Letter from the Founder
lie awake in bed, screaming the name of the devil, terrifying my normally unflappable sausage dog so much that she burrows into the deepest recesses of my goose-down duvet howling in sympathy. I lie curled in an embryonic ball of frayed nerves, quaking in night terrors, my shirt drenched in sweat. I start to weep in horror, so haunted am I by those three syllables that until the day I die shall represent the deepest form of depravity and evil perpetuated on the world since Epimetheus’s bimbotic lady friend Pandora opened a clay jar clearly labelled “Do not open under any circumstances” and unleashed all manner of maleficence upon humanity. That name
