So, we Hafeems are often reluctant to prove that we are Hafeems. And we’re very reluctant to meet anyone in person. Which is why I was very glad Flyss chose this option and not the other. (You’re all gentlefolk, right, and won’t go back on an agreement?) If she’d decided to see me, I would have had to get someone I trust a lot more than the guy you call the Bounty Hunter to blindfold her, switch cars eighteen times, etc., and bring her to me in the pitch dark, where I would talk like Marlon Brando in the The Godfather. (I’m not kidding. We do that sort of thing. A lot.)
But, to get back to proving things. There may be an item. It would be buried where an old farmhouse was bombed flat at the First Battle of the Marne. So far as I know, it’s never been excavated. It would be wrapped in foil. It would have been a special device for preventing a horde of certain tiny, tiny things from meeting up with a single comparatively gigantic tiny thing. It was blue. And it was composed of an extract of Hevea brasiliensis. I will say no more. I’m already blushing furiously.
Even with someone as prowetic as me, such prowesses couldn’t begin before, say 10. And that would give me a birth date of 1904. Which would make me rather decrepit. And that I’m not. I can out-hike any three of you.
But that’s not proof at all, is it? Next you’ll be asking to see me in person to show that I’m not 106. Besides, I could have met a World War I vet who told me that story. Instructive? Wasn’t that mind exercise gift enough?
But you’re implacable, I know. So here’s what I’ll do. (Continued in next post)