The holes in the Blipfoto book were not the work of moths in the bedroom. They were, in fact, a message from the burglars who had stolen half my jewellery. The holes couldn’t have been made by the moths anyway. They were too perfect. They looked as if they had been created by a hole-punch.
I went into the kitchen to tell TPR about my discovery, but struggled to get his attention. He was too busy discussing the payment of the toothless plumber who had just sorted out the problems with the lavatory in the back bathroom.