Dejeuner sur le Train

Suddenly an ear-splitting vibration was heard.  Flugelpik turned a deathly shade of pale and immediately made a frenzied dive for his pocket.  Here in rapid succession he discovered a hand, not his own, some car keys which didn’t seem familiar either, and finally his mobile telephone.  “Damned iPneumatic Drill App!”  he shouted, clapping the telephone to an ear with one hand and massaging his injured groin with the other.

By this time an exhausted George Clooney had finally desisted from his combative efforts to fracture Flugelpik’s skull, to the considerable relief of the catatonic ginger tom, whose wellbeing was further enhanced when a veterinarian staff-member of Danish Chemins de Fer took the opportunity to administer his belated depot injection of the antipusschotic drug, chlorpurrmazine.

“Oh Jesus, spare us these grizzly puns………What’s for lunch, Flugelpik?” demanded Clooney, reverting to his usual rough tones of a down-at-heel-ex-flick-artist.

“I’m just ordering it.  That was the automated menu being downloaded automatically by text message to my iPhone.”

“Fine.  I’m thinking the stuffed bear en croute, grizzly naturally, vole-au-vent de Coco, Won-Ton Number 256 for 6 people, cold pheasant, cold grouse, cold ptarmigan, hot Thai quick-fried veg (no red peppers), then we’ll see the menu again.”  “I could go a sweet little tart any time at all,”  he added, fingering his moustache absent-mindedly.


“Excusez-moi!” expostulated Parrot, “Zat vas my moustache, not yours, eef you don’t mind.”