Harrison Harris pulled at the straps of his overalls and sucked on his pipe. ‘Nasty,’ he opined.

Mrs Jepson-Soffit folded her arms tighter across her chest causing her bosoms to wonder, not for the first time if they had chosen the right location to hibernate. ‘Mr Harris, I did not call you for a value judgement but merely to tell me why I have a crack in my sky and what you can do about it.’

Harrison sucked harder and winced. The cold air that was already pouring through the firmamental fissure appeared to have overwhelmed the warming properties of his tobacco and caused icicles to form on his oesophagus. ‘Do you have a taper?’

‘I’m sorry, Mr Harrison but why on earth would I possess a non-indigenous pig-like quadruped in North Yorkshire and even if I did why would I give it to you?’

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