15 July 2025
Tuesday. I went to see where I come from. It was a shed. A very large, very serious shed, full of people with pencils behind their ears.
They have writers there, who write the stories. Puzzle planners, who plan the puzzles. Set builders, scenic artists who age a plank until it looks a hundred years old, and a props team who make every object a guest picks up. I saw a lid being sanded. It was not my lid, but I nodded at it respectfully.
One of the writers looked up and said, quite casually, that they had “written the Undertaker”. Written him. As if I were a shopping list. I informed her that I had written myself, in this very diary, and she said that was lovely and also something they had written.
I have decided not to think about that.
I did admire the joinery. Whoever makes these rooms takes them more seriously than I do, which I had not believed possible. I left a thank-you note on the workbench, sealed with my wax, and a gentle suggestion about smaller panic buttons.
— U.


