To Lulworth Castle yesterday to attend the Medival Festival, which featured big cannons going bang, battles, jousting, rat-onna-stick and lots of hey-nonny-nonny.
Alas, it was there that I was attacked by an owl, which had doffculty* differentiating sunburned duck from the half-a-dead-mouse wieled by the owl wrangler. This on the same day that poor, poor Steve Irwin is killed to death by a Stingray, a hideous accident probably caused whilst fleeing owls. All the proof we need that the animals are fighting back.
On the way home, nursing an owl-shaped wound, Scaryduck Junior told me this tale of woe:
"Mrs Sloan made us write poems about each other last term. Nobody did me because it's hard to find a rhyme for Coleman, but I did a pome about Paul Jones an' a pile of bones."
"And...?"
"She made us all read them out at the end of the lesson. Joshua stood up and said:
Sexed a leopard.
"It was awful. He lost his golden time for two weeks!"
You know what's coming. Write a nice poem about yourself.
That cheeky buck
Had a bit of luck
And got a f.... winning ticket in the National Lottery."
What? WHAT? Who says they've got to rhyme?
* A totally cromulent word. Honest.
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