Someone other than Christian Bale should be here to witness the curious wild fennel smell emanating from my person. It happens every time I move my head, an overpowering waft akin to that of the bulbous stem is released into the biting cold of my room. It mingles with the draught seeping in from invisible holes punctuating the window frame, lingers for a second, dissipates. (Fennel, apparently, is a member of the parsley family. I bet the parsley family does not subject itself to the annual torture of the fraught family board game featuring elves which are in actual fact little painted nobsules the size of my little fingernail.)
