Twelfth Night

On the first night, the man with the hammers came a-crashing through my door. I immediately identified him as Babinsky.

On the second night, the man with the hammers, who was not Babinsky after all, summoned men with whisks and men with tongs. I tried to reason with them.

On the third night, all of them, the man with the hammers included, went off on what they called “night-time manoeuvres”, and left me alone. I smoked my pipe and listened to the rain.

On the fourth night, Babinsky himself appeared. This time I think it really was him. He showed me some very, very convincing documentation.

On the fifth night, the kitchenette was flooded with dishwater. Luckily I had plenty of cloths and rags to mop it up.

On the sixth night, Babinsky and the man with the hammers and the men with whisks and the men with tongs sang Christmas carols. Their voices were surprisingly dulcet.

On the seventh night there was a pox upon my house.

On the eighth night I tossed and turned and could not sleep. Downstairs, Babinsky & Co were plotting an enormity.

On the ninth night they all went off to commit the enormity. I hid in a cubby so they would not take me with them. It was a tiny cubby and I became cramped.

On the tenth night, there was an important hockey match on television. I have never understood the rules of hockey, so I could not understand what Babinsky and the man with the hammers were so het up about.

On the eleventh night, I suddenly realised that the men with whisks and the men with tongs had never returned after committing the enormity. It also occurred to me that I had not read a word about the enormity in the Daily Shovel.

On twelfth night I took stock, and I peeled potatoes. I peeled potatoes and I peeled potatoes. By the light of the silvery moon I peeled potatoes, and then I peeled potatoes.

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