Beware the Idles' March The Weekly: Maintaining Britain's Standards
Fling sand

Run around in ragged spirals, then fall down on sand

Hit sand with shovel

Eat sand, then dash into sea to wash away taste with mouthful of polluted brine

Lie on sand, smug from earlier study of statistics of people who die while lying on sand, then tumble through crack in earth's crust shaking fist crossly
Derek's Day
Typically, I'd scarcely stepped out of my morning shower before I had to kill a man.

The night before had been almost free of incident - a single, Vietnamese assassin emerging from the built-in wardrobe around three-ish, all shouting and flashing blades as these fellows generally are; I swirled his knives into the bedsheets and drowsily kicked out at his sternum. He stumbled backwards into the en suite bathroom, catching his heel on the doorframe as he did so. Arms still entangled in my Ikea poly-cotton mix over-blanket, he was unable to break his fall so that the base of his skull meeting the edge of the lavatory bowl set next door's dog barking again.

But anyway, mustn't lose my thread. As I was saying, I was in the shower. There I am (late already, you might know) and I'm groping about, eyes full of Vosene, for the towel when I hear that tell-tale squeak of the door hinge. Chap has a silenced .38 that he warily pokes into the bathroom ahead of himself. I push the hand holding it against the heated towel rail - the thing's never worked properly, I'm sick of having the man out to it. The quite unnecessarily hot metal (there is no need, absolutely no need, for a towel rail to heat up like a kettle element, in my opinion) causes our man to jerk on the trigger. The bullet goes through that mirrored medicine cabinet I got in the sales last January, shattering the glass, and usefully sending a shard into my cupped hand. A quick flick round the door with it, I nick an artery, and it's all over bar the wordless mouthing of threats and the neck-clutching business. Sopping wet, hair leaking water all down my back, I squelch my way to the kitchen to get some butter to put on that maddening door hinge; I find that if you don't do things right away, you just forget to do them at all.

Frosties for breakfast (I'm saving the tokens for a Tony The Tiger holdall).

" Necessary my Tony "
That soft bump of the car told me someone had been lying under it - attempting to cut the brake line, you can't tell me different; you're wasting your time trying to get a bomb wedged anywhere beneath these modern company crates, I've asked someone at Kwik-Fit - as I pulled away. Doubtless he was too embarrassed about fluffing the job to announce himself. I glanced into the rear-view mirror, just in case, but I could tell right away that in this instance no reversing, you know, "to be sure," was necessary. My Tony Christie is still all wound up inside the cassette player, so I put on the radio and listened to a call-in about sciatica instead.

Bit of excitement at work as Jenny brought in the photos of her honeymoon in Tunisia. It looked lovely - I was green with envy. She says that it just makes it all the harder to come back to the office. Two fellows jumped me by the stationery cupboard but were over-zealous - a quick feint to the right then a side-step left and they both went wheeling down the stairwell. I always imagine that catching the sides on the way down ought to lessen the impact, but it never seems to; just adds a bit of spin. Found that Carver report, it was filled under "Carter" - I suspect that scatty temp we had, the one with the foot.

I didn't think that anyone still went in for that old "push target into traffic from pavement" rigmarole, but waiting at the pelican opposite Beejam's on the way home this evening proved me wrong. One of these new chaps, probably - they think it's all tremendously chic and retro, I shouldn't wonder. I hope no one I know saw my indifferently executed shoulder-drop (Me? Rusty? Don't ask), but it was sufficient for our hero to take yours truly's place under a speeding Mondero with the most appalling seat covers you ever saw.

I suspect that the oriental gent - "Aeeeeeiii!"; I wish they wouldn't do that, I find it awfully jarring, my Horlicks went everywhere - who burst through the window as I readied myself for bed was related to the fellow from this morning: I hear they keep it a family business, makes Christmas shopping all the easier. I'm afraid that I, rather testily, used a simple blow to the larynx to rid myself of his intrusion. In my defence, I can only say that I was anxious to settle down with Book At Bedtime; it was a Noël Coward adaptation read by Penelope Keith. Marvellous actress, people so underestimate her range.
The Right Thing

The Buttons Up

The Shopping

The Hoovering Downstairs

The Necessary
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