Had a seriously loopy dream last night. I was serving tea at the Dorchester to the Aznavour quins, Groida was the Maitre D (unaccountably wearing an eyepatch) and the cabaret was provided by the resurrected Mr Prendergast in a nurse's uniform, blowing furiously on a digeridoo with "Y Nauci 14" inscribed along its length.
A hole opened up in the floor and Janet Radcliffe Richards, in a gown bejewelled with Spangles and Jelly Tots, rose up on a hydraulic plinth and declared she was the Ghost of August Bank Holiday Monday Yet To Come and arrested me for being naughty, painted the wrong shade of green and over the regulation mantis height.
I'd set fire to that bloody book of hers if it wasn't being used to shore up a dodgy prop in Mordecai's tin mine.
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