Monday, 14 February 2011

Thirty Nine

The clock at the big house at the side of the road was used to having his daily packet of Skips, brought to him by the kind elderly groundskeeper. The house was now empty of any human inhabitants (thankfully for the clock, it was also a grade two listed building) and only the groundskeeper visited to tend the gardens.

And distribute the crisps.

"Yum yum," said the clock every day as he chomped down on a veritable cornucopia of prawny loveliness.

But one day, the elderly groundskeeper passed away. And for months if not years the garden grew around the clock like green flames, entangling every crevice of the building. He was dishevelled and devoid of Skips.

Until one day, a gang of adventurous boys scaled the ruinous heights of the old house to the clock and stared, dumbfounded into his face.

"I'm proper hungry," said the clock.

The boys rummaged tentatively in their pockets,

"Here," said one of them, "Do you fancy some Monster Munch?"

"Oh yes!" said the clock, "What flavour is it?"

"Pickled onion."

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