​Whenever “something big” happens in my life – whether it’s good, bad, serious, silly, awful, lovely or ridiculous – I always tell you straight away.

I know you know everything anyway, but if I receive some news or make a discovery or hear some particularly tasty gossip or have an epiphany, I always tell you before I tell anyone else.

You’re always next to me when I tear open the envelope.

Just as in life, in death you will always be the first to know.


I can hear you cackling incredulously at the events of this week, old man.

*sitting in a smoking parlour*
“Curiouser and curiouser,” I say, waiting for your reaction to the news.
“Aha! A twist in the tale!”
you reply as you finish reading the evidence.
“Indeed, squire,”
I say as I return the papers to their folder and file them away.
“And so: the plot thickens,”
you say, knowingly.
“Like the gravy,”
I add.
“Yes. Just like the gravy.”

Then we clink our whisky glasses and laugh smugly, knowing that we were right all along and we are fucking untouchable.

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