He always takes his time: he must get his ink horn out, his parchment smooth, his quill sharpened, and make sure his little arse is comfortable on the softest cushions my manor can provide. He says he is ready to take down my memoirs. The little hypocrite! I can see the smirk on his fat, greasy face. He thinks I am a liar. A liar! I, Sir Roger Shallot, Lord of Burpham Manor in Guildford, Surrey, Commissioner of Array, Justice of the Peace, the holder of many awards and decorations, Member of the Privy Council (believe me, that's well named), Member of Parliament (I'll tell you a funny story about that soon). Oh, yes, Sir Roger Shallot, now well past his ninetieth year, the darling and most loyal subject of the great Elizabeth, daughter of Anne Boleyn (she had the most beautiful tits) and, allegedly, the Great Killer himself, Henry VIII – the fat syphilitic bastard! I say 'allegedly' because I know different. Oh, I'll tell you the truth some day but that's another story.

Anyway, back to my chaplain. I grip my cane tightly and watch his smile disappear. Old Shallot is not a liar! True, sometimes my memory fails me, I get things slightly mixed up, but I am not a liar. Well, even if I am, at least I am not a hypocrite like him. Yes, he's a hypocrite and I can prove it. Two weeks ago in church the snivelling little bastard got up in the pulpit and told us not to be frightened of death. I sat in my pew and heard him prate on for at least an hour and a half. Now, usually I don't mind. I always take a bottle of claret and a meat pie to help me through the service and, when it's finished, I gaze around to catch the eye of some pretty maid. When I do, I wink and smile at her. She, of course, becomes agitated and it's so lovely to watch full ripe bosoms rise and fall!