shuffle off to a new, empty, cold hard space in order to keep playing the game. This is one of those times. 7 months after finding my dream square, safely surrounded, I look up to see the shadow of a great lumbering rook. So off we must slide. Not straight away - the game is still in progress, with several moves still to be made by others first, but I can see the way the game is developing. With the strong likelihood that my analogy has become hopelessly convoluted, I should probably just say - It appears I will shortly be changing jobs.

Kay, Ess, Jay & Kay

So.
Who is Kayessjaykay? Well, the answer is a four headed creation, currently stalking the cold grey streets of a Northern town. With four very separate personalities (quad-polar?) and four very separate strategies for the great game of life. But all inextricably linked by the conviction that a frying pan to the face is the funniest sound in the world. Here are the four quadrants.
1) I am Kay. Or K for short. The 'titular head' of the family, although this often seems to be abbreviated for some reason.
2) Ess. Or S, the power behind the throne.
3) Jay. J, which will always come right before K. J which is as close to K as could ever be. Like someone lifted the needle and dropped it back at the outer edge, he's just me, started over again.
4) Kay(2), now known as K2. The most beautiful little cotton bundle of smiles to grace the planet since J did. Since she appeared the only reason I want to leave the house is to earn money to buy her stuff.

So that's the 'who', now for the 'where'. We are currently crammed into Kay Towers, our own Orwellian garret with a beautiful view of acres of greenery. Well, maybe one acre. And it's a graveyard. But it is green. And the neighbours are not really any problem. There's barely enough room for two people, let alone four, (in the garret, not the graveyard, there's hundreds in there) but at the moment we are undercover commoners in the overprivileged West End, and we're still getting away with it. J even goes to their affluent and educationally superb school, and goes to play in the other kids mansions, while telling them he can't return the compliment because we have the marble engravers in re-doing the entrance hall, or we're having the art revalued, or the drawing room floor is being reinforced for the new Steinway, etc. etc.
So until our wheeze is rumbled, we plan to enjoy the benefits of this well-heeled area as long as we can get away with it. A bigger place is obviously the long term plan, but in the current climate we only really have two possible options. The first involves 6 numbers and a bonus ball (aka 'The Torry Pension'). The second means finding a different well-heeled society out of town to cuckoo. And it seems our friends have already booked all the cool surrounding villages for themselves, their appearance obviously sending the property values soaring wherever they go. So here we are, for the forseeable at least. To be honest we still love the little place, but, well, y'know, bring on the crash...