Dear readers, prithee absorb my tender apologies for my abscence from the "international network"!
In truth, this week has afflicted me terrible hard and bitter. What I had envisaged as a week of fortitude from the dark spirits encroaching on my mind, has instead become yet another torture to my stricken senses. For I have discovered that Bertie is a terrible pain.
First. The blaggard slurps his tea through teeth. So: slllluuuuurrrrp. My tensions distend at the act! A blood-red shroud falls over my vision!
Second. From elevenses to high tea, his back bowels perform a veritable symphony of tootelage. And such a stench - enough to make a Parisian wince.
Third. I awoke yesterday and discovered this "gift" upon my Harrop's Seashammy. What in blazes?!
But, I do see a way out of this dreadful brew. Each night this past week has the bastard risen from his chamber at 1am and tippy-toed in his stockinged feet all the way down to the scullery door. And each night have I followed him down, and viewed his cheesy slucker glancing about all a-guilted, before interring himself therein.
By God, do I smell a case for blackmail coming on! It is a familiar smell - piquant as hot treacle - and one that I've missed since the old vicar of Twelvetrees sadly passed. Bertie could help me raise the fortune I need to enable my next bold adventure in the unknown lands!
Yes - whatever lies behind that scullery door profers a fresh project upon which I may fasten my unstable mind, thus cleansing it of poor dead :;.^..
Tomorrow I shall go investigate. Goodnight my patient orphans.
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