Post the Hundredth

Here at Sack Posset Hall we are celebrating an auspicious occasion. The monkey and I sport jaunty glittered caps and clink umbrella-laden glasses. I'm on gin and Mogadon, the monkey favours stout. We've trimmed the place up proper pretty, with pig-ear bunting and strings of bees, vases of ape-horn and glow-worms in jars. The monkey plays its bone-whistle as I type.

Because I knew you were coming, I have baked a cake, a special, extra-yummy cake made of all the things I love. It's mostly meat and adjectives, but there's some salt in there as well, and icing from unspeakable sources. I might have left it in the oven a spot too long, though, and I don't think we'll be seeing Burlesque Belinda tonight.

There are no candles on the cake because I used them all inside it, but the monkey and I blow out the pilot light and toast our absent foes. If there is one thing I have learned in these hundred toothsome moments, one splendid thing I can pass on to you, my ethereal brethren, it is this: cosset your darlings.