I may never sleep again, dear diary.
In bed, I have taken to hugging ‘Bat’ – cheek to cool wood – in order to find a little, cold comfort. I need to sleep, but increasingly, this is no defence against the creaks and groans of the settling of the night – and who’d foolishly plug their earholes on this old tub?
Bat did, however, prove to be more than adequate against the second of those young librarians I encountered (one of those who tackled the big game hunter). Our literary friend now rests on my cabin floor – head bone quite stoved in.
But now my door lock is broken, and my barricade has been revealed to be little more than a symbolic decoration.
Well, my friend, there’s nothing symbolic about Bat.