She could smell the unmistakable odour of wet ocelot, drifting through the air like a giant mosquito dipped in Agent Orange.

To her left, the grass rustled. She froze. One cautious step, then another. Slowly. Now she regretted wearing the scuba flippers. They’d seemed like such a wise, sensible choice this morning, but now – in the dank, fetid jungle – they made her walk like a duck with polio.

Then – suddenly – he was there. Clad in shimmering ocelot fur, as was his unfortunate usual choice, it was her arch-nemesis – Dr. Kud. With an evil laugh, he stepped forward. She noted he still bore the raw pink scar from their last encounter, when she’d struck him – hard – with the Hello Kitty doll.

“Shall I tell you what I’ve done with Gretchen, and your precious Mr. Tidbit?” he snarled.

“Paint me a picture,” she retorted, with the raw transparent fury of a cheetah coiled inside a fishbowl.

“Oh, I’ll paint you a picture, all right – but you won’t like it. I’ve only got pastels, and I’m out of blue and red.”