fear of fug

mary clagnugget is over the dog toilet again, flipping slazengers from a plastic stick, while hairy flinches through the perilous overcroft, pushing sheep with his nose and dancing around flapjacks. it’s just a normal 9:30, but the eerie mist has descended, and amidst the pea soup of beelzebub, strange stirrings are afoot. she’s sure that the clanging of the gate seems much louder than usual, and the incessant butchers have swapped their cleavers with weavers, while the saxon man with the undistinguished skin and a handful of gibbons, is, for some reason, not prowling around the forecourt today. maybe it’s winter at last. she can’t keep pasting pages from New Woman on the mirror.

one more lob and the tennis ball clatters over the bones of the playarea, and stifles a yawn, as it bobbles over a duck and dribbles down the embankment. hairy sniffs the air and then darts over the cleavage, leaving a wisp of bishop in his wake. mary is left, treading offal into the grate to keep herself warm, when she’s suddenly aware that all around is stillness and menace. there go ambleside and jemima up the city, but she can barely make them out. mrs plantagenate and her mule are just billowing over the coals with their ham, but they are as obvious as waffles in blakeney. all around, yellow cake is rising, and hairy, where is hairy? a twig snaps behind her. it’s just a man-faced child, probably. a leaf rustles. another twig snaps, closer this time. patsy kensit is popping her finger in her mouth in the bird’s eye advert. snap. yellow. hairy.

an asbo cycles up the pavement, clattering a sheltered house, as if nothing has happened. dave pulls his tights out of the tumble drier and thinks about cheese. what are you looking at? ha ha ha!