Well into the Fourth Age, long after the shadow was driven from the East, the realm of Moira was cleared of the foul things that dealt in its gloomy halls. Once again, dwarves came to dwell in its deeps and so the underground kingdom prospered.

 As they toiled, seeking out lost things amongst the wreckage wrought by many lifetimes of occupation by Orcs, they found, in the deepest, foulest place in the earth, a scrap from this:

The Secret Diary Of Bridget The Balrog, age lots and a half.

Monday January 9th

Burnt toast.

Can’t seem to get the hang of the temperature control on the arms of flame.

Ate 10 Orcs – Must cut down.

Tuesday January 10th 

Burnt toast.

Set off fire alarm with billowing smoky body. Must have been the Orcs I ate yesterday. Note to self – Maybe if I cut down to six a day?

Ate 8 Orcs.

Wednesday January 11th

Burnt toast.

Clive the Cave Troll came for a visit, the old flirt! 

We ate far too many Orcs with tea. He had some interesting gossip about whom the Watcher in the Water has been dating recently! Well, I never! I didn’t think she’d ever get a date with that fishy breath.

Orcs eaten 15. OMG.

Thursday January 12th

 Burnt toast again.

Now have indigestion. Rumblings echoing round the mineshafts. The Orcs complained, but I ate them.

Orcs eaten 22.

Friday January 13th

Declared day of fasting after yesterday’s binge. Am only eating fruit.

Saturday January 14th

Skipped toast.

Quiet day. Did crossword. Burnt hole in sofa - body of swirling flame plays havoc with furnishings. Oiled the fiery whip.

Orcs eaten 4 (Yay! Go diet!)

Sunday January 15th

Burnt toast.

Orcs kept me up all night with bloody battle drums. In very bad mood. I’m just nipping out to see if I can ask them to turn it down a bit…