Subterranean Terror in Suburbia

     Dear reader, I hesitate to writetype my account that I bore witness to yesterday. Yet, I must record the events, though it sears my very soul. Yesterday of the a.m. I had taken to tackling the hedge.

     As you would recall, I started this a few days ago, when I was rudely interrupted by Dr. Brunel. Secateurs in hand, I was a-pruning away when on reaching the very fundament of the shrubbery I started pulling out a few moribund weeds from the eternal hedge. A couple of startled hedgehogs made an escape bid, virtually tumbling me upon the turf. I swear one was wearing a monocle, but it was only a fleeting glimpse. It is my firm opinion (& Tristram Shandy agrees with me) that if left alone with suitable-sized attire, all manner of creatures will take to dressing themselves. No animal with a soul will truly wish to walk around naked. I conducted an experiment on said matter with Aubrey my trusty parrot. This was not, to put it mildly, a great success. One for the backburner I feel.

The monocled one

The monocled one

      Upon retaining my vertical stance, I sustained my weed removal. A few tugs here & there revealed…I can barely bring myself to explain. Before my very eyes, I scraped away the undergrowth to reveal a shiny brass disc. Embossed on this plate were the letters “PROPERTY OF DR. N. LESTA CORP” Immediately, I pottered off in the direction of ye olde shed. On returning wielding a crow-bar I took to prising the disc from its home. Once the platter was dragged eased out a deep dark tunnel revealed itself, boring deep into the heart of the Earth. I took a stone and dropped into into the depths. No sound resounded. Lord I waited & waited to gauge its depth. I took a larger boulder, with the same results. An idea struck me, dear reader, that sent me scurrying in the direction of my local hardware store. On returning, after a degree of haggling, I had acquired 300m (Dr Brunel be damned) of finest fishing line. I then assembled a crude pulley system to assist me in dropping the line into the ghastly abyss. I popped Benson & Hedges my erstwhile mice companions onto the end of my contraption. Into the eye of the obfuscation they dropped out of sight, deep into the crust of the Earth. 100 meters, 200 meters.. My adapted alarm clock read. At that point I dragged up my fromage loving friends. Slowly, steadily up I reeled the twine. To my joy my companions were safe & sound. Not a hint of stress or strain. To my surprise neither were they damp; surely such an abyss must have containing some mysterious underwater lake? Plunging them down the deep, dark hole, yet again – this time to the extent of the line. The thwang of the wire had hit the limit. No other sound came up from the fissure. Reeling in the extent of the thread I was chilled to discover Benson & Hedges were all ashes. The cage was intact. I shudder to think what had happened to my erstwhile friends. My rashness at risking their friends lives were, dear reader tugging at my heartstrings. I must leave the writetyper, as I am preparing to enter the abyss myself. If you never hear from me again, please never mention a word of this & never try to find this Ashmolean abyss.



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