It makes no claim to quality, having been written hurriedly on a whim over a few evenings when the constraints of current conditions weighed heavy. I worked out today (in furtherance of my fascination with statistics) that during the various versions of lockdown since the early spring, I have spent approximately 96% of my time alone in the environs of my little plot. Lately, since the winter has begun to bite, it has been mostly spent within the four walls of a damp and draughty croft.
Such a situation can wreak mild, but not infrequent, havoc on the nervous system even for a recluse like me, and the writing of an inconsequential little tale was a welcome expression of fancy, and also a useful aid to the maintenance of sanity.
And those with an ear for the nuances of language might have noted that recent posts to this blog have offered faint echoes of the mid-Victorian style. That is to be expected since I have fallen under the spell of the Misses Helstone and Keelder in the novel Shirley. Such is not, however, the case with the story.
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