I am, at this present time, hidden within this tiny box - even though the claustrophobia it is causing is my worst nightmare and my heart is pounding at the confinement - trying desperately to write an answer to the ransom note that I have only just recently received, second-class post, ostensibly from a rather roguish rake dressed in the porphyogenite shade of purple of the old royal families that, sadly, are: no longer with us; present here today; still existing in notable circles; able to attend the current occasion; do not, now, have the willpower to get out of the house once in a while; be contenders; and finally, but not least of all; wear crowns and tiaras to parties and balls- and yet, though I can bloviate like a master, I have written not a word, and can think of nothing at all that can be put down on paper; be it ever so short or simple - which, ironically, is what I... oh, words here do fail me!
My worst fears were realised when, not only did the next door’s cat get into the house, through an open window - triggering my ailurophobia - but it then climbed on to the mantelpiece and dislodged my Ancient Greek Psykter pot - which fell onto the hearth and broke into a million pieces - before I managed to embarrass myself totally by running naked into the garden - I had just come out of the shower - and screaming at the Londoners next door “Will you get your tit-for-tat out of my house!”
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