But soft, what light through yonder window breaks? It is the first time that she has seen the cold light of dawn from an upstairs window for many weeks, and the cold light of dawn is one of her favourite phrases, betokening as it does all sorts of elopements, escapes and adventures.
She has had an adventure herself this week, having been marauded by a cheery dentist, who smiled and smiled but was yet a villain.
His gleaming white teeth were mouthing platitudes as he bent over the chair and as she opened her mouth to reply politely, wham! there was a needle embedded in her jaw, just a little scratch as it scraped the bone and made her teeth creak (he was actually holding it behind his back, would you believe, do they practise this on dental training programmes, the big smile, the pleasant conversation and the quick draw?).
And then what a sight she was (were people laughing and pointing in the street, she didn't dare look).
Would foundation be able to cover that big purple bruise? said Princess Bunchy. (Certainly, it would need stage make-up of a heavy duty sort.)
Your face has sort of dropped down on one side, said her dear sister, helpfully. You look like you have Bell's Palsy. (She tested her facial muscles by raising her eyebrow and essaying a tentative grimace. No, not a palsy or a stroke, one must be thankful for small mercies.)
It's all right, it's not a haematoma, said the dentist when she showed him that she really had turned into a hamster, in spite of what the receptionist had said on the phone. He smiled gleefully and said that perhaps she could wear a large scarf if she needed to go out.
A brown paper bag, more like, she muttered bitterly to herself, except then she would no doubt fall over and add to the effect so ably produced by the man with the sparkly teeth.
There was nothing for it but for her to retire to an armchair by the fire, eat copious quantities of very soft chocolate muffins broken up exceedingly small, and sulk (I think she will thus have a rotund midriff to match the hamster visage, and thus feel even more unable to meet her public face to face).
She would also like to thank all the lovely people who have sent kind emails and enquiries as to her wellbeing, and apologize profusely for her tardiness in replying, her only excuse being that January is the cruellest month and a period of hibernation proved to be the only solution.
February is almost as bad, but at least you don't have to get up in the dark quite so much.