Our sponsor has suddenly remembered that about this time last year, we were all trying to get a picture of a stuffed twisby onto the web, which turned out not to be possible at that time. On the new-look website, pictures seem to be easier, so here, for your entertainment, is the first Stuffed Twisby in all its inimical glory. Its progeny now spread — not from China to Peru as yet, but apart from the one in Kuala Lumpur which became the subject of an auto da fé due to its habit of consulting black magicians, there is one in Dublin (which puts notices of its death in provincial papers, using someone else’s credit card), one in Newcastle, which goes in for self harm, two in Heidelberg and Toronto which have eating disorders, and one under construction in Skipton. They spread like a grey blight, a pourriture ignoble.
The animal have been discovering that there are down sides to joining the middle classes. Miss Best Friend was carried, scratching and desperately resisting, upstairs, for a lovely bath in honour of the Greatest Living Renaissance Scholar, and is, like Miss Dog, all clean and fluffy. Both are deeply resentful of this state of affairs. Mrs Grey’s morning included a Worm Pill. It was the sort which comes in a sort of meat flavoured paste — the first one in fact was filched out of her bowl by Miss Dog. The second was firmly rejected; I found it, somewhat damp, in the middle of the floor. Mrs Grey was by then placidly asleep on the sofa so I seized her and rammed it down her dear little throat.