3 March 2024
Sunday. Spring-cleaning, in March, because I refuse to follow the calendar.
The top hat goes on the top shelf, where it belongs. That is the Undertaker: Buried Alive, the coffins, my finest work. Below it, the head mirror and the lilac bow tie, for the cheerful man on the Asylum intercom.
On the hook by the door, the apron and the toque. The Butcher. Cannibal. He still sulks about the copycat business and I let him; it keeps him sharp.
In the drawer, wrapped in tissue, a waistcoat and a white napkin I have not yet worn in public. I have plans for that napkin. Melbourne plans. I will say no more.
People ask how I keep them all straight. I label the coat hangers. I also keep this diary, which helps, although the Butcher keeps borrowing it to write recipes in the margins.
A busy man needs a wardrobe. A busy villain needs four, and possibly a fifth with wheels. I will come back to that thought.
— U.
