16th April, 1990
The feet were revolting. Closing ranks, they stood together, united. It was 1923, the year when nothing significant happened. The year before, on the other foot, was much more interesting. That was the year of Splon, when a football team from Sicily introduced athelete's foot and cholera into the country, producing running sores and heiroglyphs of the egyptian-type mummy foot. All ensuing Charlestons were cancelled. Cuniform took over, and the feet marched in unison once more. United with a common stack frame, the thread wove its way through the cache, twisting first one way, and then the other, until, in 1924, Chuck Berry reintroduced the twist and was locked up for it.
Beryl's nightdress was aflame. The acetylene bottle was empty so Beryl and Anja used the nightdress to weld the aeroplane's wing back onto the foot. Hermes could fly again! It was the miracle the Gods had been praying for. The foot was unimpressed, however. A demarcation dispute was brewing in the teapot whilst Sir Mervyn Moncrieff, A.S.A.P, R.S.V.P, O.B.E, R.I.S.C, A.D.F.A, B.A.R, R.A.D.A.R (an undergraduate) stood reciting the reticent and resplendent Sword of Damocles, admiring its gems and bronze scabbard, when it fell on his foot.
This seemed strange to historians, who did not really believe the Samurai culture of 16th century Japan had been in contact with 5th century B.C Greece or even chutney sandwiches on toadstool encrusted steaks. But the feet were unappeased by these concessions and stood up for their rights, shouting smellily ``Phew! God that stinks!''. So saying, they died. After the cremation which resulted in widespread cheese all through Europe, Wodjmi and Amanda remarried on an unused disk partition.
The aged arthritic ankle always argued angstfully against accruing additional arbitration and feet fretted furiously from frustration - fearful for freedom. It was still 1923 and the year was 1904. The parliament passed the passage perfectly, punctuating the persistent personal piece of Permostat, and resoundly rejecting the passage too. Due to this inconsistency, the lumps became strangely textured bits of space junk, partially melted by their fiery passage through the Foot Asteroid Belt which lies in a mysterious area of space, first mentioned in SF novels in 1919. But that's not important right now. The feet were not important right now. But that wasn't all. Following hard on his heels was his arch-enemy, Flatus Foetus, whose ironic nickname was in no way due to his feet.
The importance of dancing lessons in adding to tensions immediately before the crash were nil. It would have crashed anyway, according to the feet, who ought to know as their leader, Toe Nail (of the Tinea tribe) crashed wildly through the trees, chasing the thief Wesborough and his blind dog across the field of elderberries that happened to be nearby; sharpening his dog, he was only cleaning it when it went off in the fridge, making the cheese into swiss cheese. The feet were overjoyed as it smelt like them. Only Parmesan could be worse, and the feet felt that was a backwards step anyway. Meanwhile, back in 1923, the revolution went on, leaving all the participants behind to die. So ends the great Tinea revolt of 1907.