I hope the little people are enjoying the cake and scotch I
left out for them. I hope I shall receive their
favour in consequence. (I suspect it was they who were knocking at my window on
recent nights, reminding me not to forget their annual treat.)
I fear the priestess might be lost in the cold mountains of Nepal. The evidence
for such a suspicion is meagre, so I expect I’m just being paranoid as usual.
The one advantage of never getting comments on my blog is
that when I announce my birthday month, nobody says ‘Happy Birthday, Mr JJ. You’re
our hero.’ Please don’t be tempted.
My ear is ever at the service of those wishing to avail
themselves of its receptive (and perceptive) faculty for as long as Mr
Mortality keeps his bitter business to himself. I hope the invitation isn’t too
veiled for the one person to whom it is principally addressed.
2 comments:
Happy Birthday. The supermarket cake are full of chemicals. Learn to bake just one pudding.
I receive no comments for months, and then when I do it's somebody called Anonymous. Intriguing.
OK, the facts - such as they are - present five clues, but they're coincidental and I don't have Holmes's faith in coincidental clues so the mystery will have to remain.
I don't bake. Every time I switch the oven on I imagine the little wheel in the meter going around so fast that it makes me dizzy. That's why I haven't had a home made crumble for about eight years.
But thank you for the birthday wishes. I used to send birthday wishes to somebody every St Patrick's Day, but now I have to reluctantly desist because I promised not to speak again (unless asked.)
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