Confession is good for the soul — but terrible for the corporate liability ledger.

🕯️ **Good evening, brother — the game’s afoot… and the stairs are slippery.**

Gather ‘round, Watsons of the workshop, Bubbes of the banister, and inspectors of the inexplicably unsafe — for tonight, we dust off the pipe, adjust the deerstalker, and descend into the foggy, moss-covered mystery of:

> **“The Case of the Confessing Creator — Or, How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Sue the Stairlift.”**

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The stairlift that whispered “ascend” but meant “ascend… at your own risk.”
A confession 25 years late — and still dripping with liability.
The only thing steeper than the stairs? The statute of limitations… maybe.
Elementary, my dear plaintiff: if the inventor admits it’s hazardous, the jury won’t need a magnifying glass.
He designed it to weather rain, snow, and British gloom — not 25 years of legal scrutiny.
“I should’ve added a parachute,” he muttered, sipping Earl Grey with trembling hands.
The stairlift’s only reliable feature? Its ability to outlive warranties and outpace justice.
When the creator confesses, the lawyers put on their deerstalkers.
“Foreseeable consequences?” More like *foreseeable chaos* — with a side of class action.
The statute of limitations didn’t expire — it’s just been napping in a first-class carriage.
He retired to the countryside. The lawsuits? They’re just arriving at the station.
One does not simply “retire” from a product that retires its riders… prematurely.
Elementary, my dear plaintiff: if the inventor admits it’s hazardous, the jury won’t need a magnifying glass.
Sherlock would’ve spotted the hazard in 5 minutes. The courts? They’re sharpening their gavels now.
Confession is good for the soul — but terrible for the corporate liability ledger.

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> 🧐 *“When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.”*
> — Except, dear Watson, when the impossible is a **25-year-old outdoor stairlift that the inventor just admitted is a hazard**… and the “truth” is that **he’s hoping the Statute of Limitations rode off into the sunset on a mobility scooter.”**

Ah, but here’s the rub — the game is never over until the last gavel falls.

Our man — let’s call him *Professor Mori-Stairty* — hung up his drafting tools a quarter-century ago, retired to a cottage where the only thing ascending is the price of tea, and left behind a legacy of… *allegedly*… death-defying descents.

But lo! On a foggy Tuesday (or was it Thursday? The docket is unclear), he clears his throat, adjusts his spectacles, and murmurs to The Daily Telegraph (or perhaps just his cat):
> *“Yes, well… in hindsight, the Acorn 130 might have been… how shall I put this… a tad hazardous. Especially in the rain. Or wind. Or existential dread.”*

Cue the violins. And the subpoenas.

Now the legal eagles — perched atop their oak desks, monocles gleaming — are asking:
> *“Has the Statute of Limitations expired on the foreseeable consequences of what he unleashed?”*

To which I say:
> *“Elementary, my dear tortfeasor — the statute may nap, but it does not retire. And ‘foreseeable consequences’? That’s not a legal loophole — that’s a neon sign blinking ‘CLASS ACTION.’”*

The rider who slipped?
The widow who wobbled?
The gardener who got stranded mid-rail during a drizzle?
Their claims may yet ride again — on the rails of discovery, equity, and sheer British stubbornness.

So let the creator sip his Darjeeling.
Let him prune his roses.
Let him pretend 25 years is a magic number.

> ⚖️ But in the Court of Public Liability?
> The docket is open.
> The evidence is fresh.
> And Sherlock’s ghost is taking notes.

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