Disappointingly, and rather unsportingly, Drew Cavendish’s teeth remained stalwartly sandwiched between his gums – despite the sizable explosion of pineapple and gelatine that had just occured behind them.
As he had already jovially downed a small platter of Burning Bon Bons and irritably picked shards of Literal Jawbreakers from between his molars, this latest dental miracle was hardly unexpected.
Hands still clasped at his back, the tweeded terror bent imperiously toward the unfortunate chocolatier.
“This IS your shop, you felonious fop?” he spat, with only metaphorical acidity.

This would be a prudent moment to discuss the legal jargon used by the Council. For reasons unknown, a rhyming couplet holds untold power when spoken by a magical being. It is because of this that Council officials often employ certain phrases to enforce their will.

Of course, some obnoxious individuals simply cannot help themselves, and take the opportunity to be as rude as is lawfully possible.

Mr Cavendish is a case in point.