So enraptured was I by this comical scene of equine ebullience that I did not see that Botcher had deposited a chest containing my diaries outside the carriage door, leading to me stumbling over it.

"Botcher! Could you not put this INSIDE the blasted carriage, you useless whelp?" I snapped.

"Yeah, I'll get on that," replied Botcher, as Trojan swung his mighty head around and sent him ground-wards once more. 

"Well, see that you do," I said. "I nearly spilt my morning whisky!" I added, taking a sip from the drink I had poured myself on the way out.

I shuffled past the chest and took my position within the plush interior of the carriage. The carriage was painted a bright red, flecked with gold, and boasted beautiful, scarlet seats adorned with the finest velvet. I always liked to travel in style, and this vehicle was certainly stylish. 

Much to my chagrin, I realised that I had now finished my whisky. I tutted and tossed the empty glass out of the window, just a Botcher opened the door, resulting in him receiving the glass to his dome. 

"Ow! Bloody hell! What did you do that for, you nob?" Botcher raged.

"I can't be held responsible for your head getting in the way of any projectiles," I sniffed, as I raised the arm rest of my seat to reveal my emergency stash of travel whisky, and a fresh glass. "You should look where I'm throwing things."

Botcher rubbed his head and then set about trying to lift the chest into the carriage, grunting and groaning with a touch too much theatricality for my liking.

"Can you give me a hand?" he said.

"Certainly. Bravo!" I cheered, applauding his efforts.

"Don't be a tosser. Just help me lift this bloody thing in or I'll leave it here!"

I rolled my eyes, and placed my drink down. "Ugh, do I have to do everything around here?" I said. I clambered back out of the carriage and with the addition of my considerable strength, we made short work of placing the chest in the carriager, and I was soon able to sit back down and resume my drinking. I made another mental note to dock Botcher's wages further, for making me do hard labour.

Botcher slammed the door and assumed his position on the box seat of the carriage. Within moments, we were off, leaving the Likely Estate - and crucially, Glandmash - behind.

The carriage juddered and rattled along the rough country roads, a motion that did not play well with my still hungover state. Every little pothole and bump made my weakened stomach lurch, as if we were riding upon some kind of hellish rollercoaster. Eventually, I could take no more, feeling my stomach desperately yearning to relieve itself of its contents. I banged heavily on the roof of the carriage, a signal to tell Botcher to pull the vehicle over. Botcher duly obliged and we drew to a halt by the side of a road. At first, this stillness made me believe that the nauseous feeling might well have passed, but upon shifting in my seat the sensation rose up in my stomach again. I knew I'd have to chunder, so I went to do so out of the carriage window. 

Unfortunately, at this precise point, Botcher threw open the door once again, this time receiving a faceful of my vomitus extremus. 

"Jesus buggering Christ! What the hell is this?" Botcher yelled.

"I know," I said groggily, wiping my mouth with a handkerchief and peering at Botcher's sick-caked face. "I do not recall having eaten any carrots."

And with that, I passed out into my seat.