And so, as the silk bat of dusk flits to its uncertainly suspended watering hole, as the evening timpani of the scuttle collector's chariot rattles it's way along the emptying regal avenues, a shambling figure ambles, crablike, amongst the scattered bollards and the abandoned demi-johns. Who may this be? Is it perchance the famed Yarmak, famed silk bat hunter and wordsmith? Or merely a device, a literary hook? But that, as they say in the beetle market, is another hat entirely.....

I fear that dank footsteps are trailing me across the Beetle Market and am somewhat concerned. Hiring a bravo is beyond my finances and so, for the price of scribing letters to his kin, a Hoornisher agreed to show me the use of the scribing knife as an impromptu weapon. As I write this my mind is full of news of drained dykes, revetted sluices and strong mustard. Such is the price for safety in Barbizon in the Year of the Goat.

With the recent inclement weather I have not been able to venture forth. There are reports of flooding in parts but of eel storms in others; my silk bats have flown in food for me, a biscuit here or a pie crust there, scavenged as they can and based on what they think I eat. One has just arrived with a small piece of garlic infused mushroom and a slice of sausage. A meal is a slow and somewhat random affair.

Recent times have seen much perturbation and disquiet; the beetle market has often closed early and a spate of groyning has left even the most hardy nervous of the avenues. I have recorded events daily upon a fresh balustrade I discovered by the Grand Fresco and I believe my observations have met with a degree of approval amongst the cognoscenti. My silk bats continue to scavenge but one seems convinced that I live off buttons. Fortunately my landlord is an inveterate button collector and is willing to accept them in lieu of rent.