The night in question, I had put aside my perpetual lavatory read, , because of all the manuscripts {inedible green tomatoes} submitted to Cavendish-Redux, my new stable of champions. I suppose it was about eleven o'clock when I heard my front door being interfered with. Skinhead munchkins mug-or-treating?
Cherry knockers? The wind?
Next thing I knew, the door flew in off its ruddy hinges! I was thinking al-Queda, I was thinking ball lightning, but no. Down the hallway tramped what seemed like an entire rugby team, though the intruders numbered only three. {You'll notice, I am always attacked in threes.} "Timothy," pronounced the gargoyliest, "Cavendish, I presume. Caught with your cacks down."
"My business hours are eleven to two, gentlemen," Bogart would have said, "with a three-hour break for lunch. Kindly leave." All I could do was blurt, "Oy! My door! My ruddy door!
Cherry knockers? The wind?
Next thing I knew, the door flew in off its ruddy hinges! I was thinking al-Queda, I was thinking ball lightning, but no. Down the hallway tramped what seemed like an entire rugby team, though the intruders numbered only three. {You'll notice, I am always attacked in threes.} "Timothy," pronounced the gargoyliest, "Cavendish, I presume. Caught with your cacks down."
"My business hours are eleven to two, gentlemen," Bogart would have said, "with a three-hour break for lunch. Kindly leave." All I could do was blurt, "Oy! My door! My ruddy door!
( David Mitchell )
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