Time blurs and bends, days merge, fold and stretch: is this Tuesday or Saturday, Monday already? was yesterday the day before, between or tomorrow? is the year 1066, 34, 1793 or 1868? outside the Irish/Parthian/Indian restaurant, the only one of it's kind in Dungannon, or indeed, the whole of Ireland, snow is lightly falling, while in London a dense fog has descended, a true pea-souper! as we step out of the place where Napper Tandy is already established as the best customer MacFarlane and Doubleday will ever have, and they consider the implications, but let us leave them, for the nonce, to their contemplation of the consequences which their sale may have for the History of the Future, as we take that slight shuffle to the left which results in us being sucked up by the Pneumatic Tube and deposited in another time and place where, as though it were just an inch or two behind us, the echo of MacFarlane's voice can still be heard, ordering a round of the finest Irish Malt with which to seal the bargain, while around us there is a hustle and bustle as voices emerge from the fog, before their owners catch up with them; two young women hurry along and bump into us, women whom you may not recognise, but I know them intimately, Fanny and Stella, and we apologise for standing stupidly in their way and move aside to let them pass, with their parasols, flashing eyes and twinkling feet, and like ghosts in the night we make our way to the corner house, one which doubles as the home and the surgery of Dr Edward Jekyll, and a light in the window tells us that he is in residence, along with his sister, who is also his nurse, and a former patient who has become their ward: young Miss Gracie Long or the erstwhile Lady Griselda of Longformacus, have you heard of her? "no, should I?" well, if you had been paying attention to this journal you certainly would, but no matter, my young Adonis – you have spent too long on your studies in agrology, it's time you got out into the real world, look, do you see that figure in a doorway, with a pale face and dark hair? but the fog thickens and when it clears she is gone, but not before I realise that I have seen her before, the brunette in The Pink Police Gazette! and we quicken our pace and soon overtake her and I call her name: Sadie! Sadie Siddons! she stops on the edge of the kerb and turns, wary, but when she sees me she exclaims: "wy, if it ain't Miss Theresa Somerville, my word! Bless my Soul! where you bin? wot yer bin a-doin of? that frend o yours, Dirk Doubleday? 'im wot used ter be in the employ of Sir P, 'e's bin askin fer yer, sez 'e's got some ideas fer that QQ yer both writes fer, even the Editor and 'is Assistant came by – mind, they wis both a bit intoxicated, so I didn't let them in, but they sed iffen yer wis ter show yer face, would yer do them the honour – that wis wot they sed, the honour - o dinin wiv them at that new place next ter the Argyle Rooms, some sort o forrin place it is, an Mr Rudge, 'e sez ter tell yer they duz a lovely Dopiaza, wotevva that is, don't sound like pie an mash ter me, but each ter their own, sez I, but oo's yer frend 'ere? – is yer lookin fer bizness, ducks?" but before she can embarrass you, I wheel us away, thanking Sadie for her information and promising to catch up with her soon, and lead you through the network of lanes and side streets which will take us to Regent Street and the Argyle Rooms!