That is Quite Enough!

Dear Friends, pray forgive my recent absence. Mrs. Wells has been working at her laptop night and day to finish her latest opus and has not let me get near it. However, she is finished her book and taking a well-deserved rest while Sven rubs the 'kinks' out of her neck and has left her laptop unattended a while.

You might recall that recently I had cause to go after Lyle with one of Sven's dumbells, after reports of his 'carousing' with certain rowdy but irresistible writers who call themselves Romance Bandits. Bandits indeed, if they would seek to steal Lyle's heart away from me.

Needless to say, with Miss Cassondra posted guard outside my prison, I did not get far. Those who know me understand that while my internal fortitude has never been lacking, I am averse to physical pain, unless said pain is caused by a necessary adjunct to fashion such as beautiful shoes or a tight-fitting corset. Generally speaking, though, when an angry Bandita brandishes a rather deadly looking weapon in my face I step back through the doorway of my prison and lock myself in.

Days passed in useless fretting about Lyle's safety. Imagine my astonishment when my beloved appeared, large as life, on the Romance Bandits blog! Lyle is alive and well (and growling) I see. And flirting with those charming ladies the Banditas call their 'Buddies' whatever that may be. Now, where is that dumbell? If he is going to imagine anyone covered in cream and peaches, let it be me...

Foiled! Change of Plan

Unhappily, I must report the failure of various stratagems my well-meaning friends devised. I have not been able to slip past the ever-vigilant Sven. I begin to doubt the man is aught but a machine. He never sleeps and never leaves me alone, even to use the necessary. Fortunately, a well-placed and highly decorative screen preserves my modesty or I'd be obliged to send Mrs. Wells a stern message.

My prison has become rather crowded, what with the massage table and various aids to exercise which Sven insisted be imported. He jogs on a motorised treadmill every day, reminding me of nothing so much as one of those poor kitchen dogs who must run on a wheel to keep the roast turning over the fire.

I've mentioned that a brisk walk in the park would be far more healthful, but he saw through my attempt to be rid of him and gave me a Stern Look in response. Sven is even more attractive when he is angry, which I must confess tempts me to provoke him.

In the end, I suppose, I shall be obliged to resort to violence once more. Reluctant as I am to render my jailer unconscious with one of his smaller dumb bells, I am gradually screwing my courage to the sticking place, as it were. It might take some time. Unlike Lyle, I do not make a habit of smashing my fist into people's faces or dangling them by the ankles over a balcony. Violence does not come easily to me, at all. [If a Certain Lady refrained from dabbling in affairs of State and blackmailing government ministers, I might not be called on to commit violence. But fear not, my lady, if living in your pocket all this time does not drive Sven to either murder or suicide, I shall count myself surprised. Either way, your troubles will be over. ~Ed.]

I have, however, made various acquaintances who call on Sven for massage and conversation. After observing this operation many times, I formed a favorable opinion of it. Sven's touch is wholly impersonal (did I mention he is a machine?) and his subjects seem vastly pleased and relaxed when they leave. If I must languish under durance vile, I might as well take advantage of what meagre succor is offered me, don't you think? [I am not a puppet to be played on a string, ma'am. You are clearly bent on provoking more than Sven with this little charade. But if you are in any doubt, I refer you to my previous remarks in re Sven and his imminent demise.~Ed.]