Tonight's the night. I have to convene with my Cornish coven at the Equator, in mid-Atlantic at midnight so I shall have to get my broom all shaken up and ready to rustle. It doesn't take long to get there but I am unsure of the principal objective of this year's proceedings. However, we will, as ever, begin with:
"When shall we three meet again?
In thunder, lightning or in rain?
When the hurlyburly's done,
When the battle's lost and won.
That will be ere the set of sun.
Where the place?
Upon the heath....
Fair is foul and foul is fair:
Hover through the fog and filthy air."
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