Most mornings I walk Goldie, the trusty dog, down to our village Post Office.
Trusty dog at Post Office – Photos hosted by Flickr
As I walked down I become more and more concerned. What had happened to the villagers?
I have two hypotheses.
1) I haven’t been in the village long. Could there be some strange festival on May Day? Should I be looking with fear for the Wicker Man?
2) The place was strangely deserted. Could these be the villagers I was seeing, transformed to these horrific travesties?
If so, could I be next? If you don’t hear from me again, you’ll understand.
Beware! Beware the village of… HISS CRACKLE
Mr Clegg is not feeling well.
He is taking a little rest.
Do not be alarmed.
Everything is normal.
Exterminate! … oh b+++er!
If I were Goldie, I’d be worried.
Can we be sure that’s the real Goldie?
Must be. She doesn’t look like she’s been thrown together from a lawnmower engine, a jam jar, a piece of string, and miles and miles of sticky-backed plastic.
And if I were Brian, I’d be worried about that postbox to which the hapless hound has been chained. That’s not a real postbox. It’s more like a post-impressionist (i.e. someone who paints themselves red and stands on a street corner with their mouth open.)
Brian would like to respond, but it’s difficult to type with fingers made from straw.
The post box says (Homer Simpson voice): M-m-m-m… mail!
Goldie says: Bark