Fireball (fiction)

About this: A very short story, it's could probably be categorised as fan fiction I've included an updated version of that xl5 illustration and should offer a warning it does throw up some fruity language, mostly confined to the start though.

Fireball

'Z'dayak -- Steve Z'dayak!' Steve enunciated firmly into his communications mike, an image of girl a smirking at his contrived pronunciation wormed through his mind as he waited for a response. Sure enough the girl's tone attested to the amusement she's gleaned during the few seconds she'd stolen to, not quite effectively, quell her chuckling.

'Ehem yes Mr. -- Zed - ay - aher -ak! -- we're waiting for your clearance to the enter the outer traffic control zone. If you can hold your present pattern, we'll give you clearance shortly, control out'.

'Bitch!' Steve Zodiac wasn't sure if he closed his mike in time to mask his petulance as he threw his headset at the console, 'it's Captain Zodiac - you fucking cow!'.

'Now now, you know that military designations are optional for civilian flight control, Captain -- Z'dayak,' said Venus as she stepped into the flight deck. Steve didn't have to turn to witness the smirk on his female colleague's face. The fact that she'd caught him out pronouncing the name he'd been baptised with would certainly have accentuated that expression which seemed to be permanently stamped onto her fizog.

'What is it?' he inquired, he kept his face turned towards the flight console with faux attentiveness.

'Oh I've just come to ask Robert if he'd like to watch a movie in the leisure suit, we are holding for flight control -- aren't we?' Venus made it perfectly clear she was aware that Steve's apparent preoccupation with the flight controls was a pantomime.

'MOVIE -- MOVIE!' Robert piped as he sat in the copilot's chair.

'I need the robot here, clearance will be through in a few minutes!'

'Captain, with all due respect...' does anyone use that phrase, thought Steve, when they have an ounce of respect for the person they're addressing, '...according to Space Patrol guidelines, Robert...' she pronounced the name with deliberate emphasis '...should be afforded the same working practices as human crew members, to ensure optimum effectiveness. He's been on the flight deck for four hours, which mean he's due for a twenty minute break'. Yeah twenty minutes with which you do what together, thought Steve, watch a movie? Venus's and Robert's relationship was a source of constant ire to Steve, Robert was a true Robot, a synthetic human of sorts but with a rather limited personality, a limitation imposed by the current state of the art of robotics. The state of that art though, was advanced enough to endow Robert with the full complement of human physical characteristics.

'I've been here six hours!'.

'Yes Captain, I'm aware rank does come with certain commitments,' said Venus 'but I really must insist, we don't want to make an issue out of this -- do we?'.

'ISSUE -- ISSUE, DON'T WANT TO MAKE ISSUE!' Robert bleeped, somehow I don't think that'll be a problem, thought Steve.

Steve festered inwardly at Venus's veiled threat, his reprimand for his conduct with her predecessor had already put a break on his career. He was stuck on this rust bucket XL5, known by the name Fireball by the rest of Space Patrol, an ironic reference to its reputation as being the slowest ship in the fleet. He was going to put his foot down this time though. 'No -- we're not going to make an issue out of this, he's needed on the flight deck. Regulations give me prerogative to override scheduled breaks when there's a clear imperative for a crew member to remain at his station'.

'REMAIN AT STATION!' Steve thought he could detect a hint of disappointment in Robert's metallic synthesized drone, 'REMAIN AT STATION!' Randy bastard.

'Fireball, Fireball, Fireball XL5' the communicator rattled with the voice of the female flight controller, abruptly interrupting the discourse.

Steve fumbled for his headset, 'What?' he barked into his mike a he placed it on his head, then his gathered his composure quickly, 'Er, Xl5, Xl5, Xl5 -- responding, control'.

'Please observe voice communications protocol, Fireball'.
'The call sign's Xl5 control' Steve was eager to reciprocate the supercilious tone.

Undeterred the faceless controller continued, 'We have a delay here -- FIREBALL, you need to hold for another two hours, can you acknowledge?'.

'Roger -- two hours delay,' he said with a grunt that betrayed his exasperation.

'Thank you Fireball, control out'.

'So -- no imperative then, Robert's free to come with me,' Venus smirked.

'FREE TO COME -- FREE TO COME,' yeah I bet you are.

'Yes -- you go, just leave me here' Robert jumped from his his flight seat with something too akin to eagerness for Steve's comfort, then they left the flight deck together. 'Have fun,' he uttered when he felt sure they were out of earshot.

'Two hours,' Steve moaned to himself, 'two hours of staring into bloody blackness, why did they make the observation canopies on these bloody flight decks so huge? what the bloody hell is there to look at. That bloody robot better be back here in twenty minutes,' he said as he checked the chronograph on the flight control panel. He started to absent mindedly strum his fingers on the instrument panel, as he did so he accidentally flipped the cover of the main retro switch, 'Oh bugger!'. He folded his arms and sat silently for a few moments, then lapsed into daydream.

To pass the time on such occasions, Steve had fostered a elaborate but a rather unimaginative fantasy life. He was Colonel Zodiac and no one laughed at his name in his world. Somewhat incongruously for someone of such advanced rank, he was still an acting Space Patrol pilot, an inconsistency he never bothered to reconcile. Instead of exercising his imagination to explore The Lost Planet of Nubile Nymphomaniacs, he'd concern his meandering thoughts with petty revenge on those who frustrated him or drew his envy in reality. Venus was a compliant ingénue, attentive to his every word, Matt his able chief engineer, a myopic scatterbrain, Robert a grotesque android constructed from waste perspex and yoghurt cartons. This time though, the inadequacies that plagued his reality permeated his subconscious and the strings he'd tug to manipulate the characters of his fantasy coalesced into a physical form. His characters turned into marionettes and inside his mind he couldn't stem the transformation, it continued until his entire world was populated exclusively with caricatures hopping around on strings. When he looked into his fantasy world mirror and saw the comically furtive eyes of a puppet staring back at him, his fantasy concluded abruptly.

Startled by this exit from his fantasy world, he tried to think of something to take his mind off the experience and pass the time. Then it occurred to him that he could review the Space Patrol bulletins, the last thing he normally choose to occupy himself, although he was supposed to attend to that task daily. 'Let me see,' he said as he thumbed through the bulletins on his clipboard, 'new procedures for engine maintenance, Oh I'll have to tell Matt about that. Nutritional guidelines, blah blah, Oh what's this -- product warning for XK2ooo robot personnel'. After a few moments reading Steve flipped on the internal communication switch, 'Venus, call the flight deck please'.

Moments later Venus's voiced broke in over the communications system, 'Yes!' she didn't sound too pleased.

'Look, I don't need Robert here for an hour or so, tell him to take an extended break, Oh and by the way, I've released the lockout on the zero g facility for the leisure suite'. Steve knew the prospect of zero g gymnastics would ensure that Venus and Robert availed themselves of that facility, his face broke into a wicked smile.

--*--

ITEM 9 PRODUCT WARNING XK2000 ROBOT PERSONNEL

As a result of a notification from the manufacturer, Cyberdrone Systems Inc. The following additional operational parameters for the XK2000 robot have been set:

1. The XK2000 should at no time be operated in zero g environment, doing so can seriously compromise the XK2000's operational effectiveness.

2. Crew members, should refrain from certain: recreational practices in the presence of the XK2000 while there is a risk of encountering a zero g environment.

Note:
Failure to comply with the above will seriously compromise the fabric of the unit's dermal component, causing the chemical bonds of a constituent of that component to break down. Subsequent to component failure the unit's skin will revert to a gelatinous form. While this fault does not represent a hazard to crew members, several units have already failed in this manner and crew members report that the adhesive properties of the consequent gelatinous mass are such that it will adhere to human skin with a bond of indeterminate but substantial strength. This bond can not be safely broken until the skin's decomposition is complete, a process that takes approximately four days. This failure is accompanied by a strong odour, similar to that of decomposing herring.

ITEM 10 XK KIPPER

The following directive has been issued by the Space Patrol working practices committee:

1. The use of the, Term, "XK Kipper" in relation to crew members...

Dennis Potter -- kind of

He's a menace...

...he's a wizard...

...he's Dennis Potter the recalcitrant magical playwright, who's always in trouble with the censor.

"Dennis!!" it's the controller of the BBC on the phone, he sounds very angry.

"Oh what is it now?" replies Dennis.

"It's this new play of yours, it wont do, it's far too..."

"Too what?" chuckles Dennis.

"Less of your cheek, sonny, you know far too well what it's too much of, it's far too fruity for BBC1."

"Stick it on BBC2 then, no one will watch it there."

"Now look here you little..." the controller is getting very angry with Dennis now.

 "Stick and stones..." taunts Dennis, his delight at the controllers apoplexy is short lived however, as the controller gains control of his temper and tries a bit of charm instead.

"Dennis" he says with all the smarm he can muster, "don't be like that, I know you're a good playwright. I just need you to be a bit more cooperative. What I need from you is another Pennies from Devon, the play about the dairy farmer who smuggled money in clotted cream buns to his brother in gaol, Or the Spinning Detective the play about a crofter in the Hebrides who investigates the mysterious events surrounding the disappearance of his wife every Saturday afternoon while he's watching the football on the only telly on his island.

"Righty oh" says Dennis, I'll knock something out this afternoon."

"That's a good playwright and remember nothing too fruity."

"OK"

"Promise?"

"Oh all right," Dennis concedes wearily  "cross my heart"

"Good, by the way, I've got that Mary Lighthouse coming round tomorrow, I want her to read it to preempt any trouble from her and her cronies, can you get it ready for then?"

"Mary Lighthouse! not that old bag."

"Now now Dennis, sticks and stones, remember."

"Yuck, oh alright then" says Dennis as the controller hangs up.

Now what's that spell for a play with no rude bits in, he wonders to himself, "Dramaticus nil perviumdum". Flash!! a collection of Mickey Mouse and Whinny the Poo DVD's appears out of nowhere. No that's not right how about...

"Bardicus no Saucybiticus" Crack!! A copy of Frankie Howard's autobiography appears. "Oh dear."

"Plagerous non tissueneedicus..." Woosh! "...bugger."

 "Scriptorius nil filthyiticum,,," Zap! "...oh flip"

"Tellyplayus san bluematerialus..." Fwwap! "...this is getting tedious now."

*****

Finally after hours of fruitless spell casting, at something like 5:00 in the morning:

"Yawhhniodacium me soknackerdius" Foooff! a completed double spaced manuscript appears annotated with stage directions, lighting, camera angles and music suggestions.

"At last!" Dennis says wearily then promptly falls to sleep.

After he's woken by his alarm Dennis calls a bike to courier the manuscript to Shepard's Bush. Bleary eyed he copies the title from the first page and writes the strap-line on a covering note:

The Blue Remembering PIlls

One man's fight to find a cure for dementia.

After the courier call he trundles wearily back to bed for a snooze. He's woken a few hours later by an angry controller.

"Dennis!" the controller shouts angrily down the phone.

"Wha..." Dennis peeps meekly

"That play you sent over, The Blue Remembering Pills, I've just had Mary LIghthouse in my office tearing me off a strip over it"

"What's wrong"

"You put the wrong title on it, it's called The Blue Restraining Hills, it's a play about a group of bondage fetishists who conduct their wanton habits amongst the heather clad hillocks of the lake district"

"But... but..."

"But what?" says the controller

"But..."

"Grrrr" snarls the controller.

"But..."

"...heather's purple"

Some truth -- some fiction

You know the novel you're trying to write? c'mon admit it, there isn't a blogger alive that's not writing a novel or written one or revising one or trying to get one published. So It'll be no surprise if I reveal that I'm also writing a novel -- sorry, trying to write a novel. Mine's on holiday at the moment, short of the minimum length by about a factor. Whether this pause in development becomes permanent is something I'm not too sure of. My enthusiasm for the project took a minor hit when I discovered my new and original story outline wasn't so new and original, in fact it turns out to be quite well trodden, oops, never mind, still worth a poke I thought. So maybe, I though I might change the format, make it an anthology, not a cobbled collection of old material mind you, a proper one with a central premise shared between the stories. So I calculated 7000 - 10,000 words for each segment that gives me about 5  or 6 stories for a train journey size work. While I'm going over my jottings and, making a few continuity notes, that kind of thing I come across a line that startled me, I'll quote it in fragment here:

"...he realized that whatever happened, from now on there would be a piece of his soul that always belonged to this girl who called herself Sandrine."

Phillipin-eck, Mills & Boon or what? Perhaps I should re-read, a little slower this time, I think to myself. Which I do and next I find:

"...she'd kindled the spark within him into a blaze..."

WHAT!!!! what the hell's going on here? That's not the end it, I find similar examples throughout. Somehow, I'm not quite sure exactly how, I find I've written a teen romance. That's not the end of it though, it gets worse -- it's unfinished see but by coincidence it ends at a natural break, where the cliffhanger would be. So I've finished reading and I'm wondering: what happens next? and with more than just a little anticipation. So I've written a romance story, read it, enjoyed it -- apparently and now I'm hungry for the next installment. I'm not feeling well, this is worse than the time I watched Cats. I've gotta buy some beer and go through a stack of Tarantino DVD's, I've got Rio Bravo around somewhere too. That'll be good, an evening, beer and the old time tough guys, Bogart, Tracey, Wayne, Gable. Yeah Clark Gable, fabulous actor, really great in Gone with the Wind, fantastic cinematography, outstanding wardrobe too, Vivian Leigh's dress, the one she's wearing on the stair, the green accessories looks so vivid in Technicol...


...AAAAAAAAAAAAAAArgh.

Titus Morry

Titus Morry dug this hole

Better money than the dole

He lived his life as a mole

Just another greasy prole

Worked so hard keep to his wife

Never thought of his own life

Married to perpetual strife

Till he took that serrated knife

The final row in the kitchen

Here's a tool to stop that bitchin

Another hole lined with lichen

Wonder when she'll stop that twitchin

Tried to take the kids away

Found a way to make her pay

She'll never see another day

Whatever will the neighbours say?

Now's the time to call Police

Equivocate like Myrlin Rees

Wonders -- should I call my niece?

Who knew murder could be such bliss?

Oh dear that's a nasty Rhyme

Never could spare that much time

For a poem too sublime

Please forgive this heinous crime

Titus Morry lies so deftly

Life's so hard since she left me

I just thank god for young Daphne

Eyes his niece with breasts so hefty

The Stunt Poem

Warning this post uses language that may be offensive to some

My encounters with notoriety are brief and tenuous amongst them I number the promulgation of the phrase, spitting feathers, in relation to a fit of ineffectual anger another is the authorship of what I call, The Stunt Poem. Both these cause me a certain amount of amusement when I encounter them. it's something of a surprise to me that, spitting feathers, has worked it's way into respectable parlance seeing as the imagery evoked seems rather obvious. It was coined in reference to a senior colleague prone to panic and scapegoating those around him and it references an implied homosexual relationship with a junior staff member, feathers -- spitting -- geddit now? The Stunt Poem arouses amusement for a more subtle reason, I can't help recall the reaction of the first woman I recited it to. First lets show the original text of the poem then I'll explain:

Oh what a jolly stunt
to lick around your girlfriend's cunt
if you make her moan and cry
she'll suck your knob if she's not shy

Her response causes amusement because it was so naive and illustrated the enormous disparity between our perceptual models of the world. She said something along the lines of, "Using vulgar languages isn't funny, it would be better if you substituted a different rhyme." Er yes, I'm a Benny Hill fan too but that's not quite the effect I was looking for.

Incidentally a guy called Terry, who was vociferous lefty, piped up with another amusing response, he complained it, "Didn't scan!" amongst other pretentious claims.

"Oh really" I responded, "Terry, what does that mean exactly? You know --'scan' what does that mean when someone  says a poem doesn't scan." He went a red colour and tried to bullshit his way out of that one as was his habit when he found himself out of his depth --which was a frequently.

Observations from Zog

I suppose it's time I came clean, I'm not writing this like most Blogspot or Wordpress users, sitting at keyboard or on a laptop in a cafe. I'm inputting this on an hyperspatial input station from a secret location on the planet Zog. Let me explain, you've heard of David Icke, you know -- reptilians, shape-shifters? Zog is where they, the Zogthurians, come from, I'm here with the Zogthurian resistance. It turns out that not all Zogthurians are evil and bent on planetary conquest. In fact most Zogthurians are quite congenial, the only real inconvenience, apart from the toilet tissue shortage, is the Zogthurian's habitual practice of conducting internal body cavity probes, it wouldn't be so bad if they at least warmed the end of the probe a little, brrrrrr.

As you might expect communication between Zog and Earth can be a little difficult at times. I'm not sure where Zog is but I know it's some distance from Earth, so we don't get all the news channels that you do at home. In fact there's no television at all and the radio broadcasts only come through occasionally. There is excellent internet access though, the Zogthurians  spent a lot of effort securing the broadband connection between Zog and Earth because they're very keen on the internet. They're particularly interested in downloading something called Japanese AV, apparently it offers a valuable insight into human culture and psychology. There are two main consequences that follow from these circumstances, I get almost almost all my news of home via the internet and the Zogthurian consumption of tissue paper has tripled annually since the introduction of direct broadband from Earth.

So I'm not up to speed on news topics like the X-Factor or Jeremy Clarkson, that seem to preoccupy the newspapers back home. I should mention that we do get newspapers too, the tissue shortage has prompted the Zogthurians to import large quantities of newsprint to supplement the toilet tissue supply. Copies of the Daily Mail and Independent seem to be particularly popular although they do use all of the British tabloids for that purpose and the demise of the News of the World was widely lamented. So it was a certain degree of curiosity that I read headlines regarding the British weather. It seemed as soon as the summer had finished that the papers announced each inclement episode as if it were minor catastrophe. There was also number of ominous predictions emblazoned in bold type such as, "Arctic Freeze Predicted" and "Flood Warning". The latest example of this phenomenon was the announcement  that it was actually snowing in December. I know I've been on Zog for some time but I still do recall that things like this used to happen quite regularly at home we called it -- winter.

Being on the planet Zog you might think that I'd be sympathetic to conspiracy theories, seeing as I know that Mr. Icke's seemingly fantastic claims are all grounded in solid fact. Well you'd be wrong there, as far as I'm concerned, Oswald shot JFK and the twins towers collapsed because some Arabs flew into them with bloody great aeroplanes. It's not that I don't think our politicians are above conspiracy and manipulation, Blair's 45 minute claim is a good example of such. I just don't think they're that good at it, they're as about as good at conspiracy as they are at running the economy. So I'm not a conspiracy buff or a truther as they liked to be called but when I caught sight of some other climate related material from the news, I couldn't quite shake the idea there might be a connection. The material in question was the climate change conference in Durban, that has been going on since November. The media has been heralding the rather prosaic approach of winter since the autumn like it was the first time it had ever occurred, could there be a connection? I wonder...

Breaking up

-->

You might guess from the following that I'm in something of a cynical mood currently. I know it's a bit early but I've been thinking about Valentine's day and how it stopped being fun and became a burden. Don't get me wrong I'm not ridiculing genuine acts of affection between lovers. In fact I'd encourage them, the world could do with more genuine affection but it should be, you know, genuine. Not the competitive fakery that has grown up around this festival, where a man is decried for blowing less than a week's wages on ephemeral tokens of respect. It's become more about edification than affection. Spend x much and you might get a jump at the end of the evening. No thanks, somehow I don't think a tacit form of prostitution conforms to the genuine spirit of the occasion.

So I've embraced the spirit of enterprize and come up with an alternative festival, Chuck Her Day, it occurs on 13th of February. Conveniently timed to spare you the expense of its neigbour. Of course it's not for everyone, only for folk who're trying to free themselves from the suffocating clutches of an unwanted partner. It's conceived with special consideration for those who find executing such tasks so very--very difficult. They can pop into a shop and buy a card to do it and placate their guilt with the comforting knowledge that they're entering into the spirit of their special day.

So Here's my first attempt at a rhyme for such a card:

-->

Do I need to tell it to your face?

my lust for you has run its race

these words so hard I have to say

I’m bored with you so go away

Your feebly tears so cheaply shed

will not entice me to your bed

nor seductive sigh and no

prospect of irrumtio

I had some fun now I’m leaving

so stop this coercive pleading

I have not love but bold contempt

for such weapons of sly intent

You hate me now don’t tell a lie

so now it’s time to say bye bye

but just wait for this parting shot

you stink of fish and hot that’s not

  -->

While reading this it occurred to me that this rhyme isn't too gender specific and that it Chuck Them Day might be more appropriate. Trouble is though I can't imagine many women sending their men such cards on February the 13th.

Class Barriers.

The idea of structured social barriers is often portrayed as anachronistic, something that is generally thought to have petered out a few decades ago. I tend to disagree with that strain of opinion. I see examples of a class based social divide that is alive and well in my own particular cultural context. I will say though that in my experience class barriers are not the firm unmovable obstacles depicted in Victorian period dramas or DH lawrence novels. Rather they're about attitudes, usually attitudes of superiority but occasionally the assumption of inferiority is also present. An example of the former would be the glorious occasion of our former Prime Minister Mr. Gordon Brown's encounter with the, "Bigoted Woman".  Brown's exclamation, prefaced with the glottal hiss that so exquisitely conveyed his contempt for Gillian Duffy will forever remain the prime example of the superior attitude. 

The reason I'm mulling over this topic this moment is because I've just had an encounter with a girl while queuing in Tesco for some provisions for the evening, well I say encounter what I actually mean is I saw this hot chick in the queue. She wasn't the only attractive young lady there but her demeanor marked her out. It prompted me to make a set of assumptions about the girl, Intelligent, efficient, tidy, well armored in social grace, etcetera, to put it simply classy is the word I'd use. In the past when I'd encounter girls like this one of two things would occur, I'd discover that she was intensely materialistic interested only in status and cash. The second contingency would be that she or someone would introduce me to her man, "He's a prince whose African tribe can trace their lineage to Ramasese!" I'd be told. I might then point out that Egypt is in north Africa, that legend states Ramasese was ginger which would most likely make him a Berber or Riff and that our friend Duan here is probably from Streatham. None of which would make any significant impact upon the situation and I'd be left to infer in some manner that the chick in question considered me to be, not within the bounds of her social strata.

I will now convey to you the circumstances under which the only exception to that mentioned above occurred. After some thought I've decided to use the alias Terry for the lady in question. Terry was my immediate superior at work, she possessed all those attributes I've associated with the adjective, classy with the added benefit of a sense of humour and she was probably one of the most attractive women I've known. Needless to say I was quite attracted towards her but while in those days I was quite extrovert and frequently flirted and joked with women at work, with Terry I was always business like and sober. I always ate at my desk but one day a group of girls, Terry among them, invited me to the canteen. I declined at first but after a bit of cajoling I relented and accompanied them. I should have realized something was up but at the time I had no idea I was being set up for an ambush. See they'd invited me there at Terry's behest to confront me over my coolness towards Terry, they wanted me out of the office to avoid eavesdropping from management I suppose. I was sat opposite Terry at a refectory table and little uncomfortable with the situation trying hard to maintain my aloofness with Terry when one of the girls asked abruptly, "Why are you so mean to Terry?".

This was the cue for the interrogation to begin "Yeah you're always mean to me" Terry chipped in.

Taken aback I retorted the best I could, "I'm not mean to you, I'm just being polite," this made no impression and I was quickly informed that the difference in my demenour towards to Terry had caused some consternation.

"You're always laughing and joking with the other girls but your so aloof with me," said Terry.

"Ah, you noticed?" I replied, to which all those gathered at the table replied in the affirmative. By the way there was one other man at the table, Eric, a dull mousy Scot who'd joined the table when he entered the canteen.

"Do you not like me for some reason, have I offended you in some way?" asked Terry.

"No it's not that, I'm not offended and I quite like you".

"Well?" the inquisition continued.

"Oh hell, do you really want me to tell you?" the conversation continued in this vein for a few more sentences until I finally resigned myself to the minor revelation that was about to ensue. "It's nothing important or anything you've done, it's me, in fact you'll probably think it's quite funny and laugh".

I drew a deep breath and continued, "You probably didn't notice this but on your first day here you caught the bus from the train station to work. I was waiting at the stop reading the paper when you turned up. Of course I didn't know who you were but when I first saw you I thought to myself, why aren't there any women like that in my life?" This statement was accompanied by a collective clatter of dropped cutlery and gaping jaws at the table. 

I continued, "I couldn't take my eyes off you on the bus, I watched you all the way to the stop. I couldn't believe it when you walked in to the building, I though to myself I've got to find where works in the building. Then you turn into the office and you're introduced to me as my new boss. I told myself at that moment that I wouldn't do anything that might jeopardize the chances of me having sex with you. That meant not flirting or becoming too familiar with you and to maintain some aloofness while still being pleasant." Those dangling jaws at the table had lowered themselves to the floor by now Terry was the first to gain her composure, then she started to laugh. "See, I told you it was funny," I said.

"So, you think you're going to have sex with me?" she asked her feigned indignance betrayed by the laughter she was trying to stifle.

"Er, I think it's unlikely," I replied...

bc2ah974301qvd7rt4s