Accompanied by manic giggles.

Banished to the sofa, he mopes in a curled-up ball. His is dead, at least until the long-awaited revival — however unlikely that is. Mine wins by default, being the only survivor. Hurrah, etc. But really I'm here to prod the sobbing heap and coax something, anything, from the unknowably-large reservoir of very readable prose.

I'm not asking for much.

Am I?