4th March, 1994
Well I remember the Jelly Incident of '89. Few had survived intact, and even Ozalp the dog barked until eventually she cried. Behold my dog! Only her mother could hear her oestrogen level rise above that necessary to cause thrombosis. Olga then left and took another name. ``Who am I?'' she cried. ``Mikhail Gorbachev'' came the sonorous reply. Patrick sprang to attention, slicing his tendons on the nearby barbed-wire fence. His frilly lace became a standard of gold, a mizzen-mast at almost perfection, a tea-tray of yesterday.
Green green - lime green. The jelly set in the concrete container which was inhabited by flying slugs and moreover took a Howitzer to 7:15 at 7:30, but it was Eastern time, not Standard. The clock struck forcefully, nonetheless. The force knocked Prunella over, landing on Dennis her husband. ``Would you untie my slippers?'' ``No'' said her husband's belt. ``Yes'' said her husband's fat gut, full of potato chips and assorted rotting aardvark juice.
The shiraz was decidedly weak, giving a kind of juice all her own, surrounded by Venus flytraps in mayonnaise. This delicacy is only cooked by Lithuanian woodcutters when sodden - so they answer when they cook. It's Hungarian. It's hungry. Paprika and lots of goulash. Yum yum! Only strudeled albatross was better than the lime jelly they had known since childhood.