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When Terenced knocked down the structure that housed the milk bottle game, Bartle, being the spooked Springer spaniel that he was, was so shaken that he sprung for the nearest hiding place.
Alexandra made a sighting. “Pigeons at twelve o’clock!,” she said. “Gun her Harold!" As the adrenaline pumped through his caffeine soaked veins, Harold floored the gas petal.
The flight to the Congo was uneventful. Except for the shadow. Had Mr. Pickles known we were to have such an ominous visitor on board, he’d never have gotten on the plane.