Every Man has his Price

It appears my strategy is working. You might not have noticed, dear Diary, but I can make myself very irritating at times. [The Editor would pass comment here but he's too busy choking on his Tim Tam.] Frustrated and not a little sorry she brought me here in the first place, Mrs. Wells left to deal with some new characters who've had the ill luck to cross her path. My message to those unfortunates is RUN! Do not walk, in the other direction!!

But I fear it is too late. Mrs. Wells informed me that in order for a romance to have a tortured hero, someone must apply the thumbscrews. There was a light in her eye that I did not like. I feel a desperate sympathy for the unknown wretch who now falls under her displeasure, but in this bizarrely luxurious prison I can do nought. And I confess, I am too concerned with my own attempts at escape.

These have been unsuccessful as you might have guessed, since I still languish here writing on this lapd...top(!). Sven has learned his lesson after my last ill-fated attempt to elude him. He is not at all as stupid as he looks, which has been a profound disappointment. But perhaps he might be susceptible to bribes. Every man has his weakness, after all . . . [Sven has my sincere sympathies.~Ed.]

Suggestions for appropriate bribes gratefully received! [I tremble at the thought of where this will lead. Too much to hope that wiser heads will prevail, I suppose.~Ed.]

The First Diary

Do not imagine, dear Diary, that I have not been kidnapped before. The first time . . . but no, I must go farther back than that. It all began with another diary, or two other diaries, one imaginary, one real, and the mix-up betwixt the two.

But let me first tell you that I have learned how to Add Pictures! And if you do not believe me, here is proof:

There, gentle Diary, is the man for whom I would have given the world. [Looks like a bit of a weed to me. ~Ed.] I sketched him and Mrs. Wells took the sketch and put it on her lapdog.

Do you notice the noble brow, the fine, sensitive mouth? Is it any wonder this gentleman occupied my thoughts for so many years? [You dwell too long on irrelevancies, here. Get to the point, ma’am. ~Ed.]

Mrs. Wells has a number of interesting things on her lapdog [I am reliably informed the word is ‘laptop’. Use correct terminology, please.~Ed.] Including this. I was shocked, until she assured me it was purely for the purposes of research.

Ah, Sven has arrived with cocktails. More anon!

Lapdogs and Lunatics

This morning, armed with determination and a slight headache, I sought the person or persons responsible for my incarceration. There was no fire iron available so I stunned Sven (my guard) with a judicious swing of a bucket boot and found myself in a subterranean maze, the which (I am informed) resembles nothing so much as The Writer's Mind. My captors call it The Lair.

Romantic heroes and heroines abound here, as well as shady characters not yet fully formed in their creators' thoughts--all in various stages of Falling In Love. And my goodness, all of them have a story. I was vastly relieved when Mrs. Christine Wells came to extricate me from their embarrassing disclosures and told me why I was here.

Mrs. Wells was quite unsympathetic when I told her of my headache, and said that I'd been giving her a headache for nigh on a year and it was time I repaid her for all the pain I'd caused. Nothing but a troublemaker, she grumbled, and manhandled me into a chair. [A woman of discernment, apparently. ~Ed.]

The chair sat before a desk of rather crude but practical design. And on the desk was the strangest thing. I could have sworn she said it was a lapdog, and I stared at her, for clearly, she was mad. The contraption bore no resemblance to my aunt's Pug, but it is common knowledge that one must humour lunatics, so I merely nodded and smiled. Mrs. Wells has the queerest accent--worse than Sven's. One cannot understand the half of what she says. However, one thing I am clear about--one can write on these lapdogs, apparently. It has all these little buttons with letters on them that reproduce themselves on the screen. Quite ingenious! Mrs. Wells showed me how to use it and I proved myself adept.

I must say, the border she made for me is quite pretty, although the lady at that desk in the corner looks nothing like me and she is quite a dowd besides. But I shall make do. It is not easy to remember the steps I must follow on this mysterious machine, nor to make words from letters with one finger at a time, so I trust you will forgive me if I err. Mrs. Wells says that next she will show me how to Add Pictures, which sounds vastly exciting.

I hope no one else reads this lapdog, as when writing journals I have a horrible tendency to lose myself in them and the result is often indiscreet. I wonder what this button called 'Publish Post' does . . .

Kidnapped! Or, How This Diary Began

Really, it was most disconcerting. One moment, I was lying in my beloved's arms on the terrace, the purple and green wisteria rioting overhead. Strangely, we were in ball dress in full daylight, but I'm perfectly sure there was an explanation for that.

The next moment, I found myself in a sort of cave, surrounded by a band of what looked for all the world like female brigands! They snatched the pearls from around my throat, muttering something about 'Bandit Booty' and locked me in a room with a strangely spoken and rather scantily clad man called Sven. If I understand him correctly, he wishes me to lie down on a table and let him put his hands on my person! Only a massage, indeed! The last man who put his hands on me that way did not mean anything good by it!

But these strange drinks he keeps offering me do look rather festive, if a little vulgar. I wonder if I might just have a taste . . .

[If this Sven so much as breathed on you, my lady, he is a dead man.~Ed]