I’m sorry to bother you again so soon, but I’ve started reading your Christmas books, which starts with your most famous, A Christmas Carol. And if we weren’t already fast friends, the second page of that story contains a sentence that made me laugh and which would have forced me to seek you out. It’s this:
If we were not perfectly convinced that Hamlet’s Father died before the play began, there would be nothing more remarkable in his taking a stroll at night, in a easterly wind, upon his own ramparts, than there would be in any other middle-aged gentleman rashly turning out after dark in a breezy spot – say Saint Paul’s Churchyard for instance – literally to astonish his son’s weak mind.
So Marley is dead, to begin with, and I can’t wait to read the rest of the stories. You’re awesome.
P.S. You probably won’t understand the reference, but I’m having a really tough time not visualizing Muppets as I read…