A Snake in the Mine

Anyone would be mistaken in thinking I am a monster, the way that ingrate of a mega-scorpion puts me down.

Whilst engaged in dusting duties (no lack of humility or commitment to service there, eh?) I found Groida's diary. After nearly ruining my eyesight deciphering his infantile hieroglyphics I found this recent piece of calumny:

"Ambrose thinks he is the best bits of Confucius, Dr Syn and Rommel. He is more like a cross nanny if one of us lets off during tea. You should see his eyes bulge. But I have seen him excavate his nose when he thinks nobody is watching. He will want to be Pope next. One of those Borgias who ate bogeys. Arf.

I never did find my Chewits, but I know who had them. I am not the idiot round here. Why does he do it? I reckon he is a feeble, gobby showoff and a rotter. If I find one wrapper anywhere near his nasty pit I am going to put his antennae in heated curlers. Then let him try to play the big shot!"

I am wounded, of course, but big enough to take it. The scuttling vat of wee. So how will he explain the discovery of his sweeties tomorrow morning? Admittedly, they are the Aldi equivalent but that just goes to prove it wasn't me. I would cover my tracks properly.

I must have a few quiet words with Mr Wu, Auntie P's new partner in the grey economy. Perhaps he can arrange to have the lying, lumbering sod shanghaied. Velly solly, Gloida.