The bat fell in the wassail bowl. A kind old lady fished them out and an even kinder Ivorian offered a pre-warmed sock, but the bat just flew, well, fell with style, into the jello. A rapier blade reached down and flicked the bat [harmessly] back out and headfirst into the sock. MrrWzl! came faintly from the sock as the bat, sock and all, was hung like a Christmas stocking in front of the fire.

The bat, being head-down in the sock, was happy.

Meanwhile, on the tower, the ghost of Joan Didion saw that her moustache was not her own, and drank an Irish coffee with some rather gory toast.