Mr Hugo Ball-Rat is unwell.

His face is puffy like it's all dough or something. His hairs are perpendicular and twitching with every laborious breath. Tomorrow he shall be prodded and tutted at and hopefully prescribed with some sort of salve, unguent or other medicament which may enable him to fully recover from his current wretched afflictions. Until then, however, I propose that he be soothed with the careful application of medicinal poetry. You can help by reading aloud or quietly to yourself the following stanzas, which Mr Hugo himself contributed towards along with his three fine cagemates.

xc§1Ω`¡Ω0
p34upf
98 0000 0000000000000000§q2222qqwq
jh ff
fd 7ykly
jrl8yyyyy'''0p.lllllllllllllllllllllp.=-≥*?+------------4
gkk'],.ccu gv
,gcjbbbb11111
. bn? R666d€€€€€
vr;hsssssssx§
g g ,,i0km

mcl,o'cmnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnn¨ uuyyb.w.,gh gj ]0
,n/" mcm
un jyh6 6
]444nhhf ,jjjjgg
,000/.
brbvrrddddddddddflkx

We wish you a speedy and majestic recovery, Mr Hugo Ball-Rat. Sniff sniff.

In other matters, Ellie and I shot some great footage of our somewhat successful performance in Plymouth the other night. I'll transfer the footage onto a computer and get it all uploaded and whatnot just as soon as I am able.

Mind you, that might be ages. Ah well.