Pies. What do you think of them? Do you eat them? I NEVER eat pies and right now I’m very close to having a vomiting panic attack because little Emily will be here soon and she’s bringing me a pie. She went home this morning to bake it for me. It’s a rabbit pie. Full of rabbits. Cute furry hoppy floppy bunny-wabbits. She TRAPS them up on the moors and WRINGS THEIR NECKS and DECAPITATES and SKINS and GUTS and BONES them and then she CHOPS THE MEAT and puts it inside THE PIE SHE HAS MADE FOR ME.
What do I do?
I ate the posset she made a few weeks ago and it made me violently sick because what I think of as a posset isn’t a pudding, it’s the term used for BABY SICK. So I was eating the pudding posset, which was white, and trying to batter away thoughts of BABY SICK, which is also white, when I was sick. Terribly sick.
NB – I’m not apologising for the above paragraph, even if you were scranning your dinner and it put you off, because I WANT YOU TO FEEL MY PAIN AND MY PANIC AND MY QUEASY DISGUST AT THE THOUGHT OF EATING THIS WABBIT PIE that is due to arrive here very, very soon. Any complaints about being put off your dinner should be sent to David Cameron, 10 Downing Street, London, England. Tell him Dotty did it and he’ll have a word with me when we next meet up for one of our regular shin-kicking fights.
(That’s a big lie I’ve just told you because how can I go to shin-kicking fights when I CAN’T GO OUT. Fool. Just write to David and he’ll write me a formidable note telling me not to do it again).
If I don’t eat this wabbit pie little Emily will be offended and quite possibly angry. I don’t want to make her angry, not that I think she’d punch me to the floor or use other physical violence on me, she only does that to HELP me (she said), but there’s one important fact I can’t get out of my head and it’s that little Emily is an AUTHOR. And what do authors know about? I’ll tell you what they know about – they know about POISONING. She has a POISONER’S HANDBOOK. I’ve seen it. It’s twice the thickness of my own POISONER’S HANDBOOK (I am not an author (god forbid), I’m a COLLECTOR) and will, I presume, contain poison recipes that use PLANTS TO BE FOUND ON THE MOORS - where little Emily walks every day. And if she fails to find what she wants all she has to do is get Branwell to get it for her. And if Branwell is having one his fugue days she can just dawdle down to the Apothecary and buy it there.
IF I DON’T EAT THE WABBIT PIE I WILL DIE IN HORRENDOUS WRITHING AGONY, POISONED BY AN AUTHOR WHO KNOWS ALL ABOUT POISONS.
You should know where my will is by now.
JUDITH! GRUMPY! You both know where it is, don’t you?
I’m not exaggerating here, I WILL die if I don’t eat the wabbit pie, no doubt about it.
I need a speedy plan but I can’t think of one.
I need my brick. Where did I put it?
Right, I can think a bit clearer now.
I need a list -
WAYS TO AVOID EATING THE POISONED WABBIT PIE
I know, I could get her pissed - I’ve still got some Horehound & Wormwood Tonic Beer left from a couple of years ago when I made some to try it (Gypsy Petulengro’s recipe book p26). It was strong then, it’ll be stronger now.
But she doesn’t drink. AAAAHHHH – she’s here!
She’s here and the fucking plate is MASSIVE.
And it STINKS. It smells like — I don’t know what it smells like, I’ve never smelt anything like it before so I can’t think of an appropriate analogy to convey the FUCKING FOUL RANKNESS of it.
Pity poor Dotty.
Pity me, please.