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The Internet Oracle has pondered your question deeply. Your question was:

> Dear Auntie Ora, > > I'm sure I have a novel inside me, though my therapist insists that, > "It's all in the mind".  Is there any way I can prove her wrong?

And in response, thus spake the Oracle:

}                     The Delphic Research Inc. Guide }                                   on }                          How to Write a Novel } } Rule 1  Don't have a short, bald hero who isn't very interesting - if } you start with him, you're just making a rod for your own back. } } Rule 2  Before you start, you should decide how fat your book is } going to be. If it's going to be a doorstop, you'll have to fill a } lot of pages by describing things in great detail as if people had } never seen them, for example, a door.  You can also introduce a vast } army of minor characters who are briefly amusing but then suddenly } and inexplicably get killed off. } } Rule 3  The longer the book, the shorter the title: one word titles } for more than 600 pages (e.g. Quagmire), one syllable titles for more } than 1000 pages (e.g.  Quag).  Very short books must have long titles, } such as The Pastimes of the Lost Ephemera.  You can get away with } titles such as this because once you've read the title you've picked } up most of the plot and are a good way through the text. } } Rule 4 Long books may have happy endings, because in order to have a } happy ending you have to start happy, get sad and then regain } happiness. Short books don't have time for all this, so they start } miserable and get worse quickly. } } Rule 5  Fashion applies to novels as it does to everything else.  You } won't get far with Tea With Mr Gumblewick even though Sibyl likes that } sort of thing. } } Rule 6 Seamy undersides are all the rage, especially if the overside } of your underside isn't very pleasant either. Only one book a century } gets away with the bright underside of the lovely overside.  If life } was that cheery, people wouldn't be reading books. } } Rule 7 Don't restrict yourself to writing only about what you know. } Publishers and editors suggest you should do this to try to stop } stamp collectors getting their novels published - even though they } have got snappy, one-word titles such as Unhinged. } } Rule 8 The great thing about fiction is you can make it all up } without doing a lot of research about anything.  As long as you have } one gratuitous fact per page, readers will think you know all about } nuclear fission, Iceland, or micro-surgery. } } Rule 9 All novels these days must have long passages of gratuitous } sex. These are very difficult to write if you've never had any } gratuitous sex, let alone long passages of it. } } Rule 10 (or Cassidy's Corollary) If you make up the stuff about sex, } there's always the danger that you'll make some fundamental } biological error that will embarrass you in print forever.  This is } the only time when it's an advantage to have a short bald hero with } the sexual magnetism of a face flannel.

The Internet Oracle has pondered your question deeply. Your question was:

> Dear Auntie Ora > > What started you out in this line of work? The thirst for knowledge? > A wish to improve the lot of mankind? Or is there some even more > edifying reason at the back of it all?

And in response, thus spake the Oracle:

}                  VITAI INVOICIA }                 by: Sibyl Stojay }     (with a little help from Sir Henry Newbolt) } }    There's a breathless hush in the mall tonight; }       Hours to go and so much to buy -- }    A frilly bra and a skirt that's tight -- }       Young Cassie's bleeding the coffers dry. }    And it's not for the sake of her looking flash }       That with tedious work every day I fill; }    So the customer must stump up the cash -- }       Pay up! pay up! and pay the bill! } }    The sand of the desert is turning black, }       Black with the oil of a jeep that crashed; }    Pythia sends her expense claim back, }       And her previous record's quickly smashed. }    When I think of all the stuff she's lost, }       Her extravagance makes me feel quite ill; }    Thank the gods someone else will count the cost -- }       Pay up! pay up! and pay the bill! } }    Ask me again why, year by year, }       The search for wisdom I pursue -- }    Are people's needs to my heart so dear? }       Must I help all who have no clue? }    Does a burning desire all things to know }       Give me such an ecstatic thrill? }    No, bugger that! I just want the dough -- }       Pay up! pay up! and pay the bill!

The Internet Oracle has pondered your question deeply. Your question was:

> Dear Auntie Ora, > > Are there any lamas in Peru? What about llamas in Tibet?

And in response, thus spake the Oracle:

} FADE IN: } } INT. - THE OFFICES OF DELPHIC RESEARCH, INC. - DAY. } } [SIBYL, PYTHIA and CASSIDY are studying a piece of paper which Sibyl } is holding up.] } } PYTHIA:  It's a typo. } } SIBYL:   Can't be. Everybody knows there are llamas in Peru and lamas }          in Tibet. They wouldn't be asking us. } } CASSIDY: Aren't they the same thing, then? } } SIBYL:   You'd better take Tibet, Pythia. I'll handle Peru. Cassie-- } } CASSIDY: Yes?! } } SIBYL:   You mind the store. } } PYTHIA:  And don't answer any questions. } } CASSIDY: That is just so totally sucky! } } CUT TO: } } [Split screen - stock footage of a DC3 heading in one direction, a } Constellation in the other. Superimpose image of a map of the world, } centred on the USA. Gradually fade aircraft.] } } [On the map, broad red lines start inching out southwards and } eastwards from a central red dot. Suddenly, the line heading south } changes direction and veers off north-westwards, while the one heading } east stops altogether and starts expanding at the end.] } } [Pan back and up to reveal Cassidy, sitting at her desk doing her } nails. She has accidentally knocked over her nail polish bottle, and } the red liquid is dribbling onto a map spread out on the desk.] } } CASSIDY: Knickers! } } [She tries to wipe the map using a tissue, getting it completely } covered in red smears in the process.] } } CUT TO: } } EXT. - THE CENTRAL MARKET, LHASA, TIBET - DAY. } } [Everywhere there are colourful stalls bearing every sort of produce. } Hundreds of people are milling around, haggling over prices, shouting } at friends and generally making a racket. In the midst of it all walks } Pythia, carrying an enormous rucksack and wearing combat trousers, a } bush hat and an extremely tight T-shirt. She is talking to her } faithful local contact, BUNGDIT DIN.] } } BUNGDIT: Ah, Missie Pythie! It is being altogether too long since you }          were last being here, oh yes indeed! } } PYTHIA:  Cut the pleasantries, BD. I'm here after llamas. Seen any? } } BUNGDIT: Oh yes, very much so, Missie Pythie! We are having more lamas }          in Tibet than you can be shaking a stick at. Tibet is being }          in the nature of the world capital of lamas. You cannot be }          going anywhere in this country without tripping over-- } } PYTHIA:  Llamas, numbnuts! Two L's! The second is silent, as in fox. }          Taxonomic name - Lama glama. The Andean beast of burden of }          choice. Renowned for spitting. Is any of this getting through }          to you? } } BUNGDIT: Not in the exact sense of getting through, no, Missie Pythie. }          I am thinking perhaps you are partaking too liberally of }          the complimentary in-flight alcoholic refreshments on your }          journey, for you are making none of the sense whatsoever, no }          indeed. } } PYTHIA:  [sighs] BD, remind me again why I put up with you? } } BUNGDIT: Ah! That is so you can be hitting faithful Bungdit Din when }          you are getting mad, Missie Pythie. } } PYTHIA:  Right in one. } } [She throws a massive punch at Bungdit Din. He is sent sailing across } a market stall, scattering native handicrafts in all directions and } bringing the awning down to cover him and the startled stallkeeper. } Pythia adjusts herself within her T-shirt and strides off on her own.] } } PYTHIA:  Note to self - find new Tibetan local contact who isn't a }          cerebrally-challenged leftover extra from a Carry On film. } } CUT TO: } } EXT. - DOWNTOWN LIMA, PERU - NIGHT. } } [Sibyl is standing on a busy sidewalk outside a restaurant, a finger } in one ear, mobile phone clapped to the other. She is dressed in khaki } like a 19th century explorer, complete with pith helmet.] } } SIBYL:   Speak up, Cassie dear, you're very faint. Did I what? No, no, }          it was a false lead. It must have been that man's dreadful }          accent. } } [Pan up to sign over restaurant door. It reads: "DELHI LLAMA. Best } Indian Food in the Andes!"] } } SIBYL:   Have you heard from Pythia? What? Is a what a big pink bird }          with fish in its beak? Pemmican? No, I think you're thinking }          of flamingos, dear. Why do you ask? What? Cassie, you're }          breaking up. Cassie? Oh, fish-hooks! } } [She shakes the mobile phone. A man wearing dark glasses, a white suit } and fedora, black shirt and two-tone shoes edges up to her. He has a } gold medallion, several gold teeth, and bears a striking resemblance } to PETER LORRE.] } } LORRE:   Psst! } } [Sibyl continues alternately shaking her phone and holding it to her } ear.] } } LORRE:   Pssst! } } SIBYL:   [noticing him] I am not looking for a good time, thank you. } } LORRE:   You look like you could use it, lady. } } SIBYL:   Young man, I'll have you know I haven't had a good time since }          that Grateful Dead concert in 1972, and I most certainly }          don't intend to start again now. } } LORRE:   You don't want to buy naughty postcards of eastern mystics, }          then? } } [He turns to leave.] } } SIBYL:   Not so fast! This could be the break we need. Show me what }          you've got. } } [Peter Lorre fishes some postcards out of his inside pocket and } extends one to Sibyl.] } } LORRE:   Here's one of Roxanna doing the famous Indian rope trick. } } SIBYL:   [shocked] That's absolutely disgusting! A woman of her age, }          doing such - such things! } } LORRE:   What do you expect? She's a mother-fakir. } } TO BE CONTINUED...

The Internet Oracle has pondered your question deeply. Your question was:

> Dear Aunt Ora, > > I've got a large - something, I'm not sure what, locked in the > kitchen. All I know is that it's about the size of a horse, with a > large horn in the middle of its head, and seems to be warbling the > lesser known hits of Burt Bacharach with a voice strangely like Ralph > Nader's. My husband says it's the personification of America's > democratic discontent, but all I know is that if I don't get into the > kitchen soon, the pot roast will be ruined. What can I do?

And in response, thus spake the Oracle:

} Thuds and crashes could be heard behind the closed and barricaded } door, along with snatches of what sounded like 'I Just Don't Know } What To Do With Myself'. Sibyl looked at Pythia, who looked at } Cassidy, who looked back at Sibyl. None of them made a move. } } Pythia broke the lengthening silence. She hooked a thumb at Cassidy. } "*She's* the youngest." } } "That doesn't mean I'm a virgin!" Cassidy protested animatedly. "I've } slept with like *oodles* of boys, 'cos I'm devastatingly attractive, } okay? How about you, Miss Army Boots? Ever get anybody to look at } *you* twice?" } } "Of course I have," said Pythia huffily. "Steve Irwin and me, we } scaled the heights of passion countless times. That was before he } was married, naturally." } } "You and Steve?" Sibyl quirked an eyebrow. "What a coinc-- I mean, I } didn't know that. Be that as it may, one of us must go in there and } tame that creature. It's worth $28,000 to the firm." } } "Well, what about you?" Pythia asked. "What's the extent of *your* } carnal knowledge, oh fearless CEO?" } } Sibyl stiffened. "A lady doesn't talk about such matters." } } "She's a virgin!" Cassidy squealed in delight. } } "I didn't say that--" } } "Go on then! Name one of your conquests! Just one name!" } } Sibyl glared icily at DRI's office junior. "Ms McBlonde, there are } times when a hint of immaturity intrudes upon your demeanour. Still, } as I said, *one* of us must go in - I suppose it may as well be } myself. Hand me the halter, please." } } As the others cleared away the furniture stacked up against the } kitchen door, Sibyl squared her shoulders and prepared to face almost } certain death. Pythia removed the final table. Sibyl unlocked the } door, grasped the handle, turned it, entered the kitchen. The door } slammed behind her. This was immediately followed by the sound of the } barricade being hastily re-erected. Sibyl looked around. } } The kitchen was a shambles. Doors were hanging off cabinets, stools } were overturned and splintered, the floor was covered with smashed } crockery and glassware. A disembowelled microwave oven rested in the } sink. The acrid smell of burnt pot roast permeated the air. } } In the centre of the room stood the agent of all this destruction. } Half as high again as a horse, almost blindingly white, with enormous } dark, liquid eyes and a fearsome golden horn protruding from its } forehead. It was magnificent! } } The creature addressed Sibyl in an odd, nasal whine. "What have you } got there?" it demanded. The client had been right - it *did* sound } like Ralph Nader. } } Sibyl held up the halter. She forced words out with difficulty. "I've, } ah, I've come to capture you. I, uh, could come back later if it's not } convenient...?" } } The unicorn appeared to grow in size. Its mane stood on end, its } nostrils flared, its eyes lit up with barely suppressed fury. It pawed } the floor. } } Accusingly: "You are not a virgin!" } } "Well, no, technically not, I suppose," Sibyl waffled. "There was } that Grateful Dead concert back in 1972 and, well, you know how it's } virtually illegal to attend a 'Dead concert unstoned, right? And, } well, I met Steve there - that's Steve Irwin, the Australian } naturalist - have you heard of him? Well, Steve was such a dashing } young man in those days, and so, well, what with one or two puffs of } marijuana and a double lemonade shandy and, well, one thing leading } to another and all..." } } Sibyl trailed off as the unicorn's eyes burned into hers for what } seemed like an eternity. Then, suddenly, it was as if the creature } collapsed into itself. } } "Damn, you're right," it said glumly. "For all practical purposes, you } *are* a virgin." } } It approached her submissively and lowered its head, allowing her to } slip the halter around its neck. She started to lead it towards the } door. } } "Would you like to hear my rendition of 'Forgive Me (For Giving You } Such A Bad Time)'?" the unicorn asked. } } "I prefer 'What's New Pussycat'." } } The unicorn started singing. Sibyl's sense of triumph was tempered } somewhat by the realisation that Pythia and Cassidy were going to be } simply insufferable in the coming week or two.

The Internet Oracle has pondered your question deeply. Your question was:

> Oh Oracle most wise, > > Where did my Christmas gift end up?

And in response, thus spake the Oracle:

} 'Twas the night after Christmas, when all through the house } The cops questioned ev'ryone, even the mouse; } The stockings were gone from the chimney, for lo! } Some bastard had ripped off the lot in one go. } } The children were livid, blue murder they screamed, } Of gruesome and horrible tortures they dreamed; } While mamma the insurance claim form filled in, } And I helped myself to a generous gin, } } And wondered, whilst sipping, where my gift resided, } And whether the crooks all their loot had divided. } When all of a sudden, the answer was clear: } I'd ask good old Orrie -- he'd have an idea. } } My laptop I grabbed and an email I sent; } Then I knocked back the gin till the bottle was spent, } Secure in the knowledge that Orrie would know } Where gifts that are ripped off invariably go. } } When the Oracle my plaintive note had perused, } His cheeks with a furious hue were suffused. } His priesthood he summoned, and quickly they came, } For he bellowed, and shouted, and called them by name; } } "Hoi, ZADOC! Hoi, CLEMENT! Hoi, DARKMAGE and WILSON! } Come, KELLY! Come HEMMING, CHEVALIER and AVEDON! } On your bellies come crawling! On your scrawny knees fall! } Now grovel! Now grovel! Now grovel you all!" } } As quivering all the priests lay on their face, } Old Orrie approached them with threatening pace, } And spake in a harsh voice, with emphasis on it, } "A man has been robbed. Now which one of you done it?" } } "My poor hapless supplicant is in despair; } And, what is worse, I have not had my share! } So whoever's responsible better confess, } Or you'll all have to stay inside during recess!" } } Well, the guilty one promptly and humbly confessed it, } (It turned out to be Zadoc, though you probably guessed it), } A bundle of toys he produced from his sack; } For punishment he was stretched out on the rack. } } All the toys and the gifts Orrie duly impounded, } The rest of the priests, to be safe, he had grounded; } He approached his computer with one mighty stride, } And in answer to my supplication replied: } } "I have pondered your question with brow all a-furrowed, } And through great dusty tomes in my library burrowed, } To solve your dilemma, and set matters right: } 'TWAS THE CAT ATE YOUR GIFT, AND TO ALL A GOOD-NIGHT!"

The Internet Oracle has pondered your question deeply. Your question was:

> Dear Auntie Ora > > You know that poem that starts: > >     The Boy stood on the burning deck, >     Whence all but him had fled; >     The little brat was clearly not >     Quite right inside the head. > > Well, I've read it through and through, but I still can't find any > mention of Humphrey Bogart or Ingrid Bergman. What's going on?

And in response, thus spake the Oracle:

} [SCENE: The bar, Steve's Place, Casablanca.] } } Pythia: Play it for me, Sam. } } Sam:    I don't know what you mean, Miss Pythia. } } Pythia: Yes, you do. Play it, Sam. } } Sam:    I can't remember it, Miss Pythia. I'm a little rusty on it. } } Pythia: Play the sodding song before I break your scrawny neck, Sam! } } Sam:    [singing] Once a jolly swagman camped in a billabong, }                   Under the shade of a coolibah tree-- } } [Steve Irwin comes rushing into the bar.] } } Steve:  Sam, I thought I told you niver to play-- } } [He stops as he sees Pythia.] } } Pythia: Hello, Steve. } } Steve:  Oh, er, hi, Pyth. G'day. } } Pythia: It's been a long time, Steve. Remember the Great Barrier Reef? } } Steve:  I remimber it pirfectly. A wobby damn near bit me thumb off. } } Pythia: And I stitched it back on for you. } } Steve:  I still keep that fishing line. What brings you to Casablanca? } } Pythia: A mystery surrounding a poem we received at Delphic Research, }         Inc. You knew I was... working now, didn't you? } } Steve:  Yeah. Poems are for pooftas. } } Pythia: You know how you sound, Steve? Like a man who's trying to }         convince himself of something he doesn't believe in his heart. }         Here, read it. } } Steve:  I stick my nick out for nobody. } } Pythia: You stick your neck out at every available opportunity, all }         the time. } } Steve:  There is that. } } [Pythia extends a sheet of paper to Steve. He takes it.] } } Steve:  [reading] "The Boy stood on the burning dick..." } } Pythia: That says "deck", Steve. } } Steve:  That's what I sid. } } Pythia: [flustered] Oh yes, of course. I thought you meant... well, }         never mind what I thought. } } Steve:  "Whince all but him had flid..." This poem doesn't amount to }         a hill of witchetty grubs, Pyth. } } Pythia: You're saying this only to make me go. } } Steve:  [suddenly angry] Damn right! Till me, who was it you lift me }         for? Was it this Dilphic mob, or were there others in between? }         Or aren't you the kind that tills? } } Pythia: Steve, I... I'm sorry. I guess I'm the kind that loses count. } } [They sit in sullen silence for a couple of beats.] } } Steve:  A$0.02 for your thoughts. } } Pythia: I was wondering... Steve, will you say it? For old times' }         sake? } } Steve:  You'll regrit it. Mibbe not today. Mibbe not tomorrow, but }         soon and for the rist of your life. } } Pythia: I don't care! Say it. Say it as if it were the last time. } } Steve:  Diddly SNIKES! } } Pythia: [choking] Oh... Steve! } [She leaps to her feet and rushes out of the bar, hands covering her } face.] } } Steve:  Of all the gin joints in all the towns in all the world... }         [to Sam] Sheilas, eh? } } Sam:    As you say, Mister Steve. } } Steve:  Crack me a bluey, willya? } } [Sam opens a tin of Fosters and passes it to Steve.] } } Steve:  Here's looking at you, kid. } } Sam:    What's a "ked", Mister Steve? } } Steve:  Not "kid". I sid "kid", you drongo!

The Internet Oracle has pondered your question deeply. Your question was:

> Love is ...

And in response, thus spake the Oracle:

} A losing score in tennis. } } Coincidentally, those who lose in love also frequently get tennis } elbow. } } Go figure. } } You owe the Oracle a box of tissues.

The Internet Oracle has pondered your question deeply. Your question was:

>  What does a guy have to do to get some service around here?

And in response, thus spake the Oracle:

} Sir, this is the "pants" queue. } } The "no-pants" queue is downstairs. } } You owe the Oracle... oh, a kilt, or something!

The Internet Oracle has pondered your question deeply. Your question was:

> Oraclelcaro mostsom wisesiw, > > I seemees tooot beb trappedeppart ini a palindromemordnilap. Howoh > canac I geteg outuo?outuo geteg I canac howoH .palindromemordnilap a > ini trappedeppart beb tooot seemees I > > ,wisesiw mostsom oraclelcarO

And in response, thus spake the Oracle:

} No, it is opposition. } If that *was* a palindrome I'd offer you my top fifteen tips for } escape: } } 1. Sit on a potato pan, Otis. } 2. Strap on no parts. } 3. Race fast, safe car. } 3. Do not start at rats to nod. } 4. Barge in! Relate mere war of 1991 for a were-metal Ernie grab! } 5. Pull up if I pull up. } 6. Kayak. } 7. Stack cats! } 8. Don't nod. } 9. Trade bad DA bed art. } 10. Reflog a golfer. } 11. Step on no pets. } 12. Draw pupil's lip upward. } 13. Bombard a drab mob. } 14. Plan no damn Madonna LP. } 15. Wonder if Sununu's fired now.

The Internet Oracle has pondered your question deeply. Your question was:

> 'scuse me, Ma'am, but someone from this phone number called us less > than ten minutes ago, but we forgot to ask: Do you want anchovies > on it?

And in response, thus spake the Oracle:

} "No, no. I'm sorry, there's been a mistake. Please cancel the order." } } Pythia set the phone down very gently, making a concerted effort not } to slam it. She counted to ten, taking deep breaths. Then, drawing her } colt .45, she walked into the kitchen. } } "GAR! Woman, where's my dinner?!" } } The troll was sitting at his rough-hewn table, pounding on the } surface with an over-sized fork and knife. She pointed the gun at } the troll's temple. Over the last week, she'd found this mode of } communication to be most effective with her 'employer'. } } "I just got another call from the organ bank." } } "What are you talking about? Put that blasted thing away!" } } "In addition to being bad-tempered, foul-smelling, stupid, and cheaper } than day-old bagels, you're also hard of hearing. What did I tell you } about trying to get human take-away?" } } "Gar." } } "Well?" } } "You said if I did it again you'd feed me tofu for a week." } } "Put your coat on, we're going to 'The Dainty Sprout'." } } "ARRGH! It was a prank, damn you!! A prank!!" } } There was a knock at the door. Pythia did not take her eyes off the } troll. } } "Aren't you going to answer that, woman?" } } "All right. But if you're not here, with your coat AND galoshes on } when I get back, I'll start tearing the house apart, and when I find } you, you're next. Capiche?" } } "Nnng.. capricorn." } } "What? Never mind..." } } Pythia backed out of the kitchen, keeping the grimacing troll } covered. Just before she reached the cottage's front door, she } pocketed the gun. } } When she opened the door, a short, stout, grandmotherly woman with } an umbrella and an enormous handbag was standing on the doorstep. } } "What is it, then?" } } "Good evening. Is this the home of Mr. Sanditon?" } } "Right, this is the troll's house." } } "You must be Pythia. I'm Sister Mary Celeste, from Our Lady of } Perpetual Perpetuity." } } Pythia's eyes narrowed. Her hand strayed near her gun. } } "Oh yeah?" } } "The Mother Superior sent me -- Ms. Stojay said you needed a } housekeeper?" } } Pythia blinked. Her face broke into a preposterous grin. } } "Too right! Sorry, Sister, come right in." } } She ushered the little woman into the cottage. } } "Right, the little beggar's in there. He's getting bean curd for } dinner tonight, no arguments." } } "Has he been giving you trouble dear?" } } "He's a curmudgeonly little blighter, that's the truth." } } "Anything I should watch out for?" } } "What shouldn't you watch out for? Every morning at breakfast he } screams for twelve Athenian virgins. He gets oatmeal, and complains if } it ain't just bloody right. He's always chasing cats, dogs, mice, the } neighbor's livestock - once in a while he'll catch one and they'll be } a bloody row. He's always pullin' up the plants in the garden and } sneakin' off to do his business in the armoire. And once in a while } he'll try to order takeout from the organ bank." } } "Oh dear." } } "WHO IS IT, WOMAN?! SEND THEM AWAY, THEY'RE AFTER MY GOLD!!!" } } "There's the little love now." } } "HURRY UP, WOMAN!! I'LL RIP YOUR BLASTED THROAT OUT IF I'M NOT FED } INSTANTER!" } } Pythia looked the diminutive woman up and down. Although she claimed } to be a nun - and one of Sister Mary Theresa's gang, at that - she had } nagging doubts about the woman. } } "Look, you sure you're up to this, Sister? Here - " she took out her } pistol and handed it over. " - you might find this useful." } } The nun waved it away. "Not needed. I assure you. Thank you, } Pythia - I will take it from here." } } She dropped her handbag on the ground and handed her hat over to } Pythia. Her face dropped its genial expression and assumed one which } was calculated to frighten even a rampaging Somali warlord into behaving } like a gentleman. She headed for the kitchen, brandishing the } umbrella. } } A few moments later, what sounded like the Battle of Waterloo as } re-enacted by several hundred baritone cats erupted from the } kitchen. From what Pythia could make out, the troll was getting the } worst of it. } } Her smile was almost beatific as she slipped out the cottage door.