16 October 2026
Friday. Dear gamesmasters, all of you, in every city.
I am writing to thank you, which is not something I do, so please frame this.
Thank you for greeting my guests about fifteen minutes before their hour begins and walking them through the rules, so that nobody wastes my precious time asking where the toilets are.
Thank you for checking that everyone is old enough, and for asking for ID when someone looks suspiciously fresh-faced. Thank you for turning away anybody who has been drinking. My rooms deserve a clear head.
Thank you for putting the phones and watches in the lockers. Nobody in a coffin needs to check the football.
I am less grateful for the hints, the panic buttons, the friendly voice in the dark and the photographs afterwards. But I have come to accept that without you there would be no guests at all, merely a lonely man in a top hat practising a laugh to an empty room.
Yours, with grudging respect and a fresh wax seal,
— U.


