It works!

My mind is at ease now. My disguise was impenetrable. My wig and false moustache fooled everybody, and anonymity was mine.

Farewell to Aegthil of Gondor. Welcome Aegthil of Bree. At least until Lady B stops her crusade against the better things of life. One of them being me, of course.

Although reports are conflicting, there is a persistent rumour that Lady B turned up to the BBB show last night, with her henchbobbits. I thought I recognised her immediately even though she wasn't wearing her signature blue and red tights. Thank Eru for that, let me add, in a fashion aside. She stood off to one side, scowling fit to burst, and clearly searching for someone. But she was oblivious! She had no idea that, standing right in front of her playing the horn, was none other than Aegthil of Gondor. The famous Aegthil of Gondor. She just thought it was simple Aegthil of Bree, the non-famous Aegthil, in his full hirsute aspect.

Totally fooled, she was. Totally fooled. Oh boy, did I giggle to myself.

Of course, my dear friends in BBB were a great help, referring to me as "Burt" all night. I'm not entirely sure where the Burt came from, but that certainly added to the overall confusion. And dear Sarasti took over the theorbo duties, and didn't make too many startling errors, so we must be thankful for that, also. Actually, Sarasti was in rather fine voice, particularly in the foreign numbers, with all those funny foreign words.

As usual, the crowd went wild (it's no wonder that Lady B gets so annoyed!). Ladies swooned, the men cheered. Some of them swooned too. Mind you, it was rather a puzzle to know for whom they were swooning and cheering, as the famous Aegthil of Gondor wasn't there. It wasn't for Beorbrand, we know that much, as nobody but a goat would swoon for Beorbrand. Maybe it was for Ranph and Filsi. Or for Sarasti, in the case of the men. Not for Bandoras or Anarwald, no way.

I did notice one very handsome dorf lady there, and maybe she had a thing for Beorbrand. Wouldn't surprise me. With all that beard his face does look a little like the rear end of a goat, which, we are reliably informed, can get the dorfs excited.

Anyway, the swooning and cheering was deafening, as it ought to be. The famous Fionalulu was there also, in one of her rare appearances since her widely publicised lovers' tiff with Gourgini (still nowhere to be found). The lovely Tess, still a gender-confused daughter of Numenor, put in a much-appreciated appearance also. A great improvement to the scenery. And, of course, the inimitable Teabrew was dancing and singing along with great enthusiasm, and even greater sultry appeal.

Oh yeah.

Melanie had headed off to bed earlier, with three hobbits and a goat in tow. I don't even want to think about that.

Aegthil in disguse

I have now found the perfect disguise for my infrequent forays into Bree or elsewhere. A wig, a false moustache, and hey presto, it's Aegthil of Bree, not Aegthil of Gondor. Complete the outfit with a very sexy hooded thing that covers just about everything, and I have perfect confidence that Lady B, the superbobbit of crime, will never find me. Well, perhaps not perfect confidence, but I hope it will work.

I was going to show a picture to all my devoted fans, but then it occurred to me that might not be the best approach to anonymity. The ladies shall sigh in vain.

However, I must admit to being somewhat nervous about the BBB performance tonight. Lady B will surely expect me to be there, and will be planning on showing up herself, with her band of roughnecks. Will my disguise stand the test? If not, will I be the unwilling victim of yet more bobbit violence? Will it be my neck next time, instead of only my fingers?

But other questions occur to me as well. Should I try to suppress my enormous natural talent and charm so as not to make Lady B even more jealous? Perhaps I should restrain myself, try to prevent the ladies from throwing themselves at my feet. I could refrain from washing. I could wear nasty clothes. I could pick my nose. I could break wind loudly in the quiet passages.

I could even try to be polite to people who don't deserve it.

Would this work? Would this make me safe?

But one question occurs to me in the dead of night, over and over again, when all Madame Celestine's girls are sleeping, when the wind is howling over the Greenway, and spectres come to haunt the minds of men.

Will I ever be safe from Lady B?

Convalescence

My convalescence continues, although only slowly. Finger bones are such tricky little things, you have to treat them most carefully, with love and attention, or you might find yourself in the horrible position of not being able to raise your middle finger when the situation demands.

I'm recovering in an LMB safe house, in an undisclosed location, to avoid any further attentions from Lady B and her henchhobbits. All outings are necessarily being taken in heavy disguise and strict anonymity. Funnily, I find that, as long as I can keep my mouth shut, a disguise is an effective and simple way to avoid unwanted attention. Most likely people find the beard so digusting and morally offensive that they don't want to make eye contact. That's a very common, one could almost say universal, reaction to beards.

However, I was able to make it to the last Ales and Tales, which was a most relaxing affair. In particular, I must commend the lovely lady Melanie, who combines the height of personal elegance and beauty with a most decided talent for writing and telling stories. Well, not that I was listening to the story of course, I was too busy watching the scenery, but I'm sure it was very impressive nonetheless. My Fool paid more attention than I did, and he thought so. Mind you, who cares what a fool thinks? Not I, for one.

Old Winyards played the LMB anthem, which is a pathetic piece of music as I believe I have already mentioned, and a few sad people sang along with them. Probably members of the LMB at a guess. I refrained from pointing out the simplicity, bordering on stupidity, of the song, it's ridiculous harmonic scheme, and the triviality of the melody. The lyrics, I suppose, were acceptable. Just. But I was so well behaved it made my teeth ache.

But now my secretary's writing hand is getting tired, and is in need of a massage. I shall help her, in a variety of ways, and dictate more at another time.

In which I lose my job and get my fingers broken

It is not always that genius goes unrecognised, but neither is this always a good thing. Genius can inspire love and devotion (I certainly see a lot of that every day!) but it can inspire also bitterness and envy, to the detriment of all.

And so it has proved to be.

As some of you may know I've been moonlighting at the Landroval Times. Strictly anonymously, of course, it wouldn't do to have a rock star exposing themselves as a grubby tabloid journalist, but I can't deny that Madame Celestine has found the additional income useful. But I've been outed now, by a short, fat bobbit of small brain and even less talent, motivated clearly by nothing but green envy and despite.

I believe I wrote something that offended her. Imagine that! Me, who never wrote or said anything to offend anyone! It just beggars the imagination!  I am the soul of innocence, the sultan of veracity, the kind and gentle reporter for your Sunday news, and, at all times, Fair and Balanced. Ahem. At least, I was. At any rate, beggared imagination or not, a  lawsuit was initiated against the Landroval Times and myself personally, and a court injunction forced the removal of certain articles from the Landroval Times. Dear oh dear.

But wait. There's more.

Later on that same day, whilst promenading around Bree to be admired by the ladies, I was set on and assaulted by a group of bobbits, led by one, clearly female, wearing red and blue tights, with a large B embroidered on the chest. I have to say, as far as fashion goes, Lady B really does need to lose the tights. I mean, not lose the tights with nothing on underneath, but take off the tights and put on something else to cover her nether regions. (Do this in a private place where nobody can see.) Really. Fashion advice is clearly necessary here, and I am happy to oblige, even when someone is beating on me. If I'm going to be beat up, at least wear something nice, like it's a party or something. Or a special occasion.

Anyway, the assault was vicious and prolonged (I believe I also heard cheering, which seemed to be coming from the Bree Town Guard) and I was left with a number of broken nails, facial bruising, and 7 broken bones in my writing hand.

And thus endeth my career as a world-famous journalist. I believe the Landroval Times is currently advertising for a replacement. Pfft.

Like a butterfly

Just as the lovely butterfly emerges from its cocooned incarceration, spreads its wings and takes flight for the admiration and wonder of all, so do I emerge from Madame Celestine's, well refreshed (although a little tired, I must admit), and take wing across the land, spreading joy and love to my multitude of fans.

Oh yeah. My Fool has finally returned, and thus my release. Hallelujah.

Life is, as one might expect, full of social calls and musical duties. Anarwald is the proud recipient of a piece of musical rubbish that my Fool wrote while travelling. It is called Anarwald's Pavlova. Don't ask why, as the story is complicated and uninteresting. And the Lonely Mountain Band has also been the somewhat less proud recipient of yet another piece of musical nonsense that my Fool likes to call the LMB anthem. Right. Anthem.

How pathetic.

My dear kinmates are still working on the lyrics. I shall leave them to it. I am far too important to sully my pristine hands with the filth of lyric writing. No way.

My next task, you ask? To make the Riders of Rohan love me a little more. They should already you would think, but for some strange reason they don't seem all that keen on me. This must change.

However, I did find a lovely pair of Rose Boots while doing menial chores for the Riders, so it has not been a complete waste.

Rose is the new Black, and I am still gorgeous.

Yee Haw.