So Marie Anthumbette’s time has finally come, after all the trouble she’s caused me. She’s been in the Bastille for years, with clever lawyers arguing the toss.  She’s ducked Mme La Guillotine time and again and has lived to torment me.  But today – today, Robespierre finally gets his way.

Ah, oui.  She has had doubts for some time now about her head anyway, given that her hair has turned white – only with these stubborn black streaks, which have brought her so much attention.  But helas!  they are poisonous, n’est-ce pas, and Mme La Guillotine is always starving.

So she’ll be bound and put in a cart and taken through the streets to la Place de la Revolution, and the sans-culottes will jeer and lick their lips …

OK, it’s not that bad.  But the thumb which has given me trouble for so long with black streaks of melanoma is not getting any better, and today the surgeon said he thought that amputation of the top joint was probably the best thing to do.  He gave me a skin graft 4 years ago, but the melanoma keeps reappearing and is now spreading, so …

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