I was right! I was thinking to myself the other day that Mr. Twit had gotten a little wet behind the ears, but now I know it's true. I was hiding a toad beneath his pillow, it was fake I could never touch the slimy things although I do like them more than squirrels and rabbits combined, to scare the idiotic old man, and what should I find but a letter he wrote himself. The miserable fool has terrible handwriting, but I was still able to read it while he was in the bathroom trying to pull out the rock that I dropped down the drain.
Mr. Twit, my husband of many years, who I thought was an ugly soul, a sad vile old man, with zero aspirations whatsoever beyond concocting plans to ruin my peace, was writing about flying. Not just about flying, but about building wings. How on Earth could a human man, a fat old bat like Mr. Twit possibly imagine building wings sturdy and strong enough to hold him up? There isn't enough magic in the universe, much less in that old mans fingers.
He's gone soft. I don't know what will happen next.