8^th January 2017

Last night I was visited by what I initially assumed to be three ghosts, but which actually turned out to be three drug-crazed Wombles who had broken into my house during one of their nocturnal orgies of substance abuse and violence.

    The first Womble, who had one eye and wore a hat made of bones, looked at me and asked, “Are you the one who covets the cheese?”

    The second Womble, who twitched and shuddered like a furry dancer in Satan’s disco, looked at me and asked, “Are you the one who mocks the cheese?”

    The third Womble, who gripped an empty packet of Space Raiders (pickled onion, of course) in one hand as if choking the bag the same way that life had choked his youthful dreams, looked at me and said, “Are you the one who exceeds the cheese?”

    I paused in deep thought, considering their questions carefully. Then I slowly floated up from my bed and levitated before the three snouted intruders, my eyes roaming over each of them in turn, my expression grave, theirs expectant and bulging with unspent violence.

    The universe stopped turning around us. The cosmos held its breath. I opened my mouth to speak.

    “I am the cheese,” I told them, my voice sounding like a mixture of God and Richard Burton and delicious, rich chocolate.

    Confronted by the truth, the three Wombles instantly melted into puddles of hairy filth. I slowly floated back down into my bed and resumed my slumber. Fucking Wombles.