Matron said I could be the official photographer for the annual egg and frog race.  Opportunities like this don’t come my way very often, and usually fall to that ninkumpoop over in cell 94B.  So what if he’s managed to charm Matron with his perfect physique, Swiss bank accounts full of weak lemon drink and his uncanny impersonations of George Clooney.  It won’t last for long.  Once Matron knows about what he does in the corner of his cell every Thursday, I’ll regain her attentions and once again become her favourite inmate. 

So anyway, something must have twitched in the institution’s space time continuum since I found myself responsible for this most prestigious event.  Matron said I could keep any of the eggs or frogs that failed to make it to the finish line, just so long as I picked them up carefully and returned them to their rightful owners as quickly as possible.  You can’t say fairer than that.

On the big day, I prepared thoroughly.  I discharged my camera’s battery to ensure I couldn’t get electrocuted, used a kitchen scourer to clean the lens of anything that could ruin a perfect shot and dunked the whole thing in disinfectant for 30 minutes to make sure I didn’t contaminate anyone I photographed.  Nobody was going to accuse me of not having health and safety as my top-most priority.

I was at the starting line.  The llamas were prancing around confidently with their eggs carefully balanced atop their frogs;  the Felicity Kendalls were stretching every conceivable limb in preparation for the grueling course that lay ahead; George Bush was giving a truly splendifulous funeral speech to mark the occasion; I was doing finger press-ups to make sure my finger would be in tip-top condition for when the time came to take a photo.  I took a swig of some weak lemon drink to calm my nerves.

And then, with but the shortest of notice, the little girl from section 9 was detonated into a fine red mist and the race was underway.  Ok… so I missed taking a photo of the start… I was waiting for the right moment, but it just didn’t come.  And now all I could see was a crowd of blood coated shapes disappearing off into the distance accompanied by the occasional croak from an encumbered frog and a squeal of delight from Bob Carolgees, I think.

Matron wouldn’t be happy.

So I ran.

I chased and chased, but couldn’t keep up… this race was fiercely competitive, and such was the training that the competitors had put in, not a single egg or frog was dropped.  As I crossed the finishing line panting furiously, I was met with a swift but perfectly effective blow to the head with a defrosted chicken.  I was out knocked out cold for 15 minutes plus 20 minutes per lb.

I awoke to see a very angry looking Matron.  The guy from cell 94b was behind her looking all smug and insidious.  I briefly remember, before the waves of noxious broccoli vapour made my head hurt, the sound of a key being thrown into a very deep well.

And this is how I came to have my fear of cameras.

Matron said I should shred some confidential stuff, lest it fall into the wrong hands. That would be… er… problematic and embarrassing – and not just for the llamas.

Now normally I’m good at shredding, but today I forgot to heed the warning of “Shred with a tie and you’re dead”.  There were warnings on the shredder and everything.

It was going great, but just as I reached for the latest stack of llama sex orgy paperwork, my tie flopped into the diamond cut steel grinding gears of the shredder of death.

This is moments before my grizzly end.

Splendid.

I spent some time in room 27b of the asylum.  I tend to find this room cloying – the humidity is high and Matron just hasn’t kept on top of the weeding.  But I’d heard on the rumour network that some of the rarer strains of rhubarb were failing to breed with the llamas.

Ordinarily this wouldn’t be a problem, but Matron and I had been banking on breaking into the exclusive superfood market with our inspiring, spitting rhubarbä.  So Matron sent me in to get to the root or the problem. 

That was easy.  I uprooted our prize rhullama specimen and immediately found the roots Matron asked me to seek out.  But in a frenzy of spittle the rhullama effectively exploded before me.  Some got in my eye.  It stung a bit.  I felt mildly super.

Think we need to work on that.  We’re after a bit more supery.

Anyway… so I thought I’d delve into the fauna to check the faltering of the superyness.  The mini Flibblettes that are meant to ensure the llamas find the rhubarb attractive were looking a little meek.  Need to find some way to make them more sexy somehow. 

Think we need to get them some vivid orange pills.

Rhullama sorted. 

Splendid.