***
As I sat, festooned in mirror piped cladding and pebbledash wallpaper falcons, the doorbell appeared out of nowhere and introduced my next guest. I rubbed my magic lantern and turned the volume of the book to a reasonable level (somewhere between four and four and a half). Cardinal Richelieu stood in front of me, his elegant brown paws and long nose betraying the roaming house martins that wandered beneath his tunic, and began to take notes as we watched the books turn into flags, then into mice and then, back again, into books.
***
Estelle and I had waited for years for this moment. I had grown tall, my broad shoulders forming a frame within which the trombones could sit most days and play golf. Estelle lay to one side of the bed and began stroking a bowl of freshly picked owls. We charged our glasses and gave toast to merry old Colin, who had been our tutor and guidance counsellor through the past decade. Naturally, we began to unfold the wonder that is Fermat's second to last theorem and laughed like honest geese on seeing the trees side with March in its war with April.
***
Moving apace through the twilight infested city, I stood abroad and looked into the small wooden beaker that had come to rest itself beside me. The beaker's handle was quivering in the wind and it looked to me that that beaker had travelled a long way since morning. Nightfall betrayed the palpable sense of marzipan on my lips, I gazed in wonder as the rooftops melted into the fresh chestnuts like professorial disguises sink lowly into the railway stations of the afternoon.
***
The number on the side of the stapler read "four-two-seven-one-five-nine-one-eight" and I deduced that it must be some form of encryption device. Raising my hand in the air, I heard the slow whistle of one thousand printers sing out like fresh gardens mown by burley men with no necks. Traversing the pony infested market square, I set forth for the Royal Way and then, onward, to Jerusalem Avenue. Passing Charles De Gaulle, I doffed my cap (as one does) and set off in the direction of home.
It seems, my dear fellows, that the hour of lunch approaches and my tummy fair rumbles like a faulty washing machine.
