FLUMPING SCRUFTY

Sherbert was combing the caterpillar when the vicar arrived with his pencils.
"Nice day for it," said the Reverend, who was very broad minded. You have to be in Mablethorpe.
The same could not be said of Alice, who appeared to have a blocked oculus round the back. "More tea vicar?" she called out from the kitchen, which was in a completely different house over 200 miles away, so it was a good job the vicar had his hearing aid turned up. "I haven't had a cup yet!" he replied. Alas, the Church of England tend not to present trophies to runners up in the 100 metre sack race for retired clergy, so it was a good job he was Welsh.
The Reverend placed his case on the table and proudly pulled out his rosette. The Police take a dim view of people exposing themselves, but it was so dark that on this occasion they did not notice anything. By the time the lights came up, the rosette was gone and the vicar was busy showing Sherbert what he had done on his pad.
"You should try cotton balls and water," Sherbert suggested, trying hard not to pull a face. "Have you seen a doctor yet?"
"Oh yes," said the vicar, "he was coming out of the post office with a bag of lemon bon-bons."
"Traitor!" Sherbert exclaimed, shifting uncomfortably in his two ounce bag.
Fortunately he had never needed help straining his tea bags, unlike that poor fellow from number 67. But, as they say in that little hamlet where you turn left and go down the hill as you come in on the back road to Boughton Malherbe, that is a tale for another day.