I awoke in the wee small hours from what I assumed was a nightmare, involving Groida twocking the harmonium. Then reality kicked in. There is no mistaking those brutal rumbles and banshee wails as the turbines heave into life. My worst fears were confirmed when I found a note pinned to my candlewick bedspread. I only managed to stop crying about half an hour ago.
That crazed hobbledehoy has taken off in pursuit of his steam-powered "servitor golem", Mr Prendergast after receiving a text from one of his foolish contacts in the Midlands. If that wasn't bad enough, he has swiped my entire supply of Haribo, blaming me in the process for not having any barley sugar to quell his "travel tummy". That is a masterpiece of chutzpah, coming from Titanium Guts, who will probably stop off at every service station between Padstow and Walsall for a full English and anything wrapped in cellophane.
He wouldn't have dared pull a stunt like this if Auntie Pamela had been around as a controlling influence and to give him a nasty tweak. She is tarrying awhile round her sister's gaff (Annie is recuperating after an op for an ingrowing sting).
If that capricious guttersnipe prangs Y Nauci 14 during his mad mission, I will have him doing double shifts in the tearooms and the Chinese chippie for the rest of his natural. I had hopes of buggering up Royal Ascot some time this week but it looks as if Lieutenant Zero has put the mockers on that little scheme.
Then there is the matter of replacement confectionery. I don't like flying (the old wings aren't what they were) but it looks as if my only option is to hozz on down to Poundland to replenish me stock of sweeties. There is always the temptation to overspend in such enticing emporia, but normally I just crash through the shop window, startle the poo out of onlookers and make off with what I can.
Come home soon, Groida old lad. I still have a notion to make a brief, unwelcome but ultimately memorable appearance during Wimbledon fortnight and I need the motor.
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