I know I have neglected my site of late . What can I say ? Your hearts must be broken. I have worked too long on my latest novel and peculiar story .It is based on my late husband Woger's last fateful day . I must say no more but you will be stunned by the end . I was stunned by an end yesterday . It was the end of a large somewhat charred log. It would appear that my "dear" fiend Mooney has been pulling the wood over my eyes . I have sat many an evening by the side of the old drunk having some very wooden conversations . I know how drunk she gets so her lack of answers was not really a surprise . Saturday evening I sat late listening to the wireless ( no bloody wonder it hasn't worked so long ). I knitted a lovely cardigan for my friend Henrietta ( I shall have to explain Lord Cardigan to her). It got to midnight and I was tired so suggested we go to beddy-byes . As usual she was silent so I tucked her blanket around her and stoked up the fire . I was just falling asleep dreaming of a delicious plate of sprouts when I heard a scuffle downstairs and hushed voices . Maybe Mooney was talking to herself ( she's mad enough) . I realised there were several voices so I grabbed my old brass door stop of The World's largest sprout and tip-toed downstairs . What I saw shocked me to the very core .Charlie and his nefarious nephew Wopert were holding a large charred log and giggling .This is not that unusual for them but there standing in her finest gold muslin was Mooney leaning on Ollie's arm drunk as a skunk as usual . The log was pushed behind Mooney's throne and she thanked them all and shut the door. I hid behind the old bureau on the stairs . As Mooney walked past I said loudly " nice evening out dear?" . Mooney turned sharply and screamed .Oh so you have been sneaking out all this time behind my back, how was I supposed to tell the difference between you and a log ? I beg your pardon Nito that was cutting she shouted .I have merely been helping out the household finances by appearing in a freak show as "The oldest living , well dead , woman known " . I have had to stand as some oiks poked me ,ME a living God . My only reward a barrel of Gin and sometimes as much as £50.00s but that's if I throw in a bit of lap dancing . Mooney started to sob and gin ran down her dry little face . So , readers, all I could do was hug her and tuck the poor tired old thing into bed. She is in her moisturising bath now. So you will understand why I am writing again I simply can't have my oldest and dearest fiend making an exhibition of herself unless it's at The British Museum of course .