When the satyr came, drunk, roaring like a lion, the whores dashed to their chambers. Lying on her cot, trembling Vanessa prayed it would not be her turn. She heard footsteps approaching. She stared at the curtains. They moved. She closed her eyes. The girl in the next chamber screamed.

‘Which is more beautiful, a blonde, a brunette, or a redhead?’ asked the novice. The wise hermit pondered. ‘It depends on the curve of the eyebrows, and the multitude of the eyelashes, and the tip of the nose, and the smoothness of the cheeks, and the pout of the lips.’

One stilly night in snowy December, the hatted boy dreamed he was wandering through a valley overgrown with evil poppies. A fancy poppy caught his attention, and he plucked her. The dream then ended, and the boy awoke. In his hand he was holding the evil poppy. He was startled.