"Yo, Mister Frodo, she’s writing us again," hollers Sam from the garden into his master’s bedroom window.

Frodo yawns, wipes sleep from his eyes and stretches, allowing enough of his thigh to show to give Sam the unmistakable hint that the garden was not the only thing that needed tending. "I wonder what she wants us to do this time. I hope the challenge is a bit racy, I could do with a quick tumble. Do you think we could point her in the right direction?"

"Well, love, you’re definitely pointing in the right direction for me at the moment", Sam snickers as he looks through the window at Frodo’s tented nightshirt. "But, alas no, I don’t think we will get to take care of your current predicament. She’s planning to write Metafiction – fiction that is self aware." At this Sam stops, creases his brow, and looks quizzically at Frodo. "Now, Mister Frodo, being booklearned and all, would that be Meta-Metafiction if Metafiction is aware that it is Metafiction."

"Sam, I don’t know, but it is a pity that it is only a drouble because a string of ‘Oh Oh Sam’s’ would have definitely done wonders to her word count."