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.....