12 May 2021
Wednesday. A young gentleman presented himself at my crypt tonight with a moustache drawn on in pencil. He told the gamesmaster he was fifteen. The gamesmaster asked for proof. He produced a library card. It was not his.
I want it known that I did not make the rule. The house made it: every guest in my graveyard must be fifteen or older, without exception, even with a parent holding their hand, and those who look younger may be asked to show who they are. Nobody younger may come in to watch, either.
I would have let him in. He had style. But the house is firm, and I have come to respect firmness in an establishment. It is the nearest thing the modern world has to a portcullis.
He went home with his mother, who promised him a return visit in a few years. His elder sister stayed and was, I must say, splendidly rude to my beloved’s casket.
Reginald, my bat, is eleven. Nobody has ever asked him for identification. I find this inconsistent.
— D.
