Well, it's over.
The Tupfinder General found some old grenades in his vitrine in the upper room - the one in the ivy-covered tower, where I found Scott's last biscuit (and ate it - oops! - see old posts if you want the full, shameful account). We sent a warning message to St John via the heliograph, and were all set to launch them from the catapult on the roof, when a reply flashed across from the Hillock.
"OKAY OKAY," it read. "NO KEECH ON FINGERS. BBQ SAUCE. PLEEZE NO FIRE GRENADES."
Well it LOOKED like keech, and it sure smelled like it. But, apparently, it's been Barbeque sauce all along. We don't know which brand as yet (not planning on getting any in the foreseeable).
So that's plan one out of the way. Now all we have to do, is work on plan two - how to prevent Tuppence murdering Baby Orca and turning him into "fish" fingers. I think I'll start by pointing out that a killer whale isn't a fish. But, I don't think that will stop him...
Large snifters all round.
Just to say (at risk of sticking my head somewhere where it could be decapitated)- that your blog is absolute genius and has been particularly inspired in recent days. I am so, so lucky that I wandered onto Shortbread by mistake and am so, so sorry that I have caused a bit of trouble. It was a bit like that at uni. Anyway, may your fish fingers always be fresh and your Gram Parsons always be haunting. Defeated (lucky I love losing), jon.
ReplyDeleteThwang-g-g-g-g!!!! (sound of catapult firing mashed up *off* fish fingers at jon - possibly full of *extra strength* chilli powder)
ReplyDeleteI don't know what goes on on t'internet - I just bumble along crashing into things and hope for the best.
I've not looked at your blog - too scared - but will do so. I'm sure you're one of the good guys anyway. And thanks very very much for reading mine.