There is no peace for the moderately wicked. Just before dawn I was padding around Number One Galley Shaft in me tartan dressing gown, availing myself of a few leftover herring & Stilton escalopes, when Groida shot me in the backside.
It isn't funny. Even a ball of tin foil propelled by a rubber band is a hell of a shock if it catches the target unawares. Just for the record, I didn't scream. That was my Bruce Lee Deadly Chicken Battle Cry. I am in a permanent state of readiness to deal with potential attacks. Woe betide any cheeky foe who is rash enough to consider interrupting me at my repast.
Anyway, the Tragic Turnip at first denied responsibility for the impudent assault, claiming to be one Caesar Endicott, a train driver who "must have suffered a petit mal and taken a wrong turning at Swindon". I have put up with this brand of insolent tosh for far too long, so I fetched him a beauty on his napper with a catering-size tin of plum tomatoes and sent him back to bed.
How am I supposed to create a pantomime masterpiece when my moments of inspiration are sabotaged at even the quietest times of the day? I am going to silence that bugger once and for all if he is not careful. In the mean time, Auntie P is making us Japanese Rice Krispies for supper, so I'll stab her nemesis of a nephew in the fundament with me chopsticks. A bum eye for a bum eye ...
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