Merry Christmas, Mr Holmes!

If my dear Holmes thought to look from his chemistry table to my writing desk and ask which narrative I have chosen to record today, I have no doubt that I would - quite quickly - find my pen confiscated and my scrawlings confined to the deepest centre of the fire currently engaged in a losing battle against the winter weather on the other side of the room. Fortunately for us, however, Holmes is not - has never been - in the habit of reading these little accounts of our adventures until they are already published. Unless, of course, I present them to him ahead of time for consultation or clarification.

(This is not, I must stress, a common occurrence. I have no wish to hear my romanticism and truly, dear boy, some most grievous exaggerations so thoroughly lampooned.)

I am confident, therefore, that it shall survive to reach the desk of my publisher at The Strand.