FLAUNTING THE THWUMPS

As I sat and listened to baked potatoes landing in pants, I reflected again upon my tortoise, a fruity specimen whose uncle once famously said, "she drinks kippers, you know". 
A lost sock and an inverted sniff later, the doorbell rang like an azure grape in season, marking the arrival of my sobriety.  It proposed a truce, quickly averted by the bursting of Pungent Barry of the 4th Battalion, a towering custard cream of a man who had misplaced his daffodils.  A sorry tale, to be sure, but as nought compared to that of Septic Dave of Lower Trump in Dorset, second son of a grand old dame whose stumps were worthy of a cottage pie in November.  
"Is that marmite?" he had asked, licking the old post box on that terrible night in the sweet shop.  
Few dare credit the man, but smiling like a limpet with a bunny under his arm, he had lit his milk and flown away.  
A good man to be sure, who left us a great deal to ponder, if little to sit on.

From the fourth volume of "Cheddar In My Pounce". A history of Twatts.