Merry Christmas, Monsieur Poirot Hercule Poirot coughed. The cold, damp wind bit easily through his greatcoat and scarf. He shivered.“Le froid, le froid,” he murmured. “L'humidité, Je n'aime pas ça.”There was no one for Hercule Poirot to talk to, but he talked all the same. He was lonely, and he had taken to talking to himself some time ago. It had been a little over two years since he had moved from London for his official retirement, and only a little less than that since he had seen anyone he could call his friend. Yes, Hercule Poirot, once the world’s foremost detective, was now very, very lonely.He walked slowly, labouredly, limping and leaning heavily on his cane. The English weather was not kind to his advanced years.Hercule Poirot at last reached his destination, which was the village post office. “Got a letter to post, Mr. Poirot?” asked the postman. “Oui, Monsieur Bob,”
["My brother has the brain of a scientist or a philosopher and yet he elects to be a detective. What might we deduce about his heart"
"I don’t know."
"Neither do I. But initially, he wanted to be a pirate."]
I hope you like it.