Still Unwell
December 6, 2013

His face is spots upon spots upon spots upon spots upon spots. Spots to mar him and spots that may scar him, with no sign of calamine or sudocrem, medic or physician’s assistant.

Actually, Lulu is with him. She has prepared a potion which looks like an armpit with twigs in it. Whether this is to be applied or inserted, and onto or into what, are questions I prefer to leave to the boy himself. If his operatic death throes are any indication, they may form the bulk of his second volume. His eyes brimmed with such gratitude yesterday, when I brought him a glass of tap water and a paracetemol, I expected him to kiss my hand and call me Guvnor. Lawks, Mr B, you have saved an ’umble orphan this night, sir, and no mistike. He drooped like a hairy swan.

He is worse, and I do not say this lightly, than Olivier. How can a vegetarian be such a ham?