I realise, with horror, that I've not updated for 1 week!

My life's a bore now. I wake up at 12 30pm these days... the latest was 1500 hours.

I'm still caught up with that short story with that elusive title and author. I've thought of Ray Bradbury as the possible culprit, but now I have a feeling it might be... Roald Dahl.

A new clue!

Here's the story line... In your shoes. If you find the storyline familiar (the essense of it lah... the rest is invented by me), please tell me what it is!!! Thanks.

You've been invited to a party. Grand, majestic mansion, you in your immaculate evening wear with that favourite ornament on your left side. The moon's lit the place with its ethereal glow. A handful of other distinguished guests at the party too, flanking your left and right, people from the highest levels of society. There seems to be no host, for there's only a manservant to show you and your guests around...

After dinner there's gonna be a show and everyone's walking about, preoccupied with their conversation and all.

The show starts! You watch eagerly as an exact-looking, down to the detail moving figure of the person next to your right comes out into the open. But this figure is not moving forward. He is moving - struggling bound to a platform, with a pendulum swinging over him.

"What a way to amuse the audience!" exclaims the very person next to your right. He is laughing and clapping as the pendulum embeds itself into the screaming figure that so resembles him.

You catch on that it's only a wax-figure or marionette or robot of some kind and clap along as the other wax-figures of the other guests with you get mutilated brutally and mercilessly.

You turn to the person next to your right and attempt to strike up a conversation. But he seems too engrossed in the sound and fury of the entertainment, as he continues clapping and laughing.

Unable to spoil the man's pleasure, you watch on and very soon, the last few numbers of replicas awaiting their "death" includes your waxy counterpart.

So you wonder, how's mine going to be like?

And you nudge the person next to your right to get his attention discuss this comical matter.

But he ignores you and continues clapping and laughing.

Infuriated, you give a quick, angry pat on his shoulder.

The sound of plastic.

You freeze.

Your fingers twitching uncontrollably, you reach out and touch his face.

You trip and fall down behind you. An impeccable, icy cold tomb for your heart embraces you as sudden realisation hits you.

All that fills your mind is the insane, incessant laughter that persists into the very deepest crevices of your mind.

You run away from the spectacle sprawled out in front of you. You'll run away and live, you say. You stumble through the corridor past corridor past corridor past endless paths of corridors but there seems no end.

You pass by a balcony and see, to your horror, an exact-looking, down to the detail moving figure of the person who is you, clapping and laughing loudly, clapping and laughing loudly.

You enter the balcony and yellow light floods your eyes. Shielding your eyes, you make out that it is a big spotlight, like those used in stage productions.

Showtime!