There has been progress, of a sort. Thanks to a timely tweet, I have received intelligence reports that the Aznavour Quins are operating a kebab & novelty rock joint in Brighton. I have dispatched Uncle Lucas with some spending money, a canister of DDT and an old carpet.
Groida, the bane of my existence, is playing up. He has pennant envy and refuses to take part in any further activity until he has his own unique gimmick. I have suggested he nips into town tonight and misappropriates a revolving hazard warning light from road works and wears it on his sting. With a bit of luck he will get himself arrested.
Auntie Pamela is ensconced in the Dorchester Hotel on a recce, posing as Lisabet "Dixie" Autoschnot, light opera diva and slalom gold medallist. This is costing me a fortune! I must make sure we liberate the safe before sending the place sky high.
Anyway, Bro is on kitchen duties during her absence. He's just dishing up the bubble and squeak. An appropriate description of the soundtrack we will no doubt be providing overnight. . .
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