Geoffrey arrived for lunch as planned. He was a nervous wreck. It was as much as he could do to swallow a fish finger. I'd to add the sauce for him. He couldn't manage the bread and butter. After, he rushed to the toilet doubled up in agony. Sheer anxiety, of course, but all the same just as well Tuppence wasn't there, as goodness knows what comments he'd have made, re. wind, turnips and so on.
Thinking it would be a special treat I'd managed to get hold of some of Granny S.'s shortbread - not an easy feat - but poor Geoffrey couldn't bear to look at it. There was a strange blackish patterning on the underside of one piece, caused by an error in the firing. Probably burnt sugar, or perhaps Granny Sooker hadn't scrubbed her baking sheet thoroughly enough - which wouldn't surprise me, as to be honest, her hygiene leaves a lot to be desired these days - ANYway, the patterning bore a distinct resemblance to Mrs Fulmar - one of the neighbours who have caused Geoffrey such distress and agony of mind by not inviting him to their constant parties. Geoffrey caught sight of the image, and fell into a faint. I'd to find the sal volatile in a hurry - I hadn't used it since Granny Sooker's skirt flew up in a gale last January, and Tuppence was in the firing line.
After a whiff of that, Geoffrey was absolutely fit for anything, and we began to hatch our plan.
We decided to gatecrash the Fulmars party this evening.
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