Chop the powder. Clear the decks. Brace your metaphysical vulva.

Your head a-spin after that gloriously mongrel triplet, I dance toward you, a fuzzy apparition in the whirling panorama. As your inner ears re-acclimate to terra firma, I take thy wrist and guide thee away from the meta-go-round. We migrate t’the underpass, not for anything predatory or anything if you’re a woman or anything scandalous if you’re a bloke, where I gaze into thy eyes (you still quite ashen) and whisper, ‘I am returned. I am returned to liberate thee from Pfidze’s cookie-cut Hades.’

You are grateful.

Yes, chaps and flaps. It Is I. The jaffa ‘neath the choc. The Alec of the Baldwins. The Kettle post-Jeremy.

Pursuing as I have sedentary rapture for the last month or so, I did indeed command Pfidze to lift extracts from my bibliography ...