This morning I found a scroll of rolled-up parchment pushed through the grate of my cave. It was addressed to "Flétan en papillote" in pencil, in handwriting that looked suspiciously like Delicate's.
I must say that my black heart leapt skywards when I saw this. Éditions Flétan has not been giving me the comfortable extra income I expected. Although I had hoped for more work from the inestimable M. Jean au Visage-Poilu, that librettist of extraordinary sensitivity and exquisite dolorousness, I admit I would settle at the moment for some comic verse penned by an overweight, semi-alchoholic Moggie.
But the parchment had nothing on it. Not even a limerick about dust bunnies. (Do you still have that somewhere, D?) It is a mystery, or another bad joke.
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