Some things are too easy for words while others are definitely not. Such is life. My Wee Ambrose dolly has had to return to the drawing board after his antennae proved to be more tricky than a tubful of buggers. Groida said they looked more like antlers and I considered shaking and spraying a can of Fanta over him, until I noticed Auntie Pamela was watching. At least he has ceased babbling in his ludicrous Ohara patois and his outbursts are now reasonably intelligible.
My guest visit to the Padstow Produce Fair, on the other hand, may go down in the annals as one of my classic victories. The trusty "Octomac", with its labyrinth of poacher's pockets was discovered, on inspection, to have been rendered holy (unusable) by nocturnal nibbling things. Luckily, my devious mind's ability to improvise a scam didn't fail me.
Firstly, I got Bro to lock the other judges in the toilets while I declared proceedings closed, deeming all entries unfit for human consumption. Right on cue, Big G and Uncle Lucas appeared, posing as council health & safety officials and confiscated everything in sight. We all made a swift escape with our laden wheelbarrows, no doubt looking like contestants in "It's a Knockout". It certainly was that, in the first round, too!
We now have enough mouth-watering provisions for a siege, which may be a blessing if the polis come sniffing around. So it's marrow chutney with our fishcakes tonight!
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