In my rather unsettled life I have only been forced to the extremity of disowning my gnu on three occasions. Let us gloss over the Calais and Vancouver incidents and instead expound on the peculiar and perhaps even eldritch circumstances of that one evening in Claxton.
As any gnu owner knows, and there are many in my acquaintance who claim that distinction, you must migrate your gnu on a regular rota or face stagnation on the part of that mighty animal. I once knew a gnu owner - although he was also a dabbler in silly parrots - who failed to migrate properly, and he ended up making barrels in Luxembourg. The lesson was learnt.
So, to return to the tale, it was an evening in Claxton, and I had gone shopping at the local market when suddenly a hand tugged at my elbow. I looked to the left, for the tug came from that direction, and then I looked down at the little girl stood there.
"Excuse me, sir, but there's a gnu following you. It looks WEIRD."
I thought to myself, and looked behind me. It was my gnu, and it did indeed look strange. Somehow, while I had been shopping at the market, the gnu had been following me around and wreaking havoc. The animal was wearing a fedora hat and had acquired humorous purple lipstick. On it's back there was a fairly hideous leisure blanket and a world of fruit baskets was being dragged behind. There was a peculiar green nimbus about my friendly gnu, drifting with the breeze.
I looked the animal in the eye and saw my comrade in arms with the friendly attitude, but still did something forgivable, which I would mend a little later. I looked at the girl, and lied like a fiend.
'No, that's not my gnu.'
And of course that was when I started to laugh like a maniac and turned around to go back to the market. The girl scowled and threw an exotic fruit. She had a right. Halloween paint goes everywhere in the festive season.
O.
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