there was a lake, with a tired elf that lived close by. The trousers of the elf were made of moss and he had borrowed his apple hat from Sir Brian of Motton Hoxwhyte of Ole. They were, nevertheless, good trousers.

So it came to pass that the elf found himself in front of the local magistrate, accused of stealing twistle from a gospher. Now, and then, when the old balcony falls upon a misfired rocket or a bolt of fresh jospering smee climbs into the bulb, we see the oily dew. And then, as now, the unicorns cried and we ate fresh kippers for tea.

Good night.

I love my little parsnips.

Yes, all of you.

You bloody tinkers.

Hektor (aka. the wizard of sleeve).