Working our way through these tins of Chesswood creamed mushrooms, rendered misshapen and unsaleable by Groida's explosive cave-in, is proving to be a demoralising fag. On toast, sploshed on omelettes, in vol-au-vents, quiches, curries, you name it and we've tried it. Auntie Pamela has even attempted using it as a moisturiser. We are all close to breaking point.
That unhinged nincompoop Groida causes no end of trouble. He can't even resume his firework-making activities using the stuff as a propellant as it is inert ... until digested. Nights round here sound like a convention of banshees on Benzedrine, accompanied by the Dagenham Girl Pipers.
Uncle Lucas reckons it would stick to the mine shaft walls if we used it as plaster. It would certainly present a novel rival to Polytex, with a built-in smell of fungal mould. Perhaps I can unload some of it at the Padstow Produce Fair when I go back to do the judging. Or at least I can utilise it as ballast in my Octomac, switch it for the jams and chutneys and leave looking the same shape and size as when I arrived.
Big G is moaning about having nothing to do. He has been nosing around me and Bro as we try to come up with some prototypes of our "Mantids of the Universe" action figures for the lucrative Xmas mallarkey. I told him to bugger off and design a Groida pyjama case but he scoffed at the idea, saying that a computer game would be more likely to find favour with today's savvy tots. He is not getting his claws on my laptop, lest he hack into some unsuspecting nation's ICBM early warning system and none of us sees the festive season. Finally, in desperation, I quipped that a "My Little Scorpion" potty would be a winner and he clubbed me with a log until I saw stars. Just like old times!
Anyway, we're all (okay, nearly all) grafting away down here in the mine, trying make a buck or two. Whatever happens, we won't starve. Mushroom smoothie, anyone? Excuse me while I open a tin of crushed pineapple to refresh me jaded palate...
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