This is my nit comb.
There are many like it, but this one is mine.

My nit comb is my best friend.
It is my life.
I must master it as I must master my life.

My nit comb, without me, is useless.
Without my nit comb, I am useless.
I must comb my nit comb true.

My nit comb and I know that what counts in this war is not the hours we comb, the whining noise of the Proles, or the lotions we use.
We know that it is the nits that count.
We will de-nit…

I will keep my nit comb clean and ready, even as I am clean and ready.
We will become part of each other.
We will…

I swear this creed.
My nit comb and I are the defenders of my home.
We are the masters of our enemy.
We are the saviors of the proles itchy heads.

So be it, until victory is ours and there are no nits, but peace!
And a cup of tea and no worrying that the Proles will give other people lice.

This morning before a meeting I went into Waterstones and moved copies of Margaret Thatcher’s biography into the ‘Crime’ section.
It was a very small thing but I have been giggling to myself all day.