The Subconscious Is A Worrying Place

“Of course, the bactrian is the most profitable ungulate,” said the smugly smiling anteater, brushing a few flakes of snow from its dapper lime-coloured waistcoat. “We were hoping to raise production considerably in the coming quarter. I’m sure you’ll find that easy enough.”

I gave a meanlingless murmur and tried to lift my tea cup. Once again, its handle proved an illusion, ignoring my fingers utterly. I sobbed – the cup was filled with chocolate and filled with fruit juice and with bolognese sauce, and I wanted it very much. Snowflakes melted on the surface of the liquid and I tugged my lacy shawl closer, wishing the library had a roof. Instead, several inches of snow swamped the lowest shelves. Naturally the damned anteater had wanted to dine in the materials chemistry section, renowned as the coldest.

At last, I drummed up the courage to speak, “Terry, I really can’t do that. We just don’t have the materials. The BBC have bought up all the shag-pile rugs, we’d have nothing to upholster them with.”

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