23rd November

He brought presents. For the thing. For the Mummy. For the home. He’s getting worse. Maybe He’ll get so bad that He loses it enough to let me out, maybe for a family stroll, and maybe I’ll find a nice big rock or stick or something and He’ll obligingly turn His back so I can hit Him with it, over and over again until His head is garden mulch or something. Wouldn’t that be nice? I do love gardening, don’t you?