Before we begin the story it is of the utmost importance that you hear my voice correctly in your mind. I cannot have you simply devising your own narrator. I have no doubt you are already hearing me incorrectly and I shudder to imagine what ill-begotten voice you have conjured. It just simply will not serve. Let us remedy that shall we? You must imagine now the voice of a lady. I could tell you that I’m from Yorkshire though you probably have no concept of a proper accent. I expect you’re hearing either Mrs. Doubtfire or Maggie Smith! If that is the case, then retire now. Downton Abbey will serve you no longer. If you instead could grasp the refined vocals of a marsh warbler and the dignity of the revered Queen Victoria then you are homing in on my unique eloquence and rhythm. Additionally, there will be a hint of honey as I carry an emotional undertone to my splendid narration, a storytelling device I learned from a woodsman around a campfire when I was just a skeptical English major with a focus on, you guessed it, the Victorian Era and an exchange program took me to the musky shores of the Pacific where this man with such a voice that the great Redwoods stopped growing to hear, and such calves that they could have been stripped off the oxen from my youth taught me what it truly means to weave a tale and so much more that is NSFW. Yes, that is correct, I used a hip acronym. I have kept pace with the times #lifelonglearner #lit. Finally, the cadence with which I recite longer sentences is that of a great Lord Alfred Tennyson poem, living in the space between a song and the drawn out heartbeat of a hibernating hedgehog. There we are. Can you hear me now? Very well. I shall now narrate for you, The Exceptional and Fictional History of the Pheasants on the Moors, a novella in three parts. Let us begin shall we? Part one...