Oh, for the days of the trucks roaring up and the land girls piling out.

It seems that the only way I may get an audience with Professor Nyfenfork will be to buy a ticket to his harmonium recital in the old upstairs basement tonight. I had planned a far different evening for myself, needless to say, isolating in advance certain memories as the base notes for a performance of my own, to be conducted after cocoa and biscuits; around a quarter to eleven.

All up in smoke now, of course. But at least the night holds the promise of the possibility of finding out from Nyfenfork- from the Professor's own lips- just how long he intends to confine me to the entropic precincts of Saint Feasance's hospital.

I'll wear my medals, I think.