Well-choreographed swordplay is like a dance. Especially if it is a dance.
Excerpt from the diary of Hedgewold von Bufhousen
July 10, 1992
Dear Diary, or should I call you Elsa? I know we’ve been through a lot, and I’ve had my share of, shall we say, episodes, but even you can attest to the fact that I am categorically not insane.
Having said that, I now have the duty to report a most intriguing turn of events. I was sitting quietly in my reclining chair, my lovely hand-carved tobacco pipe firmly clutched in my handsome knuckles, when my eyes fell upon the mantle above my fireplace. More specifically, upon the small ballerina music box which Aunt Reginald had the foresight to bestow upon me last Easter.
I know this may sound strange to one such as yourself, but I’m quite positive the girl was holding one of my spatulas above her head! Though how she came upon it in the first place is a mystery to me, as is the apparent discrepancy in my spatula’s size from when I used it to get taffy off the cat last fortnight to now, as it sat, no more than an inch long, in the handless grip of a plastic doll. I must be getting old. In fact, I find myself not even liking fudge the way I used to.
P.S. Did you know a ballerina can also be called a danseuse? I find that rather humorous for some reason.