It’s raining cats and dogs, and men, hallelujah!

Erm, I mean, um, yeah, let’s just go with that.

So, Britain’s on the brink of being submerged under ten feet of water. It’s a good job I’ve got the top floor then, isn’t it? I must say, though, all this rain is not doing my fur any good. I’ve been desperate to leave the office all week, but there’s nothing worse than a wet coat. Just imagine having wet socks on all day and you’re about a third of the way there.

I was saying to Johnson just the other day as he drove me to the delicatessen down the road that someone should really find out a way of stopping all this rain from falling: it’s a damnable nuisance and it keeps all the mice indoors where I can’t get at them. Johnson was probably going to say something insightful, but then he got shot again: that sniper is getting closer every day. Fortunately, Johnson recognised my would-be assassin – assuring me that he was very good and that if I ever needed a job done, he was the man – so now I know where he lives. I think the delivery of a little package is in order, maybe a ticking clock.

The question remains, though: where on earth did my boiler get the money to hire such a man? It’s an inanimate object for God’s sake! I think I’d best check my bank statements.

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