-=Dark_Angel=-, P.I.23 Apr 2005

If I may offer my enormous sagging tuppence:

As you may know, I am the primary patron of the Reading Room at Wiltsbury. Therefore, as well as because of my degenerative condition, I am entitled to a certain... shall we say "leeway" in my behaviour. It does not shame me to say that I push this privelege as far as possible at all times.

One morning I wheeled into the Belkin foyer, covered in jellied-eels and bellowing.

Another time I flopped out of my chair and squirmed upon the carpet pitifully. When Mrs. Hedges hurried to the rescue, I beckoned her down to my buttocks, and parped on her handbag.

On Christmas Eve of 19--, I suspended myself from the domed ceiling of the Chetwoad Room, using a horrifying system of hoists and reverse buckle-squats. I had instructed my manservant to dress me as "Mephistopheles, were he caked in faeces."

It was a glorious, glorious moment when I descended, shrieking, onto the Nativity play below. A child was crushed in several places. There was a short-lived attempt to lynch me, which I countered by lifting the crushed child and rubbing it on myself. Or perhaps I only imagined that later, when I had been sedated.

What has this to do with the matter at hand? Quite.