My arch-rival in poker, that insufferable dandy Lord Tankington-Smythe, seems to have been intimidated by his previous decimation at my hands, because last night he didn't even bother turning up for what transpired to be my second win on the trot. He cried off citing some manner of stomach complaint, but his protests had a hint of cowardice about them. I shouldn't be surprised if he mysteriously develops some kind of muscle wasting disease, leaving him unable to properly grip a hand of cards ever again and therefore unable to face another drubbing.
Thankfully, there are all manner of gullible folk lining up to donate their money into my winnings fund, and last night another four of them fell to my quick-witted chip-play and unreadable bluffs. My own dear sister was a worthy opponent but was the first to fall. The Lawyer fell next, and then Arachnor, Master of Spiders. The dramatic heads-up play took place between myself and Anguilia, a woman with whom I have butted heads many a time, but her mathmatical skills and feminine wiles could not hope to stand before the onslaught of brilliance that at times threatened to overwhelm her like a tidalwave and sweep her clear of the gaming table. A noble victor, I quickly and quietly accepted both the plaudits of my defeated opponents and, more importantly, their money.
I might be worried by that old saying "lucky at cards, unlucky in love," except that my victorys have come not through luck but through skill, bravery and not a little application of charm. Watch out for me, for surely I shall soon be bestriding the world of poker like a muscular, firm-buttocked collossus. You'll see.
Tonight's post has been bought to you in the style of a boastful nineteenth century diarist, and by the number twelve.