Danny Fekete is studying education at the Ontario Institute for Studies in Education, appropriately. 
Quietly Gone
“Alastair, my old friend,” cried Ambrose, striding into the room and pumping the other’s hand warmly, “I see you’ve gone mad.”
“Gone?” Alastair gently withdrew his hand and replaced it in his treacle. “My madness is less a permanent relocation and more of a favoured haunt to which I gratefully repair when time and weather permit.” He attempted to nudge into the shadows beneath his bed the neck, head, and wattle of a tartan rubber chicken surreptitiously, and failed. “No matter whatsoever,” he continued. “Pull up a tuffet and for fuck’s sake sit down while I engage the tea service.”
Alastair gestured with calculated vagueness around the room at the profusion of footstools that had sprung up like mushrooms in the contemporary November damp. Eventually, three were harvested, including a baroque truffle of a specimen upon which the maiden Muffet might have seated herself had her circumstances permitted ignorance of so plebeian a repast as cottage cheese. This became the pedestal for the tea service while the two friends arranged themselves less comfortably on the remainder.
“Moreover, as I’ve had them moved on for the season we are unlikely to be joined by a spider,” Alastair commented improbably.
From its new position astern the wreck of an unbottled frigate and starboard the flotilla of discarded bluenose postage stamps beneath the bed, the tartan chicken glowered at them inanimately with a single machine-painted eye and began, imperceptibly, to queue.
(I’ma try posting things here again.)