unreliable narrator
From our UK edition
and where yesterday I lay broiling in the vat of my bedroom today a sneaky little breeze tickles my soles — Coo-ee! Only me! shifty at first but soon breeze picks up speed with What — did you think I was gone for good? That me and my three ‘e’s had danced our final conga around your curtains and hightailed it out of the element once and for all? Finita la commedia? Leaving you with only the hot, hot heat to tan your hide? My God, you’re a tragedian. I bet you spent the whole 48 hour heatwave being Blanche Dubois around the place, fainting and drawing cold baths. Don’t tell me. I bet you were writing poetry. Oh God, you were. Oh you have to have your psychodrama, don’t you?