St John (that's Aloysius St John von Pierce Bladder to you) has upped the ante. He's rigged up a crossbow on a hillock "over yonder" and started firing frozen fish fingers at us. That would be fine - save us obtaining our own - but, they seem to be smeared with a noxious substance, which we can't quite...
"It's keech," smirked Tuppence.
"It might be brown sauce," said Geoffrey hopefully.
"Keech." repeated Tuppence smugly. "I can smell it."
"All right!" I snapped. "But you don't have to look so pleased about it. Fetch the tarpaulin Geoffrey, and shut all the windows. If they come down the chimney, we'll just have to hope they burn up fast. Get some pegs as well. For our noses."
You see? St John has been behaving outrageously. Way beyond what is acceptable Hereabouts - even after a Friday lock-in.
So we're moving quickly vis a vis our Plan.
Two words St John - St. Kilda, and Lady frigging Grange. And WE'VE got a coracle. Okay that's more than two but -
Think on.
