Are we truly living in an age of miracles? Groida has apologised for his catapult outrage on my nether regions and has even voluntarily shared with me some of his blackjacks, fruit salad chews, red laces and flying saucers as a peace offering.
It always unnerves me when he is not playing up, but when his quiescence is supplanted by an uncharacteristic act of kindness, all my inner alarms go off like a desperate choir similar to a WW2 air raid siren. Hopeless lunatics intent on taking a pot shot at yours truly do not normally hand over their sweeties, especially without threats. The trusty old antennae are twitching away.
Just to put me even more on the defensive, he has made suggestions for "improving" the panto script. It is now a done deal that Auntie Pamela will play some exotic species of fairy Godmother but the Clown with Claws has raked up from the midden of his mind an ironic refinement to the plot. This could see her initially unmasked as Janet Radcliffe Richards and then further revealed under torture as a Martian spy. What a heap of twaddle!
I have reviewed the intergalactic element and it is as plain as the aerials on me bonce that Mars is old hat. By way of research I have been watching the groundbreaking 1960's documentary series "Lost In Space". There was a spiffing green bint in Season 2 but she has probably floated half way to eternity by now. Young Penny Robinson, on the other hand, has matured into a magnificent mommy, returned to Earth and currently resides Stateside.
She originally hailed from these very shores, so if I can coax her back over the pond and give her a re-spray in the appropriate metallic verdant hue, I am confident she could be our big star; something between Cinderella, Lizzie Borden and Gracie Blofields. Anything is preferable to wrangling the dismal dearth of talent loitering in the mine shafts into a "company".
I must adjourn for a moment. Big G has jabbed Mordecai in the lughole with a mop handle and I want to watch the unpleasantness escalate ...
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