It's billed as 'Nazi zombies in the snow' which I can't help thinking in a Bing Crosby croon, to match 'To hear sleigh bells in the snow'. I wish I had the poetic skills to write the rest of the song around that line.

The thing is, I don't think they are zombies at all. They are reanimated corpses, they are decaying, they eat human flesh, but they are not mindless. In fact, at least one of them is very intelligent and the rest behave like a military unit, not like the usual independently-wandering mob that characerises the true zombie.

Furthermore, they have a specific goal. They are not simply motivated by feeding. There's something else and I won't say what it is because that would spoil the ending.

Not one of their victims becomes a zombie. All those corpses are the original military unit who died in the mountains. They are not infectious and one of the human characters, in particular, will be disappointed to hear about that.

So I conclude that these are not zombies at all. They are revenants. They have their original souls and their mental faculties are mostly intact. The bodies have been reanimated after death, but not by a virus or a shaman. By the original soul attached to each body.

The difference matters, because if you are bitten by a revenant you don't become one. 

There's an article due soon for AlienSkin. I think this might be worth thinking about further.

"Why would they bother me? I have lived with those Ferals all my life and am accustomed to their ways. The boiling lead and my trusty crossbow generally keep them at bay."

The policemen looked at each other for a moment. Yes, there were two. There always are, and I can't blame them after what happened to Constable McBludgeon in the swamp, all those years ago. They never did find his helmet.

"You're joking, right?" one of them said.

"I can assure you, there is nothing to joke about where Ferals are concerned. Nasty little vermin if they corner you."

One of them puffed out his chest. An impressive feat considering the plate-armour they all wear now. 

"I'll have to ask you to moderate your tone, sir. Those are people you are talking about."

 I had to laugh. "People? They might have been once, but no more. They are Ferals now. A different species."

"Seriously, sir, you can't say that. I have to ask - you are joking about the boiling lead and the crossbow, aren't you?"

"Certainly not. Ferals don't understand bluff. Sometimes they need a little persuasion to go away, especially when they're hungry."

They looked uneasy. "Sir, you cannot go around pouring boiling lead over people. I think we'd better come inside and ask you a few questions, if that's all right."

"Okay, but make it quick. It's feeding time."

"Feeding time?"

I had no sooner closed the door than little Caligula shot into it at impressive speed and bounced off. He keeps trying to play outside but I can't let him. It's not safe. He might make his way to the village, or worse - he might encounter a Rarely-Glimpsed Slimy Swamp Thing and I have very few of those. Caligula glared up at the policemen and bared his teeth. Both rows. The effect was enhanced by the UV light I had installed to stop him hiding in the shadows, which made him glow a healthy green.

The policemen took a step back. "What the hell is that?"

I raised one eyebrow. "Didn't you just tell me it was illegal to call people rude names? That is my son, Caligula. I have to feed him because his mother is still unconscious after his last nappy change." It was a particularly nasty one. Something moved in it, I'm sure. Just thinking about it still makes me feel dizzy.

"Look, I think we'll need to take you down to the station. That child needs a doctor and we need to know more about what you are doing to those people in the swamp."

I declined. "Why would we go to the station to converse? You won't be able to hear my answers over the noise of the trains. Caligula does not need a doctor because I am one. What he needs is his dinner and I would advise not delaying that any more than necessary."

"Nevertheless, we have to insist." One of them took out a pair of shiny modern manacles. I was about to ask him where I could buy something similar when Caligula lunged.

The policeman with Caligula attached to his leg gave out a scream and then fell over. The second one took out a little yellow gun. I've heard of those. They shoot electricity. He pointed the gun at me for a moment, then at Caligula.

"Get back!" he shouted. "Get away from there."

"I'm afraid he's only five months old," I said. "He doesn't understand you and even if he did, he's not likely to pay any attention." I let out a heavy sigh. "He never listens to me either."

The one on the floor went quiet. Caligula had reached his throat. 

It all worked out okay in the end. Caligula was fed, nobody had to go to the station and no questions were asked. We didn't really need the second policeman so he could have gone off to catch some proper criminals, but he fired that little yellow gun at Caligula.

I'm afraid Caligula became rather annoyed.

Now I have two new plant pots to hang alongside the old one. Senga will be pleased when she wakes up. She likes things to match.

Oh well. Can't be helped. First, though, this -

The new Alienskin magazine is online, with sad news to relate. 

It comes to us all in the end. Angels and devils might pass you by, but Death never forgets your name.

In this issue, Sergeant Shelsky discusses the free exchange of ideas among SF writers while Lady Blade deals with (harumph) well, you know, the sweatier aspects of a relationship. It's to do with fantasy but the image of orcs engaged in - ahem. Moving on quickly...

My own contribution considers the most horrible thing imaginable - children! Well, mine is, anyway. I've had to confiscate his toy guns after I caught him in the workshop, rifling the barrels and fitting proper firing pins. Mischievous little scamp!

I've also reviewed a book for this issue. A really good one. It's come from The Horror Zine. Don't worry, I'm not promoting the competition. The Horror Zine takes stories way over the wordcount for Alienskin, and also has art and poetry sections. So we're not competing for the same stories and there's time to read both.

Alien Queen Mother has been wandering the world and has submitted to interrogation. So have others. Their answers make interesting reading.

Must dash. The late-night butcher will still be open and I can pick some swamp flowers on the way back.  I suppose I should really restrict myself to the non-deadly ones, although they are also the least interesting. It's only once a year, so I suppose I can put up with it.

Today it was a small man in a striped suit and bowler hat who called himself the 'tacks man'. Unfortunately all my icicles have melted or I'd have slammed the door and watched through the peephole. Instead, I simply told him I didn't need any tacks.

"No, no," he said. "You misunderstand. I collect tacks."

"Oh. Well, I don't have any. Try the village." I tried to close the door but he stopped it with his hand. A grasping, thin hand with cracked and yellowed nails. I did wonder for a moment if he might be a distant relative but Dumes don't generally look quite so pallid and malnourished. 

"I thought I made it clear." I put on my best impression of the Professor which is about 80% haughty and 20% contempt. "There are no tacks for you here. Go away."

"I'm afraid you have a legal obligation to pay me tacks on your earnings." His voice, already shrill, now strained the limits of my range of hearing.

"Huh?"

His lips pursed, or rather, they disappeared inside his mouth so that I thought his nose might touch his chin, like Aunt Demdike's did the time the Slimy Swamp Thing borrowed her teeth.

"Now look," he said, drawing himself up to his full height, a move presumably calculated to make him look impressive but which actually made him look like a stick with a bowl on top, "I am empowered by Her Majesty's Government to collect twenty percent of any money you have earned this year, along with previous years and fines for late payment."

"Now look. I'm busy. Can't you come back another time?" Entertaining lunatics can be fun but really, I have a book to review and an article to write.

"No, I am here to audit your books and collect all tax due. Now."

Confusion took over. Audit my books? I haven't written them all yet. Did he mean the ones in the library? And who was this Herman Jessy Govmint who had empowered him? He didn't look powerful to me. He looked like a streak of tired bacon with a hat on. One word filtered through and touched a memory. Earnings.

"Aaaaah, you mean tax." I nodded vigorously but this time remembered to stop before getting dizzy. "No, you see, I don't actually have any earnings. No income. No need."

His face went through some kind of self-test sequence. His jaw moved up and down, his eyes tried every conceivable direction and his nose flared and contracted. I think, but I'm not sure, that his ears wiggled. His eyebrows went through such convoluted contortions that I'm not sure whether they actually changed places.

Then his voice self-tested. 'Whuh...uh...gah," it said.

"Are you all right? Every bit of your face seems to function but are you still in control of it?"

"No income? No income? No income?" He shook his head, I suppose to unstick his voice. "There is no record of you getting any benefits at this address."

"Well, I have a wife, which I suppose could be seen as some kind of benefit. And a son, which couldn't."

"I mean monetary benefits. Unemployment, that sort of thing."

I puffed out my chest. "I am a Dume. I am not unemployed. in fact, as I told you, I am busy."

His eyes narrowed well past the point where an ordinary person's would be shut. "So you are employed? Then you have an income."

"I am not employed, neither am I unemployed,  I am extraordinarily busy and I have no work. I have no income and no need of one." I paused to savour the steam coming from his ears. "And I have no need of tacks."

"Savings." He breathed out a long gasp of air that smelled like old paper. "You must be living on savings."

"I live on money." I frowned at him. "I've never saved anyone."

His body did that thing telescopes do when you've finished with them. When he looked up, his eyes leaked. "You must get the money from somewhere."

"Previous Dumes have provided," I said. "I will add to it in time but for now it is more than enough."

"Aha!" he jumped up so fast his hat rattled. "Gotcha! You have savings and interest on savings is taxable."

Well, you know, I am very interested indeed in the dungeon hoard but I had no idea I was supposed to pay someone called Herman Jessy Guvmint, or rather, the badly constructed homunculus at my door, for that action. I shall take less obvious interest in future.

For now, I solved the problem by inviting bowl-on-a-stick indoors and directing him to the laboratory.

There was even less meat on him than I expected. Perhaps it's just as well. I don't have time for a proper experiment.

I'd have said 'Don't be silly' if you had asked that question earlier this evening. A zombie is an unthinking eating machine and what it wants to eat is you. You cannot reason with it and you can't kill it because it's already dead. It's not possible to sympathise with such a creature under any circumstances.

Then I watched 'Colin', a film by Marc Price and produced by Justin Hayes. It's low budget and full of unknowns but it's well made, well acted, and the idea is astounding in its brilliance.

A zombie story from the point of view of one of the zombies!

Throughout the film we learn more about Colin's former life and finally find out what made him a zombie. It's the only film I've ever watched in which I actually felt sorry for the zombies!  The living humans are even more monstrous than the flesh eaters in some places.

But then, they always were.

There's an article brewing for the next Alienskin issue and I have a book to review before little Caligula eats it. Senga is in one of her moods, something to do with a suggestion I made concerning her mother, a sewing kit and a rabid dog. Honestly, the woman can't take a joke. Little Caligula has left teeth marks in most of the furniture and Underbed Monster has run off again. Not a good time to visit. Not good at all.

Well, he had come a long way so I had to bite my lip and let him in (Not my own lip, you understand. I have a jar of candied lips in case of such eventualities). I say 'let him in' but there's not really much of an option. He goes where he pleases, and only knocks at my door out of politeness.

Death had a purpose. He had come to see Caligula.

"I hope you're not planning to take him," I said. "I don't want to have to go to the trouble of making another one. It's all very messy and complicated and involves some unpleasantness."

"Take him? Why would I do that?" Death clacked his teeth at me. "I'm still hunting down the last of those wedding guests and I have several of your ancestors on my backlog list.  Your new one isn't ready. I just came to see him."

"Oh. A social call." 

"Aren't they always?" Death scratched between his eye-sockets with the tip of his scythe. "Your family are the most elusive I've ever had to deal with. I get the call to say one of you has died and by the time I get here, they're not home."

"We're an active family," I said. "No time to hang around." I showed him to Caligula's room and slid back the peephole cover on the door. Last time I did that, the little tyke shoved a six inch nail through it so this time I used some caution. Once I had established he was in his cot, I opened the door and let Death in.

Death paused on the threshold. "You don't think I'll scare him, do you? I mean, all the dark clothes and the bones and the scythe. Kids get a bit upset about those things."

I grinned. "He's a Dume. He scares me most of the time. Just don't let him get hold of that scythe."

Death drew eyebrows on his skull, rubbed them out and drew them on again, a little higher up. We went into the room quietly.

Little Caligula was fast asleep, gnawing on a rib. Death and I watched him for a while then left in silence. Once I had closed the door I allowed myself to breathe again. It's not often a visit to Caligula's room passes without incident.

"He looks dangerous," said Death. "Excellent. I'm sure he'll put a lot of business my way in the future. How about you?"

"He's not old enough to make a serious attempt on me yet. Don't get your hopes up."

"I mean, any stray spirits around as a result of your experiments? I could do a quick clean-up for you if you like." 

"There might be a few. Help yourself." The place is crawling with them but most have learned to hide whenever Death visits. They hide when the Professor visits too. Only the recent ones ever get caught and as they are the noisiest, it's good to let Death have a quick sweep of the place once in a while. He disappeared along the corridor, scythe in one hand and soul bag in the other. I returned to my study.

Death appeared shortly afterwards, his soul bag bulging and squirming. 

I nodded at the bag. "Good haul tonight?"

"Excellent. I still haven't caught your father though. Have you seen him recently?"

"No. He hasn't materialised since Caligula was born. He's probably worried about getting killed again."

Death shook his head. "Not even a Dume can do that twice. Anyway, best be off. I have to take this delivery and fill in the paperwork for them."

I would have pried for details, as usual, but I had too much to do. "I'll show you the door."

Death tilted his skull. "I know what a door looks like. Thanks for the offer but I don't have time for sightseeing."  He strode to the wall and then through it.

I returned to my work. The article awaits and it has to be about horror. It also has to be something new. If only I had an idea, if only something would happen to inspire me.

Then Caligula woke up and howled.

"That's it," I thought. "There's nothing more horrific than a child!"

Well, it seems there has been a new year, which came as a surprise because I had no idea the old one had already worn out. They just don't make years like they used to. When I was younger they lasted far longer, I'm sure. This 'new year' was the reason for the Professor's visit and he assures me that it's traditional to ply all guests with whisky until they can take no more. A new tradition, apparently, and one I suspect he's just invented. He also voiced the somewhat bizarre opinion that attempting to kill visitors with sharpened icicles is antisocial. What else am I supposed to do with all those icicles? If they weren't meant to be used as weapons they wouldn't be shaped like that.

I poured a whisky and asked if he'd like anything in it. He held the glass up to the light, stared at it for a moment and said "Yes. More whisky". This was going to be an expensive visit. Oh well, he doesn't visit often and he's far more entertaining company than the barely literate villagers in the local pub.

"Shouldn't you be out hunting for ghosts?" I asked. 

He took a large gulp of whisky. "In this weather?"

I nodded in sage agreement. "Ah, so the cold weather makes ghostly activity unlikely, you think?"

"Not necessarily."  He turned his back for a moment and strolled across the room, past the drinks cabinet. "It does, however, make ghosthunter activity unlikely. Ghosts are already dead. I am not and I'm in no hurry." He had not visibly paused at the cabinet yet when he returned to his seat his glass was full. I've never managed to work out how he does that.

"You braved the weather to get here though." I poured myself a glass of Chateau Dume AB+ and took a seat facing him.

The Professor raised his glass. "You have whisky. Ghosts don't." His face became serious. "Although you might have hit on something there. I've wondered why ghosts appear mainly on calm still nights when it's warm outside, or in sheltered places like buildings. Maybe it's not the ghosts. Maybe the findings reflect the comfort zones of the people looking for them." He sipped at his whisky. "It's not likely to change, though, unless some seriously masochistic people take up investigating. Electrical storms should increase ghostly activity due to all that energy in the air but it's not a friendly environment for people, nor for equipment."

I considered mentioning that Dume Castle isn't much of a friendly environment and it's packed with ghosts. Some nights you can't move without getting covered in ectoplasm. I kept quiet because he'd have the place filled with cables and all sorts of machinery if he found out. Anyway, the ghosts all seem to disappear whenever he arrives. I wonder if he's related to Death? It was time to change the subject because that line of conversation could get awkward.

"I found a name for Dumelet," I said. "He's now Caligula Dume."

The Professor's face darkened. "You said you wouldn't tell anyone about that revolting middle name of mine."

"Relax, nobody knows. I'll tell everyone he's named after my great-uncle. You and I are the only ones who know he's also named after you."

"Well." He considered this for a moment. "As long as you're sure." He handed me his empty glass. "I think this calls for a drink."

I left the glass on the table and brought the bottle over. He was likely to finish it anyway. I brought my bottle of AB+ too, since this looked like turning into a long drinking session.

Glasses recharged, I resumed the conversation. "What is it about your middle name that you hate so much? I think it's a fine name. There have been several Caligula Dumes in the past. One was Italian, as I recall."

"I wouldn't be at all surprised to find the Roman emperor by that name was a relative of yours. I hate the name because I went through hell at school with it.  Romulus Caligula Crowe. You can imagine what the other kids made of that."

"No. I can't. I never went to school and neither will little Caligula." I allowed myself a little smile at the thought of what he might consider 'school dinner'. "Dume education remains within the castle. It's tradition."

"Homeschool, eh? Probably for the best. Modern education produces too many who spend all their time with CDs and DVDs but can't spell either of them."

"True. The villagers here spend a lot of time and money putting up signs but few of them know what the signs say. They find the butcher and baker shops by smell. They don't find the library at all."

Our conversation was interrupted by the appearance of Senga, bleeding. Caligula had escaped again. I handed the Professor a cattle prod and we went searching. His surprise at the weapon was answered when we found little Caligula, munching his way through some wood panelling in the Wood Room, which is now called the Splinter Room. A little judicious prodding forced him back to his own room which fortunately has a steel door.

With Caligula back in place, the Professor decided it was time to head home. He left, muttering something about considering cryptozoology, and shut the front door a little too hard. The sound of falling icicles resounded through the swamp.

Never mind. It's still cold enough to grow some more.

Senga's present from me is a new veil. The old one is rusting but I found this one, reasonably priced, which is even better. I'll bolt it to her head in the night and she'll have a wonderful surprise in the morning because she will now be able to comb her hair (she just has the one). It's not quite the family name but it's close enough. I was tempted to get another one for myself but it seemed rude to do that now. I'll drop hints nearer my birthday.

I forgot all about my Santa traps this year. Far too busy. Double effort next year, and I'll have Dumelet to help.

Speaking of Dumelet, he has a name at last. The Professor visited yesterday, all excited about some ghost he's photographed. I pretended to be excited too even though I'm sick of those ghosts popping up in my photographs with cheesy grins and 'Hello Mum' signs. Anyway, it occurred to me that I could name Dumelet after the Professor.

No, no, I'm not calling him 'Professor'. The Prof has a middle name he never uses and I had a great-uncle with that same name, so I could keep it in the family and not keep it in the family simultaneously, which is a sort of quantum thingy whatnot but anyway...

Dumelet is henceforth Caligula Dume. A fine name which speaks of stable mind and calm character (relatively, for a Dume). He seems to like it. He went to the trouble of writing a note to Santa which I thought was very cute and sweet and pointless because Santa never answers his mail. Anyway, he wrote it, and here it is: 

Okay, the spelling's not perfect but he's only three months old. He hasn't even started runecasting lessons yet.

Well, I think it's cute. It must be, it's written in kitten blood. It just doesn't get cuter than that.

So I spent the evening at the Throat and Razor. The locals were as quiet as usual, barely a word spoken above a whisper and most of the intelligible ones involved pitchforks and flaming torches. They must be planning another parade. It's been a while.

Several pints of Jock McSquirty's Bowel Purger later, I headed home to find that Dumelet had escaped his cot and eaten everything in the house apart from Senga who had a few bite-sized pieces missing. She was distraught which wasn't so bad, considering that if Dumelet had found her before he found the fridge she'd be joining Father in the dungeons. Somewhat inebriated, I still managed to corrall the miscreant with a sharp pike and a net. He is now back in his cot with added barbed wire and the wire-cutters he fashioned from discarded jawbones have been confiscated.

Senga will require a bit of filler in the holes and a long discussion on the dangers of over-indulging a Dumelet, plus some painkiller in the form of her favourite drink, Broken Glass.

It's not safe to leave these two alone. Senga does not appreciate the risk of being nice to a Dumelet and she might end up spoiling him. That would be terrible.

If the villagers have that parade, I might let her take him out to see it. It would be worth watching.

Senga has been using them to top up her tan. As a result, she now resembles a skinned crab with blisters because these lights are not intended for the purpose she has put them to. It's not such a big deal for me because she looked pretty crab-like before apart from the total whiteness and the number of legs. She already had the propensity for picking slimy molluscs off the walls.

All the same, she insists it's painful and was not amused when I took out my clipboard and requested details. She has taken to sleeping in one of the spare rooms and won't tell me which one. Well, it's up to her but if Dumelet escapes his cot I won't be able to tell where the screams are coming from.

I'm keeping the barbed steel bed-net though. She can take her chances with Dumelet's night hungers.

There is more to writing than tapping out random words and jiggling them around until they sort-of fit together. That sort of activity never results in a novel although it seems to often result in government policy. We are not writing government policy here, we are writing lines that have to make sense, and that involves some actual thought and planning. Lady Blade's article looks at what our readers expect of us and how we can deliver. It's not just a matter of the number of words, you know. Getting them in the right order is just as important. Just ask Thomas Hardy.

My own humble offering deals with the scariness of plants. Wouldn't you know it, as soon as I'd submitted it, a newspaper comes up with a report on the carnivorous qualities of tomatoes. If only they'd published that a few days earlier.

The Sergeant has been worked very hard this issue. As well as his article on steampunk SF, he's been held in the dungeons until he read and reviewed a horror anthology, then beaten soundly with leprous axolotls (which, believe me, is very messy indeed) until he interviewed Joshua Sikora, producer of the Black Dawn TV series. Even that was not enough. The poor Sergeant then had his eyelids pinned back with Victorian brass upholstery tacks so he wouldn't miss a second of the Black Dawn programmes, which he was then required to review also, under pain of being dressed as a bluebottle and dipped into a vat of demented toads.

I don't know what he did to annoy the Alien Queen Mother, but I'll bet he won't do it again.

There are also 26 new stories this issue, plus 8 Fibonacci sequence poems tucked into the sidebars. All are short enough to read while fending off your offspring, and there's time between each one to reheat the poker while holding the child back with tongs.

Dumelets develop quickly, and mine is no different. He can crawl now and is already on his third set of teeth. Senga has decided not to breastfeed which, I think, is sensible. If you put raw meat in a Dumelet's mouth, you're not likely to get it back. It's not as if she's over-endowed in that department, either. She only has three.

I have to find a suitable name for him, and soon. Otherwise he'll kill me before he gets a name and suffer the embarrassment that dogged Great-Great-Grandfather Nameless Dume throughout his life. It was his own fault, really, because he was remarkably adept in the use of explosives from an early age. The West Tower is still unsafe.

Perhaps it's time to check Dumelet's particular skills. With luck, the social services health visitor will call soon.

Dumelet also had a restless time because of the monster under his bed. It escaped and he wouldn't settle until I'd found it and put it back. It was in the closet, and it wasn't until I had Underbed Monster back in place that I realised Closet Monster had run off too. I finally found it in the kitchen, behind the fridge.

Monsters aren't what they used to be. When I was little, they were far more resilient. Dumelet can't get at them so they have nothing to be scared of. If he follows traditional Dume development, he won't even try to eat them for five or six years yet. He can't even get their scales off until his second row of teeth grow in.

I bought his Christmas presents today. A Junior Dissection Kit and a puppy. That should keep him occupied for most of the day.

Well, he's quiet now. The monsters are back in place, the malevolent-whisper tape is on and the room is in total darkness, just as he likes it. Senga's asleep too. She's taken to striking up conversations so I've taken to lacing her drink with laudanum. It works well - I'm happy, and she's very happy indeed. Quiet, too.

Silence is golden, and anything golden is worth money.

It should have something to do with Santa, the red guy who appears in the night, but what? I have to work on a theme here but I have absolutely nothing coming through. The Professor hasn't been around for some time either. He's always useful for getting the muse working.

It would help if Dumelet stopped howling all night. I mean, it's not as if it's a full moon and anyway he can't see the moon through the swamp mist. Which reminds me. He needs a name and I need to think of a Christmas present for him. Perhaps I can do both at once? He could have a name as a present. It's one he'll keep his whole life and it won't cost me any money. Perfect.

Now, it's time to rattle my head. There must be an idea in there somewhere.

I had to help her change Dumelet's nappy. I have never seen anything so disgusting in my life. It was my job to hold the muzzle on him while she used the power hose and bleach to clean him, followed by a little baby powder of course, and then she'd strap the new nappy on with cable ties. It would be cheaper to use safety pins but I prefer he's not armed.

I had to carry the bag of evil stench out of the room. I wish I had longer arms. Senga has apparently been throwing these out into the swamp so I'll have to tread carefully next time I go out for a walk. They could mutate into anything out there. It's not so surprising that I've seen little of the Ferals or the Slimy Swamp Thing lately if the castle is surrounded by these little bombs of revulsion.

What a horrific experience. It's over now and I can get back to those intestines.

Tomorrow I'll fix Dumelet's muzzle with something he can't chew through.

Senga is recovering. The wounds aren't likely to be fatal even though this Dumelet did come with unusually long fingernails and very sharp hair. She wanted to cuddle him. I don't think that's a good idea until he's been domesticated and even then it's a risk. So I dosed her up with her favourite booze and left her to sleep. While she's asleep I'll fix the more damaging wounds with Araldite and acrylic paint. By the morning she won't know the difference although it might sting a bit if she makes any sudden moves. She might take a little longer to make breakfast than usual but I have to make allowances. She has just given birth, after all.

As for Dumelet, he's gnawing at the bars of his titanium cage but he won't get through them. I'll drop in a thigh or two to keep him busy for the night and transfer him to his cot when he's calmed down. I have long tongs for the purpose.

Now I have to think of names for him. The ones I used when he tried to bite through my chain mail gloves are probably not suitable.