You may recall that Slim’s most singular feature was maleability, and thus Slim squeezed easily through Joaxín’s keyhole.
Pim Comic Strip
How I came to write Pim
People often ask how I came to write Pim. It seems like a thousand years since I discovered Pim, or that Pim
discovered me. Thankfully I kept detailed notes and saved photos from that time. While I can’t swear to the
absolute accuracy of what you are about to read, I have done my best to capture the essence of how Pim entered my life.
Too tired to help the Well-Dressed Albatross with sartorial direction Ukifune left him to explore Joaxín’s inventory. The WDA soon found himself in an unnatural and unpleasant intercourse with yarn. As this was happening, Slim approached the shop.
Recognizing the knock of his acquaintance the Well-Dressed Albatross, and wanting for the time being to remain hidden, Joaxín sent his newly hired assistant to answer the door.
But the past is always returning to us.
Joaxín [?] made his way precariously back into the world. In Camden Town he opened a shop selling yarn spun from his own wool, and thereby sustained a meagre livelihood.
After days of drifting in solitude, the vagaries of aquatic motion delivered Ukifune, at dawn, to a metropolis on an island nation in Western Yurop.
Mid-morning Uncle Theosophus would sit by the window and admire his Emerald Cedars. Today his chair remained vacant. And the next. Days later a neighbour, Frau Krüger, noted odd odours emanating from the house and alerted the authorities.
Sadly, Uncle Theosophus died during the night. Discovering this the Well-Dressed Albatross proceeded to an exquisite rooftop establishment overlooking the Alps. And there he reflected upon the best course of action.
The attention Uncle Theosophus paid Ukifune was so suffocating that she escaped on the 4:00 am train. At a bend in the track she leapt therefrom into a foetid marsh. There she fashioned a boat to her own specifications and sailed onto Lake Lucerne destined she knew not whither.
Of an evening, the gaunt silhouette of Mr. Love moved against a backdrop of ruins, under skies that might have been resurrected from a coal-fueled century. In later decades a local, in his dotage, recalled the sight as having been a portent of what was to come.
