Apology accepted. Allowing for the curvature of the planet, since the cannibalistic magician died of infection. Tenor? Hot – I dropped the polpettone into the glowing ashes. You will not shout or you really will be dead. I was lying dizzily on the ground watching it trot away; shocking, twee. Eadbha Darrow had a chubby li’l face which the embers illuminated in this simpering twilight. The roundness was shot through with a thick brunette brow which may have been placed there using a digital level and some quantity of grease paint. Eadbha dipped her thick toes in the stinking foam of the Pacific and moaned. Iron John had felt her hold, at least, and was rubbing at her neck, which had the texture of cardboard. She’s so moribund, so laryngitic; never could she cook a bread pudding like Mum or even half match the fresh squaw which sat on the counter week in week out during the winter and was replaced tenfold monthly with those things that stuck in his teeth, like she did, like Eadbha did, sometimes. Wotta gal.