As the last Merc-master shimmies off, I hear a roar from my sitting room. Can't be tea-time already, I think. The big, bad badger has already eaten me out of quiches and earthworms.
'Harbinger of news,' he grunts. 'Conundra aplenty.' When I begin to suggest it's time for him to skedaddle, he face-tapes me with a look. These plucky alien-types: they may not have sleeves, but they have a few tricks up them.
'These must be solved,' he says. All I can do is shrug and moan.
'Who is D?
What follows Swan?
What is High?
What precedes crasp?
Where is NAAFI?'
I'm stumped.
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