Nigel, on a Tuesday, in his shiny red wellies...
...settled comfortably on his favourite fencepost. He watched several unbelievably muddy blackbirds bathe in a stream. Suddenly Nigel was overcome by an urge to jump and splash in the stream. He tore off his wellies and threw them into Wednesday...
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where they landed neatly in balletic fourth position, waiting for
another writer to join, since mostlylife probably frowns on solo
endeavours. Nigel had come prepared: he had his wet suit
already in his handbag. This wise foresight enabled him to
avoid both pneumonia and the painful attacks of the blackbirds.
They sought his nuts but got gutfuls of gutta percha
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