Aloha from the citadel.

Pfidze has satisfactorily recuperated, you'll be perhaps pleased to heed. Her infirmity has confined her to the Hope High Castle* hostel just off the Billham junction. As such, I have demonstrated pinnacle virtue in acquiescing and uprooting Funlimited Entertainment's base of operations. I have moored the FunlEnt ganglion in a prudently sequestered sector of the dining room. It's so-so. My "desk" is parked adjacent to shelves of needlework manuals and unfamiliar board games. Ever heard of Fête Expectations? Nor had I.

Proprietor Marjorie Ipple has received me into her bosom most cordially†. I am fond of her. Eve last, I invited her to share a meal (a dinner each, not a single dish). Candles. Radio 4. The frisson of isolation. I don't feel it erroneous to profess there was romance in the air... well, there was after she prepared the food anyway, which was an unfortunate awkwardness. Delightful.

We quaran-detainees have formed a motley crew of distinctive nomads, ripped straight from the frames of a flippin' sitcom. Proceedings thus far have been largely harmonious, save for one scrape with Bristolian Bart Joyles. He's a haulier that moonlights… daylights… as a clown for children’s parties and recurring nightmares. His character is “Gyles Bacon” – his shtick fuses the agricultural with the farcical‡. I made an off-hand quip about the questionable value of bats. He proceeded to wash his hands with an alcohol wipe and throw it at me to bin. All laughed. Unacceptable. There are cheeky hijinks, then there’s just reckless endangerment.

Anyway, enough yakkin', more advertisin'.

Here's Episode 17.

*I'm not sponsored. In the current climate, it would be gross incompetence.

†Watch your filthy fucking mental mouth, that woman is a saint.

‡I embellish for chroma, not relevance.