I went back to London for this weekend. I travelled light - just the clothes that I was wearing. I had intended to take a book with me, to read on the train, but I was in such a rush to leave the house that I left the book on the coffee table.
Before I left, Gordon - the other lodger here - asked me when I was returning. The curiosity in his voice allured to a hidden agenda.... all a little too suspicious. I replied vaguely, saying I may return the next day.
I returned tonight to find the top portion of my book mangled and ripped and seemingly chewed off. First suspicions look towards Billy, the dog. But something doesn't quite fit: although all the pages are torn in random hackings, the front cover of the book has a well-delineated tear dissecting it obliquely from left to right. THAT suspicion points to the Gordon, the Tasmanian who is "house-sitting" and "dog sitting" - though he only walks the dog once every three days. It's my suspicion that he has used my copy of Niccolo Machiavelli's The Prince to make roaches for his spliffs. I suspect he used the knowledge of my absence to organise a hedonistic weekend with friends.
I shall soon find out. Though I have yet to reach the chapter where Machiavelli's explains how to tackle such a confrontation - I don't suppose it came up often in fifteenth century.
