Following the model of my favourite author Balzac--you need the awful leisure that has been mine to appreciate him--I ought to describe the house in which I live, my establishment--well, I have begun with Sergeant Marigold--and the little country town which is practically the scene of the drama in which were involved so many bound to me by close ties of friendship and affection.
I ought to explain how I come to be writing this at all.
Well, to fill in my time, I first started by a diary--a sort of War Diary of Wellingsford, the little country town in question.

Then things happened with which my diary was inadequate to cope.

Everyone came and told me his or her side of the story.

All through, I found thrust upon me the parts of father-confessor, intermediary, judge, advocate, and conspirator....

For look you, what kind of a life can a man lead situated as I am?
The crowning glory of my days, my wife, is dead.