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Alas, the regrettable innovation of the password now required for admittance to this arena of play has proved injurious - nay, fatal - to invention and wit. Though it was but one thin level of pretense, 'twas as vital to fancy as the skin is to the body. Thus, I fear that this tale must remain forever unresolved - a pity, as curious Egyptian antiquities, some of them breathing, were to have made an appearance, along with further colliding anachronisms such as the clever velociraptor and the mysterious Mr. Darwin.
It is possible, however, that when Your Humble Narrator is in possession of a planned Web site, the tale may continue with all necessary masking. (So to a mummery, go!) Until that time, please direct all audience commentary to postal bags at either St. Anne's Hill, Chiswick House, the Adams farm in Braintree or to an address in Great Ormond Street.
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