Ice in the Biscuit Barrel

The Unheard Voice is up to its old tricks again, muttering inaudibly in the glory hole at the bottom of the stairs, among the cobwebs and coal dust, setting the bedsheets to crackle with electric weasel-itch. There'll be no sleep tonight. Resigned, then, I lie awake. So be it, if that's the game he's playing.

I am equipped for this. This is not the first night the Unheard Voice has hissed its slurs in the small hours. I have a flask of tea, a bicycle lamp and a copy of Health & Efficiency.

We'll see who cracks first.