Dear Diary, You know I would not normally warm the wax of your cylinders in the wee wee hours of the night but I have just had the shock of my life. I awoke, following the most lovely dream in which Ruby and I were clasped in an embrace that… actually it doesn’t matter. I had awoken and found myself in need of a… glass of water. I’ve found that in my increasing old age the consumption of sherry as an appratif is a daily ritual I cannot deny myself but that wreaks havoc with the bladder in the midnight hour. As I began to wind my way down stairs I see a light coming from the lounge. To begin with I had my fingers crossed that Ruby also suffered from a nocturnal bladder but no: I gently pushed back the door only to be met with that Whyte creature – stood on my bergère  – tapping the wall with a spoon and dressed in what can only be described as Wee Willy Winkies less alluring night gown. My flabber was ghaster dear diary. What was she doing tapping the walls in the middle of the night? I gathered my composure, bid her a good night and suggested we discuss her nocturnal habits in the daylite hours. On that note I shall now attempt once more to take to my bed in the hopes that Ruby may join me… if only in my dreams.