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.]