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Last rose


Swimming toward the shore; I tell Juan that there seems to be some evolvement; and things are shrinking, and getting furrier.  Hitting another big, hungry, fishy sort of beast on the nose, Juan shouts that he wishes they would hurry up, as is tired of being chased by horrible monsters. 

On land, I sketch a flower that I see and tell Juan it’s a furry rose, perhaps the last of its kind, but he says it’s not fur, it’s down, which is why, he says, it’s called a downy rose, and they are common as muck.

We fortify ourselves from our Glentauchers, Bruichladdich, Auchentoshan, Strathisia and Craigellachie hip flasks, then, oryctologically behind schedule, singing The Last Rose of Summer at the top of our voices, and offering toast after toast to the success of the Eocene period, we totter onwards, as fast as we possibly can.

Professor Humperdink’s Diary