I am too soft-hearted for my own good. I began the decline by relenting over my ban on Groida having sherbet fountains because they make him cough (although nothing could match the decibels created by the tizzy he got into when denied them) and now I find myself harbouring a fugitive from international justice.
Never mind Mr Wikid, holed up in the Abyssinian consulate, I've got an earwig the size of an articulated lorry on the lam in Cornwall. Yes, we managed to get Cheryl out of the Olympic Stadium before she could cause any more trouble at the closing ceremony.
After nearly blinding myself with tears of frustration (i.e. ripping out my nose hairs in sheer boredom) and not hearing a squeak from Big G or Bro Mordecai during our vigil, I finally spotted our prey disgracing herself over a BBC outside broadcast van. I have to admit she wasn't in particularly good shape, being caked in mud, leaves and bits of food and I hope she disrupted more than a few corporate junkets during her rampage. He he!
What was I to do? She looked so pathetic that I had to get her back to the tin mine with the rest of the Ambrose Posse. Am I turning into that sentimental old Dickens? Jamais, tosh!
I've got her helping out in both the Krazy Kurnow Tearooms and Empress Pamela's Chinese Chippie. The rest of us are under enough pressure as it is, Uncle Lucas having buggered off after receiving a "wish you were here" postcard from Auntie P. If you knew her, you'd realise that message wasn't loaded with sweet sentiment but an order, leaden with veiled threats.
I trust our wiggly transatlantic visitor enjoys her temporary stay, but equally hope the U.S. will soon require her back to answer charges of ghastly crimes and will intimidate our government into returning her, or we may be stuck with the loopy old behemoth for ages.
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