Dear Reader,

It pains me to tell you that the view from the late Dr Fflloyd’s former chaise longue (facing the French doors) has been marred by the sight of a number of persons in white boiler suits inching their way towards the koi carp pond, their behinds inelegantly in the air.

Shoo at them as I might from the patio doors, they have not gone away.

My helpful advice to use a lacrosse net to scoop out the knotweed in the koi carp pond has been ignored. Furthermore, dear Reader, some sort of decorative ribbon has been hung across the patio doors, with 犯罪现场 emblazoned across it (let me save you the bother of going to Google Translate, dear Reader: with my finely-honed linguistic skills I can tell you that it reads ‘Only 23 Shopping Days Left Before Xmas’).

I have sent an urgent missive to the CEO of UWL Taizhou Branch complaining of overstaffing and incompetence on the part of University Estates, as well as unwanted consumerist propaganda blighting the campus.

While I wait for a response, I cast my eye around my 3/4 size rooms.

I admire my double-oak doors, my ersatz Jenny Haniver over the mantelpiece, my drinks cabinet and acid bath, my measuring sticks in the elephant’s foot umbrella stand, and my lecturing hat and robes on the hatstand.

Lastly, dear Reader, my eye falls on my awards cabinet. I gaze at the various prizes therein, evidence of my dazzlingly successful professional career to date, lingering on the gymkhana rosettes, the Wimbledon salver, my prized poker presentation plate, the Ashes, a number of brass rubbings, and the International Society of Learned Runeologists’ lucky horseshoe.

All seems to be in place; and yet, dear Reader, I feel uneasy.

Just then the image of an urn rises up before me, and a dark shape looms at the patio doors.

‘Jade’, I say, cutting the tape that blocks her path. ‘How good of you to respond so swiftly’.

At that moment, dear Reader, the terrible truth dawns.

A serial killer is on the loose.

Collecting trophies.

 

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2 thoughts on “An Early Epiphany

  1. You lead the life of a novella. The only cereal killed around here this week was the stuff in my breakfast bowl this morning. I did the deed myself by pouring too much milk on my Cheerios and then answering the phone. I confess: I am a serial cereal killer.

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