On having a jellybaby
Hello. I am Scaryduckling and I am excellent.
If you've been paying attention (and I demand to know why not), you will know that I have an excellent summer and weekend job at an excellent gift shop on Weymouth seafront, catering for all your cuddly meerkat needs.
The other day, whilst blasting the meerkats with a hairdryer following a downpour, a tall, curly-haired man in a wide-brimmed hat came into the shop.
After several seconds patting down the pockets of his huge coat - completely out of character for a hot, showery summer's day - he fixed me with his wild eyes and asked: "Excuse me, young lady - do you sell sonic screwdrivers?"
We don't sell sonic screwdrivers. We only sell postcards, rock, cuddly meerkats and marshmallow sweets in the shape of men's willies.
"Sorry, we only sell postcards, rock, cuddly meerkats and marshmallow sweets in the shape of men's willies."
"Aaaah," he said, eyes darting around once again.
"You should try Toymaster down the road. Or Cash Converters. They've got a remote control dalek in the window."
"Have they really?" he exclaimed, lightening up somewhat, "Have a jellybaby."
I went against everything my parents told me about sweets from strangers and had a jellybaby.
I have no idea who this person was.
Geddit? Eh? EH? Oh, I give up.