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Missing lunch

Ripping open our bagpipes, we hold the bags above our heads, they expand into small, deafeningly noisy, parachutes, which slow our descent enough that, when we land in water, we are seriously injured, but no worse, Juan reminds me, than from the injuries received on Friday nights, when Morag, the enchantingly beautiful, but maniacally dangerous landlady, calls time, in the Cheeky Monkey, and throws everyone into the loch.  I agree that, compared to swimming across the loch and crawling across Perthshire, bamboozled, and bearing hideous wounds, finding our way across the Unknown Region will be easy and pleasant, and it would be nice to stop for lunch and enjoy the interesting scenery and unusual wildlife.  However, we are completely lost, uncertain of the time, sozzlingly behind schedule and, as Juan points out, we are very close to large creatures, not all of whom appear to be strictly vegetarian, so, as stopping for lunch means we will become lunch, shouting with excitement and yelling in pain, we desperately splash away from the approaching diners, as fast as we possibly can.

Professor Humperdink’s Diary