The Sandwich: #11

The Sandwich

#11

Well this is a jolly old load of cobblers, I must say. I have stayed in the house all day with my nose squished up against the windowpane, waiting for the private detective man to report back to me on his progress. My windows smell like mouldy old socks, not nice.

Well then, at 10:16 am precisely, the postman came and kicked something through my letterbox. I know it was 10:16 precisely because I wrote it down in my big blue book. This is the same book that I use to write down my thoughts about trees and also to draw pictures of things I look at on Wednesdays, but I used a different page to stop me getting confused. Whatever. I thought that the postman might have delivered a message but all there was was a bill for bicycle parts, a leaflet about pizzas and a birthday card from my dead Uncle Malcolm. Stop sending me birthday cards, dead Uncle Malcolm, it is not my birthday!

I thought that the pizza leaflet might be a coded message, so I tried to decipher it using a cipher. A cipher is a large purple vegetable that is used for decoding messages, and also for making mysterious stew. I learned some intriguing things about pepperoni, but not much else.

At 11:33 a lady came and knocked at my door and asked me to give her some money for her hedgehog charity. I thought that she might be the private detective man in disguise, so I shouted at her "Where's my sandwich? Where's my sandwich? Where's my sandwich?" over and over again. She ran away.

Then in the afternoon, a pigeon landed on my garden wall. I thought it might be carrying a message, so I pounced on it and wrestled it to the ground, but the flappy bastard punched me in the face and zapped off into the sky. It has been a long day, but I am no closer to finding my sandwich and I am covered in scratches.

 

 

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