The Storyteller. Sometimes on moonless nights with nothing half decent on the telly I metamorphose into this blue blob-like thing, borrow a few cats from the neighbours, gather my Shoggoths and I tell stories. They are all arbitrarily made up and bear no relation whatsoever to any known narrative tradition, foreign or domestic. The Shoggies really like them and the cats are too polite to say what they really think about them -but they keep on coming back for more. Recently a stray Cagnolito of Tindalos has started dropping in to these soirées (more like gatecrash, I think; I don’t remember inviting him, honest), but nobody minds because he behaves so well we are all beginning to wonder whether he is truly one of that ilk. Why, last time he actually showed up with a bag of cat biscuits, a large carton of Smarties and a bottle of a very nice red of uncertain origins (the label was ever so fuzzy and it was smeared with what looked suspiciously like blood). What’s the Final Void coming to, that’s what I’d like to know?