Horse Badger Rides Again

In our last thrilling, spelling mistake-ridden installment, we charted the exciting, nicotine-stained, nauseating meeting between that impotent (ed. infamous surely) private investigator and I. Our irritating correspondance was brought to an abrupt halt by the horror of finding my door on fire. This was only slightly less horrifying than the realisation that most of my mail was from either the Inland Revenue or Big Sally’s House of Bondage.

"By jove! Your door is ablaze" cried Horse Badger, winner of Von Fontlebottom’s Obvious-Stating Festival of 1827, In which people stated the obvious. It was held in 1827 too.

"So it is!" said I, laughingly felling the investigator with a right hook. "But who would do such a thing? Hang on, I just need to make some imaginative calls to my insurer."

While I listed the Van Goghs and Rolls Royces that must surely have been strapped to my door, the esteemed Horse Badger lurched about my property, searching for clues, and possibly any valuabke items easily concealable within a coat.

"AH-HA!" he shrieked, stepping back into the ornamental trout pond and dazing one of the occupants. "A clue!"

Rapidly hanging up on the fraud officer I had been put through too, I leapt over to the investigator’s side, only to realise I too had landed in the pond, crushing a wading mallard to death.

[Sorry, I’m bored now… I’ll write a bit more soonish…. maybe…..]