Hamlet was thoroughly fed up. Although it wasn’t raining hard, there was a thick, dreary mizzle of a peculiarly wetting kind, and the water was starting to drip off his hair. To add insult to injury, several spiders had strung their webs across him, and a crane fly kept fluttering around him and tickling his nose. And his friend Yorick was now very wet indeed, and owing to being cast in bronze Hamlet was unable to get his handkerchief out of his pocket and dry Yorick’s skull.
Alas, poor Yorick.
“Bloody autumn,” soliloquized Hamlet. “Bloody mists and mellow fruitfulness. Bloody insects. Bloody mother.”
After festering for a while on the unfairness of life, and wallowing in a mildly enjoyable way in the miserableness of being him, he suddenly brightened. “It’ll be Christmas soon,” thought Hamlet. “That’ll be absolutely hateful.”