You walk into the Evening Gazette Headquaters, to find it rather smaller than you expect. It turns out that the Evening Gazette is owned, edited, written, published and printed all by a bloke called Robin Peterson, who also works at the reception desk. For this reason, editions only arrive when Robin can be bothered, which is not often at the moment, since he tells you he's just finished writing a play, called Ye Olde Tales of Fulforde. You ask to see it, but he says he hasn't got a copy with him - you can buy one at Northumberland, out of the door, turn right 270 degress at the crossroads, and down the dead-end road.

Robin seems a chatty person, and continues to tell of his past careers. "I moved here from Bath, where I ran the Bath Evening Gazette, but after a large amount of misfortune in the area, it went bust, and I moved here. In fact, now I come to think of it, I think the whole saga must have been a dream, or made-up or something, because I've always lived here. I strongly recommend you never to go near modern Bath, what's left of it - and advise others not to if you know any suckers considering travelling there."

You wish Robin good day, and wander back into the street, as you hear Hairy moaning for attention outside.