I am swearing off eating fruit pastilles in bed. It isn't so much an issue of wind as my increasingly phantasmagorical dreams which I fear will eventually lead to me tiddling the mattress.
Last night, in the Realm of Zizz, I found myself abandoned at the St Austell Netto's checkouts, screaming for service as the staff locked up and turned off the lights. In the rapid movement of an eye, the floor parted to reveal an underwater city, from which Y Nauci 14, in amphibious mode, emerged ... with that dolt Groida at the keyboard playing "Ambrose, Ambrose" to the "Stingray" theme tune.
At least the sod had the decency to explode, something I wish he would mimic in the cold light of day. This side of the veil of dreams I am condemned to the company of grotesques and nincompoops. Groida is fitting an "atomic brain" to his automaton Mr Prendergast. Pull the other five! I bet he's pinched one of those electrical experiment kits from a toy shop and has supercharged it.
Uncle Lucas calls his nephew a "reckless nutter", which coming from him is high praise indeed, but I am reserving judgement (i.e. waiting for the inevitable fiasco). If the Master of Ineptitude brings mayhem and shame upon us (and possibly the ceiling as well) I shall tie him up in bungee cords and use him as a draught excluder! Watch this space ...
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