The good Doctor’s gone to ground; you must know this by now. I’m merely guesting. The understudy. For this short period, while he knuckles down to the difficult business of composing music — or does he just wish you to think so? Is he in truth toiling deep undercover to fight crime? Picture him, if you will, in the full Sydney Bristow outfit, complete with lurid crimson fright wig. It seems too likely, I think you’ll concur — Um, where were we? Oh yes: for this time, I’ve got my grubby mitts on his blog. How should I exercise such unexpected power?
You don’t know me. I’m not from here, though I’ve sometimes lingered on the outskirts; no, I’m from… somewhere else. Not knowing my voice, will you notice, I wonder, if there’s something odd in it? Something missing? Some undercurrent of loss, of issues skirted or things unwritten? If I’m not telling you everything, will you pick up on it?
But we’ve plenty of time for such nonsense. I’m here the week. You might yet get to know me better. There’s no need to rush.
Let us defer the introductions until next time. It will be simpler then. Or different, possibly. Less circuitous, if you get my drift. Tomorrow is… well, you know.
In the interim, I urge you to lift your cups in the time-honoured tribute — let’s drink to unpresent friends.