Lizbie's brow...

... may be past joy, past pain, but my shins aren't. There really _is_ something in the woodshed, and it doesn't like Finzi. Or maybe it doesn't like Hardy. I've always liked "To Lizbie Browne", although the first time I sang it to Mrs Hnaef, she hit me round the head with a nearby log, assuming I was serenading Another Woman (she can sometimes speak with capitals). Very much like tonight, in fact. Maybe it was her in the woodshed. I've never seen her in it before, but then again, I only ever end up going there after dark. It's rather like a song by The Divine Comedy, and I'm not even sure they're on the Beaker Approved Listening List.

And the eye! Just one, but it was bright, shining out of the darkness, like, like ..., well rather like Mrs Hnaef's eyes sometimes do when I come back late from the White Horse and she's stayed up late to reprimand me in the sitting room, carefully positioned between the door and my single malts.

I'm going to the White Horse, and when I get back, I'm going to light some tea-lights and make a bed of pebbles for myself in the Moot House. I don't dare go home.

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