Whatever happened to the great British summer, eh? I recall seemingly endless sun when I was wee, not the procession of dreary days we have to put up with now.
Don't mind me, I'm just fed up. I can't even practice on the harmonium as two of the Gatling guns are jammed. Normally I'd ask Uncle Lucas for a helping claw but he isn't speaking to me at present, just because I called him a sour-tempered old 'pod, which he is.
Auntie P is away, visiting her sister Annie in Rhyl. At least they've got a decent bloody pier over there. Groida is still rabbiting on about forming a concert party for the season and has been monitoring reported sightings of Mr Prendergast, his renegade automaton. If he drags that uncontrollable behemoth back here I'll dynamite the pair of them.
He reckons that if he can tame the thing, all he needs to do is swindle a few dowagers out of their fur coats, sew them together as a costume for it and hey presto, a novelty act. "Philip Blomsputum and His Amazing Dancing Yeti". With me passing the hat round, no doubt.
As for the dearth of suitable piers in Cornwall, bro Mordecai suggests extending one of the deeper mine shafts under Kastell Ambrose into a tunnel beneath the sea, where we could construct a "sub-aqua palace of varieties". I suppose I will have to bury the hatchet with Uncle Lucas if we are going to convert Y Nauci 14 into an excavator. Watch this space ..
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