The secret diary of ...

I knew something was wrong as soon as I switched on the kitchen light.

The cupboard door was slightly ajar. I don’t go around leaving cupboard doors slightly ajar. They’re either closed or they’re open. I don’t do ajar. I don’t even like the word. It makes me want to scream and run amok – amok, I do. Oh yes. I most certainly do amok. I’ve made a political career out of it.

I flung open the cupboard and saw biscuit crumbs.

Crumbs, in my cupboards? I don’t think so. Not on my watch. Something was afoot. Do I do afoot? I don’t know. It’s hard to think straight at the moment. Ever since this whole business with the wretched Hager

I thrive on the spotlight and the applause of the audience.

book and his wretched accusations and his wretched proof, I’ve been a mess, more or less under house arrest, unable to sleep – I looked at the kitchen clock. It was after 4am.

I took a deep breath. I just needed a nice hot cup of tea and a lie down. And a biscuit.

I followed the trail of crumbs to a packet of Milk Arrowroots. One was missing.

I realised in an instant who was behind this interesting little breakin. Hager. Hager,

and

his

long,

biscuit- clutching fingers! Hager, and sharp, biscuit-biting teeth!

It had his fingerprints all over it. As such, I got out my police kit, and dusted the entire kitchen for prints.

TUESDAY

his Finished dusting the entire house, including the driveway.

WEDNESDAY

I couldn’t stand it any more, cooped up inside, hungry, pale, quite possibly insane, so I called John but as soon as I started saying I needed some fresh air, he snapped, ‘‘Sit tight. Sit tight, and shut your big fat trap.’’

I said, ‘‘You can’t talk to me like that!’’

He said, ‘‘You and your mate Slater have got us into this so I’ll talk to you any way I goddamned