Herd the poodles of perfidy into the dark room. Blow up the insane ganglenog of thrippery thrappery lane, he is only after one thing, your Newcastle Brown slippers, quick, before he climbs your drainpipe and splooshes through the tiny opening in your attic window. You wouldn't want your Gran's false teeth to appear on This Morning a chatterin and a natterin to Phil and Fern. If he gets them there's no tellin what he might do next, anything for a cheap publicity shot I'll be bound.

Eat fruit in the depths of a ticket collectors shoe, read books about margarine. Fall slippety slap on the pavement outside your local catalogue bargain shop only to look up and find they have slapped a ticket on you and are selling you off as a decorative table lamp.

Why do all the drunk people falling out of Weatherspoons have marmalade stuck to their trousers? Is this some strange ritual which the ganglenog has introduced so he can befriend the idle, dossing cheap beer at lunchtime drinking scaffy gearys?

How can I become?I have often wondered about the small purple creatures who hide in the long grass at the edge of the recreation ground. Are they safe to eat? Do they taste nice with Lloyd Grossman's barbecue sauce?

The main thing is that when I am 'out' I have to walk very carefully. If I step in a wierd manner then people will stare and shout, 'Oh there is that woman who walks funny' and I will have to go and see my Doctor and tell him I hold the pain of the Arthur Crampitts in my soul's kernal.

It is 2.30am and I am wearing a pink cardigan. There are tiny men at the ends of my fingers who make me type riduculous things and my eyes have gone starey from seeing all the pain on the screen.