Sunday night

'Twas the night before Monday, and all through the house, the only thing stirring was Alison's mouse. Or so quoth the poet, poets having leave to lie when quothing. (As you no doubt know, it's called Poetic Licence, and means that outrageous untruths about dragons, the interior design of the heart or swine flu are permissible in the interests of Higher Things. The CIA has a similar licence, but