I’m sorry that I’m writing this on the back of a chocolate wrapper… and I’m even more sorry that I ate the chocolate first… I did INTEND on sending it, but chocolate has a habit of mysteriously disappearing before you can attach the postage stamp.

Oh dear, I seem to have used up half of the space on that paltry excuse - and now I don’t know if I even have the space to explain The Case of the Missing Letter-Writing Supplies. I suppose I could try… Only, look! Three quarters of the space has gone now. How did that happen?! I shall write again soon instead — hopefully when these scheming letter-writing supplies have turned up.

Your friend,

Agatha

P.S. Why do you suppose chocolate wrappers are so disappointingly small?

Yesterday, I had to take the fox to the vet. He got a splinter in his paw, you see, and is being characteristically dramatic about the whole thing. He has knitted himself a top which says “I am very poorly”, and holds his paw up with a sob whenever anyone tries to speak to him. He has also hired a nurse to look after him in his unwell state (which I definitely cannot afford).

I really couldn’t afford NOT to take him to the vet… Though, of course, ‘vet’ is not the word we used. The fox finds this word rather insulting, you see, and prefers “vulpinologist”. He says it’s more respectful of his ‘superior animalness’. He also says it keeps him safely disassociated from hamsters (towards whom he is strangely prejudiced).

Anyway, we went to the vulpinologist (the vet), which required some clever hoodwinking on my part. I commissioned the pigs to make a custom sign saying ‘vulpinologist’ which I fixed to the building when we arrived. This wasn’t necessary in the end, however, because the fox, if you didn’t know, cannot read English. It could have said ‘Cat Food Emporium’ and he would have been none the wiser.

When we got there, I was already quite hot (if you didn’t know, there is a raging heatwave at the moment).

“Can I have a go in your dog bath,” I asked the vet politely.

“Our dog bath?”

“Yes,” I nodded, “Just a quick dip to cool off, you understand.”

She was a little confused. I know this because she said “your request is rather confusing, Miss Armitage”.

Apparently most customers don’t ask to use their dog bath (which feels like a wasteful opportunity to me). This, of course, did not deter me.

She tried to tell me about the rust and the fleas and the fact it was far too small for a human to sit comfortably, but I was undeterred.

“Don’t worry at all, Ms Vulpinologist,” I smiled. “I promise I do not mind.”

I got in and had a splash - which is to say I managed to splash my hands once before a great dane interrupted me. The dane had booked out the bath, you see, which meant my quick dip was more quick than anticipated.

This left me dripping wet and still rather in want of a bathe.

Thus, while the fox was getting his splinter removed, I went off in search of a cool, watery spot.

First, I ran through a residential sprinkler (until I was threatened by a woman with a orange juicer… I don’t know what she were going to do with it, but they were blood oranges and you know what they say, ‘blood orange-eaters are vicious’).

I also tried to swimming pool in the leisure centre, but this was being used for hamster daycare. There is a rodent rodeo happening in the park this afternoon, you see, and all of the young hamsters were left in the care of the leisure centre workers for some reason. Since baby hamsters can’t swim particularly well, the whole thing was covered in inflatable hats (hamsters love hats, mostly because of the alliteration).

I had to settle for a puddle in the middle of the road - and when I say that it was a puddle, I mean that it WAS a puddle, which is to say that it wasn’t anymore. Unfortunately the trusted puddle which was always there in my favourite pothole had completely evaporated. I had to refill it myself. I used a pipette to move water from a pond to the pothole and, after several hours, I had filled enough of the hole for the water to cover my ankles.

In all of the excitement, I forgot about the fox - and never got a chance to bathe in my pondwater pothole in the end because the vet (vulpinologist) came looking for me in a landrover.

“Miss Armitage!” she called, lobbing a bag of horse food at my head. “Your dramatic fox is waiting for you.”

We came home sweaty but unsplintered - and the best part is that one of the baby hamsters snuck into my bag. The fox has already changed his mind about hamsters, and has really taken it under his wing (which is to say that the fox is currently wearing a pair of mechanical canary wings which he stole from the vets… He insists on keeping the hamster safely under his canary wings for the time being, and they’ve become firm friends).

Anyway, I should go. Apparently, a poolman has just arrived for dinner. This, to me, sounds very promising. Everyone knows that poolmen come with pools.

Your friend,

Agatha

I’d opened presents shortly before midnight, but one friend had waited. Her mum wanted to be there, she said.

“She wants to see your reaction.”

Her mum - crucially - was an English teacher.

The next morning, I teased back the wrapping paper. Inside, was a notebook. Thin, red, with a plain cover and a thin plastic membrane holding everything in place.

“This is what all the great writers used,” her mum told me. “All great writers love moleskines.”

I felt the weight of that.

This slim red notebook wasn’t just a notebook. It was a symbol, and I knew she was telling the truth because she was an English teacher (at thirteen, I trusted English teachers more than any other species of person… to be fair, I think that’s probably still the case!).

The plastic membrane remained, however, for quite some time. You see, I was vegetarian, and when I heard ‘mole skin’, I panicked. I didn’t want to use a notebook made from moles, not even one recommended by an English teacher.

It was only a year later, when I learnt that it was not made from real moles, that I opened it. The paper was uncharacteristically smooth and undeniably luxurious - nothing like the decorative Paperchase notebooks which, up until that point, had been my instruments of choice… I was instantly hooked and have filled dozens of moleskines since. Like so many others, it became my ‘notebook of choice’ .

Even in 1998, a mere year after moleskine launched, booksellers reported dedicated customers coming in every week to buy a new one, and refusing to try anything else. Back then, a red moleskine would have been laughable.

No, no, that’s not a moleskine, someone would invariably say if I went back in a time machine. Moleskines are BLACK.

It was only after Leichturmm popped up as a competitor - complete with a colour wheel of choices - that moleskine reluctantly made navy, red and green available too.

The moleskine is beloved because it is elegant - and I mean that in the mathematical sense of the word.

I think the moleskine has a similar quality… it is skillfully simple. The moleskine has some essentials (a map, timezones, a spot for contact information), but it is sparsely furnished. And I think that’s actually quite an impressive thing.

I’ve run a stationery shop for nearly nine years, and am always looking to add new and exciting spreads to our planners. I like to add extra illustrations to the interior pages, and commission a favourite artist for the cover. I love what we create at Pumpkin Productivity (ad - brand founder), but it is not elegant in the way that the moleskine is.

It is also, undeniably, a luxury item. Moleskines are not cheap as far as notebooks go - but nor are they expensive. They have the impression of leather without the cost (meant both in terms of finances and cruelty to the mole population), and they feel substantial when you hold one between both hands.

The ‘luxury’ comes, I think, from its symbolic value. Among journallers and writers, the moleskine has literary legacy… Hemingway, Picasso, Chatwin: all of these creatives used moleskines. Indeed, moleskine, as a company, was inspired by Chatwin’s book The Songlines, where the narrator laments that his favourite Parisian notebook has been discontinued:

Realising that Chatwin’s semi-fictional character was right, and these Parisian oil-skin notebooks were no longer being made, Maria Sebregondi co-founded moleskine shortly afterwards and brought the notebooks back.

When you use a moleskine, you too are tapping into this history - just as that wise English teacher told me the day after my thirteenth birthday.

The question I have been toying with, therefore, is whether this is performative. Moleskines have social capital, and certainly work as signifiers among those who use them… and doesn’t this mean they are inherently performative?

Yes and no — but not in a bad way.

Saussure says that language is built on ‘signifiers’ and the ‘signified’. The word is the signifier and the object or thing is the ‘signified’. For example, in English we share an understanding that the “signifier” ‘apple’ refers to this:

But the ‘signified’ also contains allusions and ideas and associations - which are different for all of us. The apple is a symbol of truth (Tree of Good and Evil), but also of health (’an apple a day keeps the doctor away’), and also sometimes of ‘coolness’ (i.e. the recent idea that ‘eating an apple has the cool factor as smoking a cigarette’).

Any of the above might influence your decision to eat an apple (consciously or unconsciously). You might grab an apple as a healthy snack - and does that mean you are performing ‘health’, or does that mean you are being healthy?

What about if you eat an apple whole because you feel ‘cool’ when you eat it (whatever that means). Let’s say you were by yourself, and that that ‘coolness’ was a nice feeling. Is that performative…?

Well, yes. I think it is performative. But I also don’t think that is a bad thing. You have simply created a story around the object - which we all do every day because we are human and humans tell and create stories.

I like to call these ‘story-filled objects’ — and when you interact with Story-Filled Objects, you perform something which creates meaning for yourself.

The moleskine notebook is also a ‘story-filled object’, and can similarly be performative.

And, when I say that, I mean that the moleskin becomes a prop which helps you understand and tap into the person you want to be and the narrative you are trying to embody.

There are so many things help us to do this - things that get us into a particular headspace (think of how you feel when you wear your favourite blazer, or drink from that teacup, or spend that extra time putting your sandwich together so it actually looks nice… which happens rarely for me, I will say).

I think, by and all, we do this less for others and more for ourselves. We do this for ourselves to make everyday things more special.

It is a beautiful thing when we perform rituals for ourselves. It is a way for us to respect the value of our time and the brevity of each moment.

When I write in a nice notebook or a nice pen, I find myself feeling the weight of what I am doing.

As that English teacher said - “all great writers wrote in moleskines”. The moleskine, as a connective vessel, reminds us, constantly, that we are human too and that we are capable of such things.

It has been four days and my companion is still with me. She has decided she wants to be a professional sleuth (which is why she is standing over my shoulder with a magnifying glass as I write this… she says she is being “subtle”).

If you’re wondering where she got her magnifying glass, we went to a Magnifying Glass Emporium today. Like all good emporiums, this one had thirteen floors (well, technically it had fourteen floors but one of the floors is a café which serves “The World’s Best Hazelnut Pie”).

The Magnifying Glass Emporium is run by a 10-year-old boy called Lewis who wears ginormous boots to double his height. These are very difficult to walk in — and I know this because he kept falling over.

“Welcome to the Magnifying Glass Emporium,” Lewis announced. “Where subtlety and elegance triumph all.”

Lewis promptly fell backwards into a cabinet full of magnifying glasses and smashed everything. He didn’t realise that he’d smashed everything though. I know this because he kept on talking like nothing had happened. Indeed, my companion did not notice either… she was admiring a magnifying glass in the shape of a ketchup bottle at the time and was far too absorbed to hear the crashing.

[She has just told me that I was hallucinating because it is two testimonies against one. Thus, you should probably ignore everything I just said there. I am sorry for being so misleading].

Lewis showed us around the Emporium. Each floor had dozens of tiny rooms, and there were impressive-looking scanners on each of the doors. To get into each, you had to scan a different body part. I scanned my fingerprints, and my eyes, and my nose, and my shoulders, and my knees, and my toes.

Lewis tells me it is for security. Lewis also tells me it is for money. Apparently, there is a hippopotamus at the London Zoo who pays a high price for these prints (and when I say a ‘high price’, I mean that he gives Lewis lots of free tickets to the Zoo). I tried to tell Lewis that this was a bad idea and probably a mis-use of personal data, but Lewis said I didn’t know what I was talking about.

We stayed at the Emporium for several hours, in which time my companion managed to choose a small selection of magnifying glass (which is to say, she chose seventy-three).

I have much more self control, and only bought seventeen. My favourites are a magnifying glass which doubles as a frying pan, and a magnifying glass in the shape of a rubber duck--

[Oh dear, I’m sorry about the sudden tears to the paper, dear friend… My companion yelled “AHA! THE RUBBER DUCK RETURNS!” when she saw the part about the rubber duck, and whisked this paper out of my hands as evidence. She said she needs it for her case files. She only returned it when she realised I was talking about the magnifying glass variety of duck, and not the killer variety].

Before there are any more misunderstandings, I think I will say goodbye.

Your friend,

Agatha

In my pursuit to understand the fox’s love for Thursdays, you may remember that I contacted my companion by conch shell. I heard nothing from her at the time… but it turns out that her conch shell is far more high-tech than mine, and able to record messages. Not knowing this, I may have accidentally left a rather concerning message on her conch shell…

I know this because she turned up with goggles and raincoats (plural), broke down the door with an umbrella, and threw pebbles around the cottage shouting AGATHA, I WILL SAVE YOU at the top of her lungs.

Everyone took cover. The fox hid under the kitchen sink, the pigeons flew into the rafters and the pigs were thankful that they were still trapped in a protective wardrobe. The elephant, meanwhile, covered her eyes with her trunk in the hopes that she would disappear and wake up where she wasn’t being pelted with pebbles.

“What’s happening?” I called out (I was watering pineapples in the greenhouse). “Don’t start the cricket game without me!”

When I ran back to the kitchen with my cricket bat, however, my companion was standing there in her signature sandwich-filled hat, and there wasn’t a ball insight.

“Agatha, are you okay? I think I’ve cleared all threats.”

She puffed out her chest with relief, and seemed quite unaware that all of the windows were smashed.

It turns out that I had accidentally left a message on her conch shell of me screaming about rubber ducks.

(I couldn’t find mine yesterday, and you can’t have a bath without a rubber duck… everyone knows that. My exchange with the fox went something like this:

“Has anyone seen my rubber duck?”

“Your what?” said the pigs, unable to hear me over the Babe re-runs.

“My RUBBER DUCKS!” I called again.

“Your WHAT?” shouted the fox.

“My RUBBER DUCK!”).

My companion had heard my desperate voice and, putting two-and-two together assumed I had been ambushed by a giant rubber duck and desperately needed her help. She had taken the first tractor to Jellyfish Cottage, and stocked up on supplies at the local Watersports Centre. The pebbles, if you couldn’t guess, were to deflate the dangerous (and thankfully non-existent) rubber ducks.

It really was quite the eventful morning (especially since this was followed by an explosion at the local popcorn factory which made it snow popcorn for the rest of the day).

All in all, I count myself lucky. Even though my kitchen is trashed, my companion has decided to stay for the week and the fox is overjoyed because he has 102 new pebbles to add to his rock collection.

Do you collect anything, dear friend? Please do write and tell me. Perhaps I have something I can send for your collection?

Your friend,

Agatha

P.S. I never found my rubber duck yesterday, which means I couldn’t have a bath unfortunately.

It is still Thursday, and I have spent the entire day trying to understand why Thursdays are so important.

I went to see my next-door neighbour first (the one who doesn’t like me). The problem with visiting people who don’t like you is that it always comes with a risk of injury. This particular day, my neighbour was lamenting the fact that all but one of her turnips had been eaten by the muntjacs. It’s no surprise really that she threw the turnip at my head. Luckily for me, it missed me by a centimetre, and unluckily for her, it was caught in the mouth of my muntjac-friend. I did try again to ask her why Thursdays were so important after that, but I forwent my missions when she started getting out the bricks…

Instead, I asked the muntjacs, who seem to think it’s something to do with Frank Sinatra. Apparently there are matinee performances of the Frank Sinatra musical on Thursdays (they’ve been thinking about buying tickets and don’t like to drive at night). I don’t think this can be it though, because foxes aren’t allowed in theatres (foxes, you see, have a tendency to climb up on stage and start singing and dancing if they go to the theatre. This is quite disruptive for the performers, though I personally think it usually adds to the excitement).

Finally, I asked my old companion (the one I met at the sandcastling competition). I gave her a call on my trusted conch shell but she didn’t pick up. She must not have heard it ringing…

This meant that I just have to sit tight and wait to see why Thursday is so important… I just hope the fox doesn’t get too mad and leave when he realises I have forgotten. He seems to be getting more and more excited as the day progresses… He’s just finished his fur-care routine and he seems more elated than I had seen him in months. He is currently padding around the house smiling broadly and singing “my, oh my, I’m so excited it’s Thursday” in a screechy singsong voice.

I shall write soon with an update, dear friend — and I do hope it is a positive one…

I’m writing this a little later, dear friend (not that you’ll know this… letters, after all, are not very good at telling the time). We’ve just eaten dinner, and all of my questions were answered at tea time when Andrea the Lasagne Chef produced a putrid-smelling dish from the oven. The horrible, meaty smell stunk up the whole cottage.

“Cat food lasagne!” she declared with a grin. “The fox’s favourite!”

There were empty (stolen) cans of catfood on the kitchen sides — and the dish was so humongous that it had been separated into twelve separate baking dishes.

The fox demolished his plate in seconds, getting food stuck in his freshly groomed coat.

Since the elephant and I are vegetarian, we did not join him. Instead, the fox and Andrea ate the entire thing (Andrea has developed a love for cat food in her time at Jellyfish cottage, largely owing to the fox’s cat food cartel). The elephant and I instead shared a carton of gazpatcho, topped with gingernut biscuits.

I shall send you the recipe soon, dear friend - but, for now, I am all out of paper!

Your friend,

Agatha

Thus, I thought I would share the 8 pocket notebooks which I use, and (sometimes) keep inside my trusted Paper Republic journal. This article is inspired by the wonderful who recently shared a fantastic post on here with 10 ideas for using empty notebook. I always love to hear how other people make use of ‘paper technology’, and so I thought someone might similarly find this interesting…

A Commonplace Book

This is the obvious one, and the one I was clearly going to talk about (because I talk about my commonplace book far too much). Commonplacing is so wide-ranging and there isn’t just one way to keep a commonplace book, but it’s essentially a place where you can collate ideas and quotes so that you don’t lose them. I keep a few different types of commonplace book, but this one is my A6 Leichturm is first love. Each page has a different thematic heading, and I store quotes under these titles. I just love how these quotes end up being so incredibly variable… from books, conversations, films… and how they let you find a new perspective on an old idea. It’s a great way to think more synoptically.

Messy Notes:

Very self-explanatory, and yet extraordinarily useful… This is where you go when you don’t know where else to put something. I use mine for everything, and get through a Messy Notebook roughly every month. Mine is filled with mindmaps, stamps, to do lists… everything you can think of!

Mini Project Books:

My ‘Mini Project Books’ are always slim because they are usually short-lived. When a new project comes up (an article, or a speech, or a product for my stationery shop, or a university essay), I will start a new one of these.

I like having a dedicated space where I can put everything to do with said project so nothing gets lost… To do lists, mind maps, quick thoughts… all of it is kept together which means I always know where to find it. I started keeping Project Books three years ago, and could never go back!

(Note: I usually have one notebook per two projects - one from the front and one from the back).

Commonplace Book 2

At first glance, this might feel like ‘Messy Notes’, but it is not at all… While ‘Messy Notes’ are often practical, this notebook is filled with things which don’t have an end-date. This notebook is for lists of current favourites, random content ideas, general planning, long-term reminders, and even more quotes, facts and ideas.

In many ways, it is another commonplace book. The difference is that I use it to remember personal information and life-relevant content, as opposed to that which is purely factual, literary and metaphysical.

This is also the notebook I will always keep on my person. This and the ‘Messy Notes’ are probably the most used and consulted.

Autograph Book

This next one is a fairly new one for me, but it’s one I am keen to use more… I have started a tiny (and unusually slim) notebook for ‘Autographs’. Autograph Books were particularly popular in the late 19th Century, and they are places where you collate notes and messages from the people you meet.

These messages can be from anyone — and, so far, I have four (all family). Essentially, you ask people to write something that you can read later (a bit like a letter). I put a lot of weight on the written word and see handwriting as a deeply personal and connective medium. I hope that this book will eventually hold messages from all of my favourite people, and I think it could be a lovely way to keep the people you love with you.

Traditionally, Autograph Books would be taken travelling. They worked a bit like address books, and allowed you to stay in touch with the people you met. Obviously, social media makes this slightly redundant, but it’s infinitely more gratifying.

If you want to see a real Autograph Book from the 1880s, I found one on eBay last year and did a deepdive series on Instagram…

Physical Art Gallery

If you’re anything like me, your camera roll is filled with pictures of paintings (both from galleries and screenshots). I always intend to go back to these, but never did when they were on my phone. My ‘Physical Art Gallery’ is a mini notebook filled with paintings that I have seen and like.

I simply stick in the painting, write down where I saw it, and maybe jot down a few thoughts.

I used to do this in my ‘Media Journal’ but recently switched over to a mini notebook instead, and have found I refer to it more now than I did!

Visual Commonplace Book

This is a little like the Physical Art Gallery, but it is for photos instead. I specifically use this notebook as a visual commonplace book for the novel I am writing. I add pictures from pinterest, stills from films, pictures of buildings and places I have seen in real life. Sometimes I also add poems and passages from books. It is essentially a place for media which might end up providing guidance and inspiration for my own writing.

If you don’t write, you could use a similar notebook to inspire any creative pursuit… or create a general one just filled with photos and things you like.

It’s Thursday today, and you know what that means! …

Oh dear, I was rather hoping that writing that would jog my memory, but it has done nothing at all… You see, the fox seems very excited that it is Thursday but I have no idea why. He keeps saying “I am very excited that it is Thursday again!”

I like Thursdays as much as the next person (mostly because of the way it sounds… ‘Thurs’ is considerably gentler than ‘Sat’ or ‘Tues’, and makes me feel rather like a cat when I say it… I don’t think this is why the fox likes Thursdays though because he doesn’t speak English).

I’ve been racking my brain all morning but really cannot understand why he is so jovial. Judging by your lack of a response, I don’t think you can understand it either (I was rather hoping you would reach through this letter and explain it to me… even though I know that’s not how letters work).

The reason I am so panicked is that the fox gets offended by such things. You see, the fox has an extraordinary memory, and only decides to forget things when they’re no longer important. I, however, seem to forget important things all of the time (I once forgot where I live and accidentally broke into the stationmaster’s house by accident. I was reading on their sofa when they found me… Certainly an awkward encounter, and not one I wish to repeat…). If the fox realises I have forgotten why Thursday is important, he will think I don’t care and may leave Jellyfish Cottage and never come back.

I tried to ask the elephant why Thursday was important, but the elephant had popped out for a spa day and was thus not available for comment.

The pigs, meanwhile, are still stuck inside that darned wardrobe. I have no idea how to get them out and am just thankful that they installed a television inside which seems to be keeping them quite entertained. So long as they keep streaming Babe, I think they’ll be fine (it’s Babe Appreciation Week, and Channel 2 is streaming Babe on repeat). The pigeons meanwhile do not speak English and don’t seem to have any idea what a Thursday even is…

The fox has just peeked his head round the door to - once again - remind me that it is Thursday and that he is “OVERWHELMINGLY EXCITED”.

“Thank onion it’s Thursday!” I remarked, which he thankfully seemed quite satisfied by.

He has now left to comb his fur (he has a multi-step fur care routine which is time-consuming enough that I hopefully have time to figure out why Thursday is so important.

I have to dash - this pickle isn’t going to resolve itself! I shall write when I have answers!

Your friend,

Agatha

It has just occurred to me that you probably have no idea where I live…

Well, I assume this to be the case because none of your letters seem to be reaching me, and I can only assume that this is because you cannot find my address. Address Books are notoriously good at hiding, you know. I once played a game of Hide and Seek with my address book which lasted almost three years. In the end, I found it in a bag or flour - perhaps check your pantry if you are stumped?

Though maybe it will be easier if I simply tell you my address. It is polite to write it on the back of an envelope, you know, but I unfortunately keep on forgetting (I do not have the best memory, you see).

I live at Jellyfish Cottage, which is in the English countryside (the part of England with all of the tractors). My cottage has a thatched roof, green windows, and a greenhouse filled with pineapples.

People often ask if I would consider growing anything other than pineapples - and to that I say ABSOLUTELY NOT. You see, I couldn’t possibly sacrifice any pineapple-space for other plants.

For one, pineapples get quite moody (especially in the mornings), so I don’t suspect any other fruits would want to share a house with them.

More importantly though, pineapple is a necessary component for my famous pineapple upside down cake, which I make every Thursday without fail… Well, apart from last Thursday, and the Thursday before that, and the last three Thursday before that… but every Thursday that I’m NOT kidnapped by cobblers, I bake a pineapple upside down cake.

I make a mean pineapple upside down cake too (which is to say that the moody pineapples get quite grumpy when I turn them upside down). The trick to a good cake is to stand on your head while you mix the batter. In doing so, you can sometimes convince the pineapple that upside down is the right way up, and the right way up is upside down. Only the clever ones figure it out…

Oh dear… I seem to be getting distracted. I definitely didn’t pick up my pen to write to you about pineapple upside down cake — maybe on a Thursday I would, but today is Monday, and Mondays are not a pineapple day.

Where was I? Oh, yes. Jellyfish Cottage.

Despite the name, there aren’t any jellyfish. It is called Jellyfish Cottage purely because the previous owner liked jellyfish, and wanted to commemorate this glorious animal. Unfortunately though, he did not know what a jellyfish actually was. He thought jellyfish were giraffes and giraffes were jellyfish — and that’s why there’s a giraffe door knocker.

I am allergic to Jellyfish so I maybe should change it… but I am a stickler for tradition, and also don’t want to confuse the postman.

Now you know where I live, I trust you will send me a letter in reply, which I very-much look forward to receiving.

I shall be waiting by the door with anticipation (and also with a cup of tea because you can’t expect me to sit and wait by the door without some tea).

If I don’t hear from you, I shall assume you fell into a ginormous yorkshire pudding and call the authorities (I had a dream that this happened last night, and don’t know whether I’m psychic, so I’ve decided it is safer to assume that I am).

Your friend,

Agatha

I’m growing increasingly concerned that my last letter never arrived… You see, the Donkey Dignity Association is known to intercept letters which “disregard the dignity of donkey-kind”, and now I’m worried that I disregarded Sarah’s dignity. Really, though, I was only being truthful. I mean she is very pedantic.

Anyway, trusting that this letter HAS reached you and hasn’t been intercepted by the DDA, you will know that I recently (and finally) arrived home.

The fox was overjoyed to see me.

“I thought the day would never again come,” the fox sobbed. “I was sure you’d left me for good.”

You might be wondering, dear friend, why the fox thought I wasn’t coming home — and that’s because the fox cannot read.

You see, Vulpine does not have an alphabet and is quite different from human languages. It is purely oral, which makes it quite difficult to communicate through letters (letters, if you didn’t know, typically require some form of writing).

I did try sending little pictures to explain where I was (the fox loves illustrated books, after all!), but he put the elephant in charge of collecting post, and the elephant accidentally ate all of my letters.

After a few weeks, the fox started to panic - and you can hardly blame him for taking matters into his own hands. In my absence, he has become quite the entrepreneur.

For one, he has taken in a renter — a young lasagne-chef called Andrea who is scared of wooden spoons. Andrea has been living in my bedroom for the last month, and is quite adamant that she won’t be leaving. This is why I am currently sleeping in the shed.

The fox has also started his own business…

You might remember that the fox relies on me for cat food (indeed, this is how I first made his acquaintance). Without me there, the fox grew very very hungry — ‘famished’ is the word he used (well, this is the best translation from Vulpine).

Thus, the fox had the ingenious idea to dress up like a cat and steal cat food from our neighbours. It’s actually quite an impressive act. He has a collar and everything, and has become a proficient meower.

The only (obvious) problem is that this is slightly immoral, and absolutely illegal.

Every evening, the fox sneaks through cat flaps and eats all of the cat food he can find. The pigs wait outside with a small red trailer which they fill to the brim with unopened cans.

They are so good at it that they have become known as the Cat Food Burglars, and have even been mentioned on National Television (there’s a warrant out for their arrest, I hear).

“So that’s why there is so much cat food everywhere,” I noted (there were tins of cat food on every speck of floorspace).

“Don’t worry, Agatha, we don’t keep it all ourselves,” the fox assured me. “We’re waiting on a pick-up. A man in St. Ives just ordered three hundred cans from us.”

“Why didn’t he just buy it from the shop instead of from you?”

“Because he wanted to support a small business, of course,” the fox shrugged. “Plus, we accept payment in yarn, and he has a lot of yarn lying around.”

(The yarn-payments worked very well for the fox because he has also started knitting manically in my absence. He is very good and is particularly skilled at making knitted fish slippers. He has made some for the pigs and the elephant and Andrea and sells the excess for a premium profit).

Don’t worry though, dear friend — now that I’m home, the fox has stopped his cat food burglary business. This was after I explained to him that stealing cat food is wrong (he was quite embarrassed to learn this).

They declared bankruptcy this morning.

Anyway, I’m going to leave things here and go and make myself a cup of earl grey tea. I’ll pour a little extra in the envelope too in case you’re parched.

Your friend,

Agatha

P.S. It’s just occurred to me that, in future, I can send tape recordings to the fox instead of letters… That way, we will never run into such complications again, and the fox will never be forced to start several immoral money-making schemes. I’m sure I can find a tape recorder somewhere (the problem will be finding room for it in my already-very-full bag).

“The historian steeped in the human reality of the written and drawn object must remain, if not altogether skeptical, then at least hopeful that the scholar’s seeing eye will not be replaced by an algorithm.” (Jed Buchwald, The Scholar’s Seeing Eye 309)

When I was a teenager, thinking felt embarrassing.

I hated that my thoughts didn’t arrive fully formed, and I despaired at first drafts… I remember writing an English essay on Google Drive when I was fifteen, and being so embarrassed by my first pre-edit draft that I duplicated the project in case my teacher went back to look…

You originally thought Animal Farm’s Moses was just a bird!? I imagined them thinking. Have you even TRIED to think critically.

Thinking is a process, which means your first thoughts will be less sensical than your latest ones. This is expected - inevitable - and yet fifteen-year-old me wanted to tailor everything. I was embarrassed that things didn’t arrive in my head already formed.

Perfectos means ‘completed’ in Latin (see my first Substack article), and I wanted ‘perfection’ in the truest sense of the word. I wasn’t at all interested in showing my thought process.

Thankfully, my perspective has changed a lot in the last ten years (as thoughts are want to do! Who would have guessed my thoughts would change with research and experience?!). In particular, I have grown increasingly enamoured with the idea of the ‘draft’ (especially now, as AI ravages the intellectual and creative landscape).

In my second year at university, I discovered ‘genetic criticism’, an area of scholarship from the 80s which my tutor assured me was vastly outdated… I was told it was inadvisable for me to use it in an essay, that most scholars had moved on… and, yet, I was obsessed. I became fascinated by how facsimiles show the process of creation. That was the year I read Emily Dickinson’s complete poems in Manuscript, studied Lewis Carroll’s Alice Underground, and even did an internship transcribing John Jarmain’s war letters…

It is where my love of manuscripts began.

Back in 2024, I attended the Weston Library’s ‘Write Cut Rewrite’ exhibition, a free exhibition which put writers’ drafts on display. Best of all, there was a glass case filled with Samuel Beckett’s obsessively-annotated drafts. It was my first introduction to Beckett (aside from his short story “The End”), and I was fascinated by the retractions - the way his papers bore the changeability of his thoughts.

When you see these early versions, you see the mark of a human hand.

“One might expect these discarded fragments to end up in waste-paper baskets and disappear. But many are preserved in libraries and archives, a testament to the importance of this form of creative undoing in the writing process”. (Take from the online exhibition page).

Erasmus, the key pedagogical figure of the seventeenth century, says that “a man’s handwriting, like his voice, has a special individual quality”, and he’s right. Think of the last time you received a card or letter. You saw your name on the front of the envelope and, most likely, you recognised the handwriting. You knew, at a glance, if it was from your mum, or best friend, or great aunt. And that, I think, is a magical thing. When you recognise someone’s handwriting, you see the mark of a hand that you know, and draw identity from those scrawled letters. It is an intimate and individual experience impossible on a screen.

One of my favourite cases of this is from Thomas Wentworth Higginson, a friend of Emily Dickinson. In 1891, he famously compared Emily Dickinson’s distinctive handwriting to fossil tracks.

When we see a typed document covered in handwritten revisions (or, even better, a document written entirely by hand!), we see something “steeped in human reality” (as Buchwald puts it). We look at these documents and we know they were touched by a human.

I enjoy the illusion of realistic art, but it is a different experience entirely to look at something clearly hand-made (this, incidentally, is why I love sketches and frescos so much). It is impressive when we can see the fingerprints and creases which promise us that it was created by a hand not unlike our own…

William Blake and Leonardo Da Vinci feel impossibly distant when you look at their perfectly crafted etching or sculpture — but their notebooks and sketches are, as Buchwald says, “steeped in human reality”.

Handwritten documents are connective and intimate in a way that typed documents are not. And yet, they are increasingly rare…

In 2003, Buchwald edited and introduced a scholarly collection called The Scholar’s Seeing Eye. The collated essays focus on manuscript studies, and Buchwald begins the collection with a love letter to analogue media:

“Notebooks of the future may be altogether ephemeral, informative jottings having been neatly eliminated by the delete key or whatever will soon replace it (perhaps a verbal command to the obedient machine)” (309)

This was 23 years ago… the year that Facebook became public, that MySpace was born, and that people started blogging through Wordpress… and Buchwald’s prediction has (unfortunately) come to pass.

The delete key is maybe the most popular thing on the keyboard.

Today, when we draft, we get rid of so much of our work. Instead of scribblings, annotations and quick post-its reminders, we have a delete button — and when we use that button, we turn our work into something clean and sanitised.

It’s efficient, it’s professional, but it’s not really human.

If we were asked for more, most of us wouldn’t have it. And yet, we crave it… at least, I do. Google Drive was always my favourite writing platform because it lets you track your changes and go back to earlier versions. I love that Drive keeps every version — because (inevitably) there will come a moment where that paragraph you wrote on pineapples last week suddenly becomes relevant…

(Note: I’ve heard that the default settings on Google Drive now allow AI to scan all of your documents, which is just diabolical… If anyone uses another writing platform which tracks past versions, please do let me know!).

When we create digitally (especially when people ‘create’ with ai), we usually don’t preserve the process of creation. The focus, instead, is the end product.

I recently learnt about ‘waste books’. These were popular in the 16th century, and are books where you can document your early thoughts and notes on a topic before writing them up in neat. Isaac Newton kept one - a giant folio book now held in Cambridge - which is filled with notes, jottings and diagrams. In this book, you see his thinking as it occurs:

“[H]e expansively recorded universal problems as they occurred to him, ideas as they flowed, solutions as he discovered them. It seemed to live and breathe: the physical embodiment of the period historians call Newton’s anni mirabiles, his years of wonder.” (Roland Allen, The Notebook 201).

Isaac Newton reveals his humanness in this ‘Waste Book’. Later in his life, he would use the book to prove his own genius - the way he was different from other scientists - but (ironically) the book feels more connective than exclusionist.

Indeed, later thinkers used Newton’s book as a reference point. Drafting your thinking means you can return to a thought later. It means we don’t lose the pathways we didn’t choose to take.

The reliance on ‘perfect’ digital versions can disconnect us from creation (and that’s without even talking about the horrors of ai “art”). The draft is what connects the human to the art. It reminds us, I think, what we, as humans, are capable of creating.

“Emails may document scientific interchanges, if they are kept and can be retrieved, but they won’t have the odd hand-written note, added quickly just as the letter or postcard was put in the mail, that overwrites a previous remark and reveals a now-forgotten byway of discovery” (Buchwald 310).

In other words, we lose the part which is “steeped in human reality”.

With analogue media trending, I hope we will bring back the messy handwritten draft. After all, this is a beautiful display of the creative process — and, of course, part of the art itself.

P.S. I really had to bite the bullet and just post this one. It’s not perfect, but I’ll never put it up if I don’t post it now!

In my last letter, I said that we spent the night in the Home for Stray Cats — and, if you have been paying attention, you will know that I am not a cat. This wouldn’t have been a problem if it hadn’t been for the donkey. You see, The Home for Stray Cats is run by a pedantic donkey called Sarah, and nothing gets past a pedantic donkey.

“This is a home for stray cats, not stray humans!” Sarah huffed. “And we certainly don’t let mosquitos inside!”

She glared at Jill.

I explained that Jill was a polite mosquito and would not suck any blood on the premises. I even showed Sarah the handkerchief, but she was having none of it.

“I don’t know what this THING is,” she said, picking up the handkerchief with her teeth. “But I don’t see how it proves anything.”

Sarah thought I was lying. I know this because she started shouting “THIS HUMAN IS LYING!” at the top of her voice, and stomped her hoofs aggressively.

I tried to explain that I was a compulsive juggler, and that she absolutely would know if I WAS lying because she would be somewhere in the air by now — but Sarah had already slammed the door in our faces.

“How are we going to get in now?” Jill despaired.

Thankfully, however, this was a house of cats - and cats are curious creatures. This meant they absolutely could not stay inside when they realised that a human and a mosquito were trying to trespass (apparently it’s an unlikely pairing… I’m sure they’re wrong about that though. Humans and mosquitos go way back!).

There were cats peering out from the windows, and resting in the drainpipes, and sitting onto the roof. Like most cats, these cats had eyes, and some of these eyes worked well. One of the cats could even see in the dark (well, she could see in the dark when she used the torch welded to her collar).

If you have a good memory (which I know you don’t), you’ll know that I was wearing my cat maryjanes — and, once again, they served me well. You see, the cats found these rather complimentary.

(One of the cats later wrote a Substack essay on ‘The Excellence of Cats’, and cited my shoes as evidence that they were better than dogs: “it’s hardly surprising that of all animals, this strange human chose to decorate her feet with OUR likeness”).

Realising I revered cats, they decided to help us… As soon as Sarah was asleep, the cats showed us the secret entrance (and if you ever need to find it, it’s the door at the back with a flourescent sign saying SECRET BACK ENTRANCE).

The cats set us up with a blanket by the fire, and a tin of tuna each (I tried to explain that we were vegetarian, but the cats didn’t seem to understand what that meant).

Unfortunately, it wasn’t very comfortable - mostly because the blanket was made of hairballs which had been sewn together - but we managed to get a solid 6 minutes of sleep, after which we were woken by a procession shouting CIRCUS CIRCUS CIRCUS outside the window.

Now, Jill had never been to the circus before, so we went out to ask what time it would be showing. With no way to get home, we might as well have some fun.

“You want to see us perform?” The circus master said, baffled. “Why on earth would you think we’d be performing?”

“Because you’re chanting circus at the top of your lungs at four in the morning. Isn’t that some sort of advertising technique?” (I don’t know much about advertising but it seemed like an excellent strategy).

The circus master chuckled, chewing his pencil thoughtfully.

“Don’t be silly, you double-eyed human,” he chortled. “This is just our reminder that we’re leaving - just so nobody is confused when they wake up and realise the circus has gone.”

I nodded. That made sense.

Thankfully, the circus was travelling to England next and agreed to give us a ride.

They even offered me a job after I accidentally lied and started juggling impressively with a number of candlesticks.

I had to say no on this occasion though, dear friend. It had been two months since I have seen my dear fox-friend, and I was rather homesick. You must remember that this whole ordeal started when I accepted a new job as a professional flatterer. I should maybe stop accepting job offers when they come my way (especially ones for which I have no qualifications whatsoever).

We still hitched a ride and, in no time at all, we’d been dropped at the end of my old familiar road (rather conveniently, apparently they were set to give a private performance to a local fisherman down the road).

I am now safely home and delighted to finally be re-united with my fox-friend and my earl grey tea.

I shall write again soon.

Your friend,

Agatha

My solo-trips are decidedly bookish (which, indeed, is the beauty of travelling alone). Before travelling, I check for libraries, blue plaques and specific spots which inspired local authors. These can, however, be difficult to find beforehand - and, more often than not, I happen across additional literary spots while I am there.

I thought, therefore, that I would share a Booklover’s Guide to Stourhead. If you are planning a visit, and are slightly (very) obsessed with literature, I hope this can be useful…

The Gardens:

While I love a National Trust property, the gardens are always my favourite - and so this is where we shall start. Behind the main house, over a bridge, and beyond the parish church, there is a landscape garden filled with curiosities. These curiosities are not, however, immediately visible... Instead, the garden’s grottos, cottage and palladian domes are tactfully hidden behind trees and hills. The landscaper Henry Hoare II (or “Henry the Magnificent”) tactfully arranged the gardens so that you would not see everything at once... Instead, things slip in and out of view as you walk around the lake. As you turn on the path, you might catch a glimpse of a white pillar, or a thatched roof, or a western redbud tree — but only for a moment, before it moves again out of sight…

It made me think of Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland (and I would, indeed, recommend this perspective if you visit). It is a place where things and people shrink, distort and disappear as you pass through (like the hedgehog croquet balls and the ‘Eat Me’ biscuits). You never know what you are going to see or pass next, which almost provides a sense of adventure which is impossible in a manicured garden.

Henry designed these gardens between 1741 and 1780; however, its buildings seem to come from distinct historical moments. Some look celtic, others look Roman, others look medieval. The garden thus feels like a kind of story in its own right, but one told through stone instead of words. If you came across this garden with no context, you would think it was layered with history. Henry’s garden invites you to create a story of your own, as you try to understand how and why these buildings each came to exist. As an attendee of the garden, you yourself decide what those histories are, and must create those stories for yourself.

(I was tempted to include a checklist of all of the garden’s buildings, but that would remove the fun of the search! I enjoyed not knowing what I would find. Instead, I will mention only two — because they have specific literary connections).

Apollo:

Apollo is instantly recognisable to any Austen fans who have watched the 2005 adaptation of Pride and Prejudice. It is perched on the hillside and accessible only via a covered walkway made of mossy stones. But if you climb for long enough, you will find the circular Palladian structure where Mr Darcy declares his love for Elizabeth.

The Grotto:

The second one to seek out is the Grotto, which comes with an apt warning for uneven cobbles and an unlit pathway’. Located at the bottom of a steep and curving set of steps, the grotto is a damp, quasi-celtic structure with large windows looking out over the lake. The sound of birdsong drops away as you enter, leaving only the steady trickle of water from the two sculptured fountains inside. The first sculpture is Aeneas, who appears in Homer’s The Iliad, and is the primary subject of Virgil’s The Aeniad. According to mythology, Aeneas ventured into The Underworld, and Henry alludes to this by putting Aeneas’s sculpture in the grotto, which at least feels like it is underground). The second sculpture is of a nymph, who is again connected to literature. You see, carved in the marble beneath the sculpture is an extract from a poem by Alexander Pope (“Nymph of the grot these sacred springs I keep”). If you are bookish (and I assume you are if this is the travel guide you have chosen), you may be interested in the font used for this engraving… because it is actually one of the earliest known cases of a serif font being used (discovered by James Mosley).

The Library:

After exploring the gardens for several hours (and hopefully wandering extensively), you can also visit Stourhead House - which itself has two particularly interesting nuggets for booklovers. While the whole house is beautiful, and remains with its original ancestral furniture, the most glorious room is obviously the library. This library is actually the best-preserved regency library in the UK. The shelves are packed with leather-bound books, there is an ornate mahogany book ladder in the corner, and there is even a replica of Raphael’s School of Athens mural from the Apostolic Palace (this mural pictures Aristotle, Plato, Pythagoras, Heraclitus and more, and it’s one of my personal favourites because of the curiosity it captures).

Sir Richard Colt Hoare (1781-1838) was actually a writer. He wrote two books on Wiltshire (The Ancient History of South Wiltshire and The History of Modern Wiltshire), and these were composed in this very library. His huge, ornate desk (complete with desk legs in the shape of pharaohs) remains in the centre of the library, alongside an equally impressive inkstand. The library is the perfect spot for still, mindful reflection (ideally paired with “Arrival of the Birds” through your headphones).

Libraries have a reverence to them. In William Dunn Macray’s introduction to the 1882 Bodleian Library Catalogue, he uses a quasi-biblical narrative to describe the Duke Humfrey’s Library, and calls it “the unmoved centre of a grand planetary system”. I always feel that in carefully curated libraries like the one in Stourhead, i.e. rooms which hold a reverence for the act of focused study. The mural, the ornate bookcases, the statuette of Henry writing, the custom-made folio cases for larger books… it all shows the act of study as sacred, which maybe it is.

The Gallery:

If you pass through the entire house, you will eventually reach the Gallery. It is the final room on the downstairs loop, and is filled with Italian paintings which Henry collected while on his Grand Tour of Italy. All, that is, apart from two. On giant canvases beside the windows are two particularly glorious paintings which Henry commissioned Henry Thomson to do. The paintings are based on James Thomson’s Seasons collection (a book which remains in the library at Stourhead!):

The first is “Distress by Sea” based on this extract:

”Sad on this jutting eminence he sits

And views the main that ever toils below:

Still fondly forgiving in the farthest verge.

Ships dim discovered dropping from the clouds

At evening to the setting sun he turns,

A mournful eye and down his dying heart”. (from “Summer”, line 936).

The second is “Distress by Land”:

How sinks her soul!

What black despair. what horror fills her heart!

Far from the track, and blest abode of man:

While round her night resistless closes fast,

And every tempest, howling o’er head.

Renders the savage wilderness more wild.

These paintings are striking, haunting depictions - and speak to the significance of Thomson’s poetry collection to Henry. Indeed, it’s made me want to read the Seasons poems!

Thus ends our literary tour of Stourhead House and Gardens… and it really would be wrong for me not to say how grateful I am that this site (like so many heritage sites) actually exists. It was once a private residence, but now anyone can ramble through Stourhead’s gardens. I am so grateful to the National Trust for protecting this site and many others, and making them accessible for our generation and generations to follow.

Book Pairings:

• Seasons by James Thomson

• Rebecca by Daphne Du Maurier

• Pride and Prejudice by Jane Austen

• Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland by Lewis Carroll

• The Aeniad by Virgil

When you last heard from me, I was in a state of confusion - which is to say that I had no idea where I was.

It turns out that I was in a theatre. Only I didn’t realise I was in a theatre because the lights were off (and it can be difficult to know you are in a theatre when the lights are turned off).

All I knew was that there were many velvet seats, which were very comfortable and rather conducive for a nap. Me and Jill had settled down for a quick snooze when we were abruptly woken by a trombonist.

I am sure you have heard that Tam the Trombonist is touring Germany at the moment. She is the most talented trombonist in the western world, and I know this is true because I have never met a trombonist who can eat sandwiches at the same time as playing the trombone. This is a very impressive skill, even if it leaves a rather horrible smell in the theatre (Tam loves herring sandwiches, and herring is notoriously smelly).

Tam took centre stage and we watched happily (what a wonderful coincidence! I never thought I would get to watch her live and smell the herring firsthand!) - but we were unfortunately kicked out at the interval. You probably think this is because we didn’t have tickets, but it’s actually because I was wearing a potato sack.

“Potato sacks are not fancy enough for the theatre, Agatha,” Jill informed me, but this wasn’t it at all. It turns out that Tam the Trombonist is fanatic for potatoes (which is to say they are her favourite food). Apparently my potato sack was very distracting for the poor trombonist who couldn’t think of anything but potatoes once she spotted me.

We were left in the lobby, where we each enjoyed a glass of free red milk before going on our way. You’re probably thinking - Agatha, why was it was free!? - well, the theatre had bought, and then struggled to sell, several hundred cartons of red milk.

As it turns out, they had ordered bread and milk, but someone misheard and thought they wanted RED milk instead.

This wasn’t very good at all - not only because they were vastly understocked for their ‘bread and milk’ night (a special play which is premiering there tomorrow, where audience members are required to consume both in excessive quantities while watching for a fully immersive experience) - but also because red milk is not very popular.

Pink milk is popular - everyone likes pink milk - but red milk is significantly less appetising. Nonetheless, it couldn’t go to waste. You see, the milk seller is easily offended and would never sell them milk again if they threw her produce away!

“What are we going to do!?” the theatre director wailed.

Since we had been kicked out of the theatre and had no other evening plans, Jill and I offered to sell it on their behalf. That is how we found ourselves roaming the streets with a trolly filled with red milk. It was slow business at the start (mostly because everyone was watching Tam the Trombonist), but we eventually found a Home for Stray Cats which happily took it off our hands.

We are spending tonight with the cats, but will hopefully find a way home tomorrow.

Your friend,

Agatha

P.S. I must apologise that my last letter arrived so late… Jill politely offered to post it for me, but accidentally gave it to an elephant instead of the post box. I only realised her mistake this morning when she pointed at an elephant and said “Look! A postbox!” - no wonder I never received your reply! I had started to grow worried… Please don’t be too harsh on poor Jill though. You must remember that she is a mosquito and quite unused to the human world.

I’m afraid I am unable to answer your questions about the elves.

Rather inconveniently for us both, your letter arrived AFTER I left… and, in my experience, this makes it significantly trickier to ask questions. Fewer and fewer people are collecting conch shells these days which means it’s almost impossible to get through to people…

It also means we will never know whether elves prefer ketchup or mayonnaise with their chips… It is an ignorance which we will have to live with.

If I’m not with the elves, you are probably wondering where I am - and the answer is that I don’t exactly know… Once I figure it out, I shall tell you, but for now you must remain as bewildered as I am.

I spent but one evening with the elves in total, where I was shown an impressive selection of cobbling tools, taught to tap dance, and introduced to their pet mosquito, Jill (side note, but I have never met such a polite mosquito… and you know she is polite because she has a handkerchief, and only polite people carry handkerchiefs).

I asked for some tea, but the elves said they did not drink tea and seemed quite insulted that I had asked.

Now, even though I am a Professional Flatterer, I wasn’t entirely sure what I was supposed to be doing. You see, I didn’t have any instructions from the cobblers (well, I did have them at one point, but the elves were in dire need of paper for their paper aeroplane competition, and it felt rude not to offer what I had). This meant I had to go free-style which, according to the fox, is rarely a good idea.

While I did not know the particulars of the Cobblers’ plan, I assumed that they probably wanted me to do some flattery (I am a Flatterer after all), and I distinctly remember Penny telling me to flatter the elves until I was a horse (I’ve never been a horse before, but I assume it’s something I would notice).

Anyway, I resolved to flatter the elves until I grew a tail and desired horse shoes. I flattered their shoe-making skills, and their soup and the bows in their beards (this is very vogue among elves, and requires finesse and skill since the bow is made from the hair). I also complimented their excellent choice of pets, which was not difficult because Jill, as I say, was remarkably polite.

The elves did not seem to like my flattery though. I know this because they chanted “we do not like your flattery” over dinner.

When we finally retired for the night, I still had not turned into a horse (our beds were little sardine tins which were surprisingly comfortable, if not a little smelly).

“So how do you know the cobblers?” Lia asked me as we settled into sleep (Lia is the best tap dancer among the elves and never takes off her tap shoes, not even when she bathes).

I explained that I was their official Flatterer and that I had been kidnapped for the very purpose.

“And are they worthy of flattery, these kidnappers?” she asked.

Now, this flummoxed me slightly. Despite being a professional Flatterer, I did not know what made someone worthy of flattery.

“Does flattery mean anything if you have to do it?” she continued, untying the fashionable bow in her beard.

I considered this for a while, my whole life (well, the last month of it) flashing before my eyes.

“My whole career is a scam,” I realised.

I have been in the depths of an existential crisis ever since, and the elves have been wonderfully supportive. After a smelly night’s sleep, they prepared me a thimble of garlic leaf soup, tied my hair into a bow, and even returned my glasses full fixed (many elves do optometry on the side of cobbling). They knew that I had to leave them if I wanted to find myself again.

Jill was polite enough to show me the way out. She led me up a wall, through several mouse holes, and down a pipe dripping with caramel (the pipe was used for excess caramel from the factory across the road… they make garlic powder, but the owner is a caramel-enthusiast and they needed the pipe for the excess).

Now, everyone knows that liquid caramel is the antidote to shrinking potions and, in no time at all, I was back to my regular size. Before retrieving my things, I changed into a sweet potato sack dress (sweet because it was covered in caramel). Thankfully, my steamer trunk of tea was still waiting for me.

I sat there, outside the shoe shop, shivering and tea-less (despite the trunk, I did not have a kettle… as I’m sure you remember, my kettle short-circuited on the submarine).

In the end, I resorted to using my miniature marshmallow toaster to boil my water. It made only three thimbles of water at a time, but after several hours, I had managed to brew my first cup of earl grey in a week. It was glorious.

Even the thought is making my eyes water with joy. I must go and make another.

Your friend,

Agatha

P.S. Jill has joined me on my travels. You see, she has never been particularly interested in - or good at - cobbling, and has always dreamt of living in Seville (Jill really loves oranges).

I am hoping you will be able to read this. The paper I am writing on is only 2cm by 3cm which, if I’m not mistaken, is rather small for human eyes… If I could have written it larger I would have done, but I’m afraid it would have taken me far too long to complete and you maybe would never have received a reply - or at least not until you had successfully found closure in the truth that I had possibly got helplessly and eternally lost in the streets of this remote German Village… which, in truth, would be remarkably easy to do. Yesterday, when we left the tea bag shop, I was so distracted by all of the interesting shops that Penny ended up blindfolding me to minimise risk (in fairness to her, this was after I ran into a second branch of Jammy Jamson’s Jam Emporium - they’re scaling, if you didn’t know! - and spent several hours browsing the selection of statuettes in the storeroom).

“We are here on important business, Miss Owledge!” Penny said (the directors shoes also chiming in agreement). “And we are already late.”

I tried to ask if we could stop for me to make a cup of tea from my steamer trunk, but she insisted there was “No time at all!” and that the “Elves were waiting”.

It turns out that Germany is famous for its elves, and especially its cobbling elves. I don’t know why I was surprised by this… after all, one of the most famous fairy tales in all of the world is The Elves and the Shoemaker (I was so inspired by this as a girl that I hammered little holes into all of my shoes and left them on my window sill in hopes that a friendly group of elves would come, fix them and make friends… unfortunately this did not happen. Instead I ended up with a holey pair of wellington boots which did nothing to keep out the rain).

After several hours of wandering the streets, we arrived at a quaint shoe shop (I knew it was a shoe shop because there was a little sign in the window which said ‘this is a shoe shop’ in several languages). The door, however, was locked.

“That’s because they’re only accepting elves today,” Penny huffed, as if it was very obvious indeed.

She pointed to another, much smaller door, in the side of the brickwork. The door was red with a tiny brass knocker shaped like a screaming bear. It was barely the size of a pond water vial.

“How do we get inside?” I asked.

“We shrink, of course,” Penny said, huffing again. “Really, Miss Owlledge. I am beginning to think you have never visited a cobbling elf before.”

It transpired that Penny was using the word ‘we’ very liberally here, and actually wanted only ME to take the shrinking potion.

“Our shoes won’t shrink,” Penny explained, gesturing to her beautiful clogs. “And I couldn’t possibly greet the elves without these. The elves won’t take me seriously if I’m not wearing polkadot clogs.”

“That makes sense,” I nodded.

I tried to ask if I could first have a cup of tea, but Penny shook her head again. There was no time at all for such nonsense, she told me.

If you have never tried one, a shrinking potion is rather like pineapple juice - with the small exception that it is green, sparkly and tastes nothing at all like pineapple. Shrinking potions also work remarkably quickly and, in barely ten seconds, I was the size of a broccoli floret.

You’re probably concerned by the fact that my clothes would not shrink with me (how ridiculous! The clothes aren’t the ones taking the potion! Why would they shrink too!), but there’s no need to panic, dear friend, for I always keep emergency miniature clothes in my pocket (I started the habit after we met that shivering dormouse in Tasmania).

“Tell them that we are here,” Penny instructed once I was comfortably dressed in a stripy jacket and mouse-sized thermals. Her voice was much louder now that I was the size of a teabag (teabags were still all I could think about!).

I shall tell you more about the elves (and their charming home) when I write next. For now though, I am going to enjoy a lovely bowl of garlic leaf soup — which tastes nothing like garlic, but is still very pleasant indeed.

Your friend,

Agatha

P.S. I borrowed letter-writing papers from the elves, which explains why this letter is so small.

P.P.S. While browsing the streets, I spotted a Magnifying Glass Trade-Shop, and Chelsea has kindly organised for a magnifying glass to be sent to your residence so that you can actually read this letter… I have not seen it, but I was assured that the Tambourine Model was their most popular and distinguished... though, for some reason, unpopular among sleuths on high-stakes murder cases…

We have safely arrived in Germany and I have thankfully (and finally!) managed to source some tea bags… even if they are not tea bags of the ordinary sort…

Shortly after mooring (and giving a hip hip hooray to the captain), I sprinted down the while my Director’s Shoes urged me to “Slow Down, You Scoundrel!”. I’m not usually in the habit of ignoring such instructions - especially not when they are spoken by directors, who have linguistically-mandated authority - but you must remember that it had been twenty-six hours since my last cup of tea, and I was thus not myself at all… and you know I’m telling the truth because my coat buttons fell off as I ran; my disposition was so far changed that the buttons did not recognise me anymore and promptly abandoned coat (buttons are famously sensitive creatures, and refuse to spend time with people they don’t know (incidentally, this is also why coats at vintage shops often have no buttons)).

It turns out that when you run very fast, especially when you are distracted by the prospect of a hot cup of tea, you are indeed very likely to slip… and the chances of an accident are heightened if you are a remarkably poor runner. While I can ice-skate and unicycle with abnormally impressive proficiency, I have always been berated for my running. Indeed, my running was deemed so bad at school that I was banished to run on a separate track because it demotivated the other students.

Anyway, when I was running along the harbour, I invariably (and as the director shoes warned me) fell over. This wouldn’t usually have been too much of a problem, but I unfortunately broke my glasses in the process. I didn’t have any sellotape (I had used the last of it trying to make sellotape tea on the ship which, let me tell you, is not good at all), but I did have some leftover putty from the boat-van which proved a bearable alternative.

With my glasses (partially secured), and my arms only slightly bruised, I surveyed the shops at the end of the harbour.

There were half a dozen of them, and all looked incredibly useful.

There was a pebble dealership (‘rocks for all of your collecting needs!’), a second-hand cutlery shop (‘taste the past!’), and a cafe which promised ‘custard and broccoli pies’ inside. The latter had a long queue of exciting customers-to-be waiting on the street. Rather conveniently for me, there was also a quaint, orange establishment called The Teabag Shop.

The bell tinkled as I came inside, where I was greeted by a very tall gentleman in muddy wellington boots (I am very attentive to shoes nowadays).

“You will have to take those off,” he said, pointing to my directors shoes. “I can’t have my establishment getting muddy. It’s a respectable place you see.”

He gestured to the carpets which were, it must be said, flecked with mud from his wellies. Still, I took off my shoes (which objected furiously).

“I would like some teabags, please,” I said once I was shoeless, but the man looked a little confused.

“We only sell our tea bags one at a time,” he said. “We’re far too popular to be selling anymore than that. Most people can’t handle more than that.”

“I can handle it, I assure you,” and, just to demonstrate, showed him that there was a knitted teabag on the front of my jumper (I had knitted this the night before in a sorry attempt to soothe my sorrow).

“I don’t know what that - thing - on your jumper is, Miss, but I assure you we do not sell those here.”

It turns out that The Tea Bag shop did not sell ordinary tea bags, but rather bags which can hold tea. There were briefcases and rucksacks and tiny beaded purses - all designed to hold large quantities of loose-leaf tea.

“I see,” I nodded.

Luckily for me, and just a few doors down, was a second shop called The Bagged Tea Shop, which seemed a lot more promising. This shop was filled with glass canisters stuffed full of loose leaf tea. The glass canisters were not cylinders though (famously the most boring shape of glass). Instead, they had been welded into the shape of bananas, pineapples and kiwis. The owner, it turned out, really liked fruit and was bitter about the fact that he had inherited a Bagged Tea business from his mother instead of a fruit grocery.

I tried to order some tea from the shop, but was told that he could not help me unless I provided a bag.

“We don’t sell the bags, I’m afraid,” said the man behind the counter, cleaning his ear with a liquorice stick. “If there’s something I could do, I would.”

After a another trip to the Tea Bag Shop, I returned with a steamer trunk (this was the largest container they had, and I really was not prepared to take any more chances), and purchased several kilos of earl grey tea. This was more tea than I have ever purchased at once… well, with the obvious exception of that GLORIOUS day in the Shetlands!

Back in the street, the cobblers found me hauling the steamer trunk behind me on the cobbles (rather awkwardly, I must admit).

“Miss Owledge,” Penny said. “I was growing worried, I must admit.”

They had, it transpired, followed the trail of distrustful buttons which had fallen from my coat.

Penny told me that they absolutely needed the help of an Official Flatterer to do their work here in Germany, and that I was the only one capable of such a thing.

I shall tell you more tomorrow though, my friend. The putty on my broken glasses is growing tired, and I really should let it rest. It has been laboriously holding my glasses together all day and deserves a good night sleep.

Your friend,

Agatha

P.S. Please can you ask your badgers where they source their spectacles? I may need to get a new pair.

P.P.S. If not, kindly send me a roll of sellotape. They have none here and it really would be very helpful.

You are, no doubt, wondering what happened once the king boarded the Cobblers’ ship.

Now, I keep on saying ‘king’, but, in truth, I don’t know at all whether he is a king or not. He says that he was a King by every definition - but when I tried to ask about these definitions, he told me I was an anarchist and hit me on the head with his seaweed beard.

The Cobblers were very interested indeed by his golden boots, which themselves wore little crowns.

“How fascinating,” Chelsea said, poking the tiny metal tops. “Sovereign shoes… It seems he is not lying about being a king.”

“Lying? How could you say such an impudent thing!” he shouted.

“Shoes never lie,” the Cobblers agreed in hushed whispers.

And that is how the King became King of the Cobblers - a position which I believe he very much enjoys (I know this because he is continuously chanting ‘I really enjoy being king’). The Cobblers showed him to his royal chamber (meaning a small cabin jammed so full of shoes that you have to sleep standing up), and I got to work on Jack and the Bootstalk. While this was initially devised as a distraction tactic, I have not directed a play for quite some time, and have always been partial to musical numbers - and director’s chairs.

Penny was also quite insistent that I wear directors shoes since I was to be directing their precious offspring.

“I can’t say I know what directors’ shoes are,” I said, “and I certainly don’t think I own a pair.”

Thankfully, they had a barrel filled with the things, and Penny fished out a pair in my size (I say ‘fished’ because the barrel was actually a jacuzzi, which meant she had to use a fishing net to get the directors’ shoes out). Directors’ shoes are so-named because they are very directive, and speak continuously of what you should be doing.

“They shall keep you in check,” Penny assured me, as my new shoes called for me to stand up straight.

“And fix that messy hair!” the shoes directed (unfortunately, this I could not fix, since I had given my hairbrush to one of the crows).

I was also made to do something I have ALWAYS wanted to do (and I hope you are not too jealous when I tell you). Penny had me walk the plank! Contrary to popular belief, this is actually not a terrible thing at all, but an excellent test in balance. The Cobblers insist that all new shoe-wearers walk the plank to make sure that they are capable of donning new shoes.

Thankfully, I was deemed quite capable of wearing the directors shoes for the play.

Rehearsals ensued, and my young pledges were really very capable indeed (one of the flip-flops is, indeed, such a talented singer that she has made it to the semi-finals of Apparel’s Got Talent!).

Jack and the Bootstalk is about an arrogant snow boot called Jack who exchanges his family’s horse for new (and very fashionable) set of shoelaces. Unfortunately for Jack, these shoelaces become gigantic in the night. Jack has to climb the giant bootlace and rescue a rather talkative pair of brogues.

The stage was set and the audience sat on the hull to watch. Unfortunately though, the king got jealous halfway through the show and decided that HE wanted to perform instead. Thus, the story was cut short and instead turned into the king doing a solo rendition of the macarana. Since he is king, nobody could stop him - and since I am a professional flatterer, I really had no choice but to say it was excellent.

I am also trying very hard to stay on his good side because I may accidentally have brewed his seaweed beard in my tea pot. This was a low-point on my side, but you must remember that I am COMPLETELY OUT OF TEABAGS now and we are in the middle of the sea. I have been trying whatever I can find, but I assure you that nothing has worked so far. Thankfully, we are drawing into land right this moment. I shall sign this off here so the seal (who has been patiently following the ship since my last letter) can deliver it… This would, you see, be slightly more difficult once we reach the port. Seals, if you didn’t know, fare better in water.

Your friend,

Agatha

It really was not acceptable in the slightest for me to end where I did. I am not surprised to hear that you spent the evening eating raw beetroot in a blanket-fort to help calm your racing thoughts.

In truth, Chelsea is completely safe, and (indeed) currently perfecting a new pair of roller-flip-flops (why, might I ask, did you assume she was an expert in chelsea boots of all things? I don’t know WHERE you got that from!).

But she might not have been okay if it had not been for the king on the iceberg.

You might remember that I had lowered the sails, and when one lowers the sails, the ship will usually stop (unless, that is, there is a back-up hamster-powered engine below deck, which is more common than you would think).

“Why have we stopped?!” yelled Penny from the dining room, where the Cobblers were still congratulating their soon-to-be-Broadway-Star shoes. “Miss Owlledge, do you know anything about this?”

I tried to say no, but I am not naturally good at lying. People who know me well know that when I lie, I cannot help myself from juggling with whatever objects are closest. This is how Penny found herself being juggled overhead with a snow boot and a bottle of mouthwash.

“Miss Owlledge, put me down!” Penny cried. “I am not wearing the appropriate footwear!”

If I wanted to put her down, however, I would have to tell her the truth.

“I’m sorry,” I called up, still juggling furiously.

That is when we heard a cry from a neighbouring glacier.

“Who is that trespassing on my land!”

I knew from the moment that I saw him that he was a king. This is because he was wearing a crown, and, according to the thousands of fairytales I have read in my time, kings always wear crowns, even when they are skydiving and have been warned that the points are something of a safety hazard.

The man wore a thin piece of muslin as a cloak, and a bright green beard which, judging by the texture, was not made from human hair but from seaweed. He was shivering uncontrollably.

“You look quite cold, your Highness,” I observed.

“What an impudent observation!” the king called out. “I am not cold at all!”

His teeth chattered, which made me think he was probably a better liar than I was.

“Kings like me don’t feel the cold,” he declared. “I am actually exceptionally warm.”

To make his point, he released his muslin cloak into the freezing cold wind, which seemed like proof to me. He shivered even more after that, but maybe he was shivering from the warmth.

“Declare to me, subjects — who are you and why do you trespass on my land?”

(I am still unsure as to whether a glacier counts as land or sea? What do you think? I tried to ponder this with the king, but he got quite upset and threatened to confiscate my pond vials on account of treason).

“We are the Cobblers,” Penny said (who, it must be admitted, was still part of my juggling display). “The best Cobblers in all of the world.”

The King looked contemplative, and stroked his seaweed beard demurely (well, PARTIALLY demurely… it did, admittedly, fall from his face when he touched it, likely because seaweed is slippery and not the best material for a beard).

“So I suppose you have some crumble on your ship?” he said.

The Cobblers looked confused, and I myself was so bewildered that I dropped the mouthwash, snowboot and Penny to the floor. Thankfully, however, Kyle Heel was American, and able to translate. As it turns out, a American COBBLER is not a shoe-maker at all, but a dessert a little like a crumble (why they didn’t just call it a crumble, I cannot say).

“A peach cobbler would be particularly agreeable,” the king continued.

The Cobblers were very offended by this, mostly because Penny is allergic to peaches.

The sails were raised, as the Cobblers decided they must continue on their courses. This was until the Penny Loafer chimed in (NOT my friend Penny, but the actual shoe. Apparently shoes can talk, which is why the Cobblers hold shoes to their ears every time they make a decision. The penny loafer is the wisest of the shoes, but also the only one which insists on being paid for their time with a coin). The loafer must have liked the king because the Cobblers insisted that the shivering king with the seaweed beard be brought onboard the ship.

More soon — it’s time for dinner!

Your friend,

Agatha

P.S. I should say that, at some point during this ordeal, Chelsea appeared on the back of a bottlenose dolphin and thankfully made it back on board.

The situation is, I must admit, growing slightly dire. I am down to my last seven teabags (sixty cups a day really does drain your supply quickly), and I’m starting to panic. I asked the Cobblers (very politely, and with an adjoining cake-offering) whether we could divert courses for a tea farm, but I was told that they could not indulge such fancies because they had much more important things to do.

“We are professionals, Miss Owlledge,” Penny told me seriously as she painted ladybirds onto the sole of a maryjane. “We won’t be stopped for anything but yellow loafers.”

(The cobblers, despite their vast collection of shoes, do not have any yellow loafers in their collection, and it is rather a sore spot).

Indeed, I have realised that she is not exaggerating at all.

Yesterday, Chelsea (‘Boot Expert Extraordinaire’) fell off the side of the ship after a rollerskating mishap, and the company absolutely refused to lower the sails to collect her.

“There is no time!” Penny declared. “The elves are waiting!”

A life-jacket was instead flung haphazardly from the back of the ship, and (following Cobbler protocol), Chelsea strapped the rollerskates in so they would not be further damaged. She herself was left floundering.

This to me seemed slightly unfair. I am still learning about Cobbling, of course, but I couldn’t exactly leave Chelsea there by herself now, could I? I really had no choice but to intervene when I realised the plan was to leave her floating in the middle of the Atlantic.

I hope, therefore, that you will not judge me too harshly when I tell you I directly disobeyed Penny’s orders.

As you know, I have an A Level in piracy, which means I am quite skilled at lowering sails (this is a core part of the practical component, a three-hour examination which, according to Guinness World Records, is the second most expensive one to run in the country. This is because it involves building an entirely new ship for each student). However, lowering sails can take quite some time, and I was worried they might notice - especially because these particular sails have an automated voice recorder attached to their ropes which shout ‘THE SAILS ARE BEING LOWERED’ every time they are touched. Thus, I had to distract them.

Despite only having been part of their company for a short while, I had gathered one thing — that the Cobblers liked shoes (people are always commending me for how observant I am). They are proud of their shoes in the way doting parents are proud of their children — and if I know one thing it is that doting parents are never prouder than when their little ones are putting on a performance of some kind.

Thus was born ‘Jack and the Bootstalk’ - a new, artsy musical which has since been taken to Broadway. I spread the word to the crew and the reaction was instantaneous.

“My Maryjane will be on the stage!”

“Oh, I have never been so proud of a snow boot!”

As the Cobblers congratulated their shoes on the anticipatory performance, I lowered the sails. By the times this was done, however, it had been hours since we first lost Chelsea and it was almost dark. I could not see her (or her rollerskates) on the ocean’s vast horizon.

In one afternoon, I had failed to save a Cobbler AND signed myself up to direct an all-shoes musical number.

The thought makes me too despondent to continue, dear friend. I shall write again when my disposition improves (a strawberry cheesecake would make me feel much better, if you can possibly squeeze one into your next envelope?).

Your friend,

Agatha