There are no reasons here. We left them all on the bus. Over there is the small round thing. It is rather shy, but does like to eat eggcups. I now know the name of your pet Nigel and why it lives like that. May it never again darken the entrance to your car park, Doreen.
Still, though, you have to laugh - that is an order - even when it is naughty to touch the special parts of a lady during the statutory period of mourning. It doesn't matter that you use a special mourning-draped touching stick either. These, though, are things you will learn with time, my little stapling machine. Time and the battery-powered badger. Time, the battery-powered badger and liberally-oiled genitals. It is for your own good, my little stapling machine, and you will thank me for it later,* maybe even returning the favour.
Still, the longer we sit here the more our ice-cream will melt. I have the baton rounds and you have the recently-lubricated llama, so let us go to the garden shed and play strip Ludo once again.
But let us go quickly, my little stapling machine, for the chocolate éclairs are all gone from the shops. It is the time for their annual migration, mighty herds of them stampeding across the plains of Llandudno. So, we too must go soon.
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