29 March 2027
Monday. Easter Monday, and I am not speaking to the waiter. I have written that at the top of the page so I do not forget.
The facts of the matter. I proposed a small, tasteful egg hunt in my locker. The waiter, who lives in Melbourne and has never once set foot in my kitchen, proposed a larger one in his. U. forbade both and then wrote it all down in his own diary as though he had been the reasonable one.
The waiter called me a copycat. I called him a garnish. U. reminded us that we were, in a manner of speaking, the same man, which is the sort of remark that ends a conversation without settling it.
Let the record show the division of territory. Melbourne is his. Perth and Sydney are mine; I am, the management tells me, the only host of my kind in either city, and I intend to keep it that way. If he wants to open a dining room on Lake Street, he will have to get past the bay leaves.
I ate the egg I had hidden for the hunt. It was in the freezer. That was a mistake.
— B., your host
