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| <<Chapter 3 Chapter 5>> |
| Chapter 4 Catherine Cookson had stopped us on the way to stair leak. �I am Granny Aster,� she squealed, �I know the recipe to rumbold soup!� And with no traces of nuts she vanished into thick air, leaving a brown rubber scorch slapped across the waxed wood of Nottingham. To be frankly, my name would not be in case of tears. The egg rose to be a new day and the 3 of us knap weeded on the yellow flavoured triangles hovering in the bark. In what seemed to resemble a chinchilla wearing ear muffs, a major plop line was faked towards the jungle. �Vere iz ve goen?� spindled Blowborb. �I�er�glub glub eurghey?� I sputtered out, which was enough to satisfy Blowborb�s quench for brothers and burnt cream. After whipping a shelf in to a map, I found the location of glub glub eurghey, amazingloey. �LION SAFARI BRICKS!� I blasted, �We�ve just hit Iceland!� Indeed I was correct. We looked up to find our clenched fists dug deep in the brickwork of the inflamed supermarket. Yikes. Due to the many soap freedoms once underlining Iceland�s infamous �generous� ceeerazeeey deals, we were obliged to step away from the Radley house (Do-oo-oo Jesus!) and out to glub glub eurghey, which was south of the woollen crate. Between 3 platinum monkey shines, I discovered a dent in the earwork of my glorious jumper. Upon closer extermination, a giant gerbil could be seen carving sculptures of Julian Clarey in the sky. Fool. When we finally rid of the Mark V grenade melts, our slippage meter indicated we were directly beneath Harlow, where a mole man skating competition was currently in effect. By stepping slightly to the up, we reached glub glub eurghey and saddled our sharpening to the HALF-WAY point. Shadow inspiration? On our arrival at glub glub eurghey we were greeted by 3 mint pellets (carpet fluff edition) and an uncandle, which decided to set fire to itself and spin backwards into a log. During the squeaky breathing session we decided to rent out a barcode for the night. It failed. Between midnight and Pascoe�s greet grips hour, a small yet rigid silhouette of turbojet Ted refunded across the hairy plains. We awoke later only to find that our goblet sauce had been *gasp* drained. �Conking Honking Gaskins!� screamed a rutted sheet, �Without the goblet sauce of Mendoza, the one they call �Greek Iron� will moot in a matter of pump lengths!� Without any further Healy Holes� we griped any reaming pork corks and whirred the magic song: �Come out to ink and you will see The cotton of eternity Gunk the wheedles and shove the slaps Tuck some soaks in to the claps!� Then a nail was shot in to Soaps� eye. �GWARGHHHH!!!� he screamed. Ouch. |