There are too many June Taylor Dancers to fit into Scurveyshire’s rustic little gaol and Constable Chumley has sought enlightenment at the bottoms of several tankards of ale at The Lying Tart.
Introducing Chapter DCLXXII of her epic romance, Oy, Rodney, Violet Crepuscular braces her readers for suspense. “THIS,” she writes in all caps, “is where the legendary Doris Pokeweed comes into the story.” {Editor sweeps his papers to the floor and goes to join Constable Chumley at the pub.]
In what way, shape, or form is this Doris Pokeweed legendary?
“No one in Scurveyshire can remember a time when Doris Pokeweed didn’t live here,” Ms. Crepuscular cavitates. “Popular belief credits her with immortality. ‘She rode with Boudicca,’ says Johnno the Merry Minstrel, ‘and bowled with Francis Drake.’ I’d call that pretty legendary!”
But there is a fly in the ointment. (There! Got him out.)
June Taylor herself has fallen for Lord Jeremy Coldsore and wants to bring him back to the Twentieth Century with her–where his two left feet will make him a celebrity, if not a cash cow.
“Do not think this has escaped the notice of Lady Margo Cargo, Lord Jeremy’s betrothed,” Ms. Crepuscular writes. But for the time being I must leave you in suspense!”
Oy vay. Other words fail me. Maybe because I’m laughing too hard.
We’re going to watch some comedy this afternoon and take Robbie to the vet tomorrow. As for today, after last night, I’m totally out of gas.