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There is a time and a place for anything and everything. So the only Norwegian we have ever met was Santa Claus, who was a disgusting pederast.

I told Moreau that while we were contemplating the Southern Face, but it was a little to dark for him to understand me. I have often wondered where the light goes when you turn on a light and then turn off the light and then there is no more light anymore. I have also suspected that the light gets lost in a cave whilst spelunking and remains at the bottom of a shaft for many a year. 

What was Moreau thinking??? I had known him for over a century, yet could still attribute neither rhyme nor reason to his actions. He refilled my Pimms and I was a little bit annoyed. I think it was the thought of all that light at the bottom of some nameless, faceless, government owned cave, just being wasted, while I was at the mercy of an enigmatic jurist on some kind of summer-cocktails and mountaineering jolly in an as yet undisclosed location. Fortunately for both my sanity and Moreau’s dignity I had recently purchased a fine set of garden tools. Using the trowel I began digging for the precious light so that he might stop his incessant wintering (he had of late started to snow).

Moreau took a rose from his top pocket and presented me with it. “Your hair is looking pretty today” he said. What a card that Moreau can be! I think that was why I started digging just a little bit faster then. And that really must have been how I found the lump of amber which determined the course of the next eight months. I knew it was amber because of the years I spent in Kaliningrad as a child labourer in the amber factories [commonly known as mines].

Why had Moreau brought back such unhappy memories? I asked him where the gin was kept in our Carravette but he’d become distracted by a termite’s nest and seemed lost to the world. Soon it would be April – without that nothing would make sense. It brought back the pungent dampness of the caves and the fjords, those useless geographical formations that scar the coastlines of third-rate countries. Why had nobody ever thought of driving theses jurists and their bankers off them? Moreau would have approved, had he still been alive. “We have been shanked by these uncouth salesmen at the garden centre” The Belgian said in a voice that reeked of garlic and Trappist ale.

Just then The Secretary came back from his annual vacation in Erdine (to me, Adrianople) with a sack of red-onions, a red cabbage and the Provost in tow. ‘Bloody hell, I’m going to eat tonight’ I thought, with little regard for consistency. The Secretary’s roof slowly opened and a hawk began to gently hover upwards from it. It was a spectacular emission, and brought to mind the way in which Labour Day can be understood from a plurality of viewpoints (usually). My hand was looking very much like a differential function and felt a bit like a rejection letter from the local garage. The Secretary was beginning to rotate around his axis and the rain has become rather less than organic. However, this was not to be too far from the vineyard, which is good news for the Germans.