On Conan Doyle's Birthday

On Conan Doyle's Birthday

The doctor said I need to formulate my problems better: "let them casually turn like pages weary of themselves". I have a voice and so do you, perhaps one day the younger ones will favor to address me too. Write letters of joy or contempt, or help me pay the rent. And on the first day of each year, I shall be here to disappear, leaving a note of pledge-work after havoc wreaked, a prelude to a story, your attention piqued. My change of temper has got to do with age, despite the fact, I have my wars to wage. "On warmer days, a cloud still gathers on your brow", my maid remarks, a Saxon Frau. I take my oatmeal with a crossword puzzle and got a pup and called him Muzzles. In one way or another, I bid you farewell, but otherwise, you can go to hell. Yours truly, hale and hearty, the rarefied Professor Moriarty.