She knew her duty, and her duty was to marry up. For Queen, Country, and bally well the chance to make every other girl at Miss Whistle’s look back with envy and say “do you remember Creddy Buffet-Smythe that was? My goodness, what a splendid marriage she made! Jolly marvellous, talk of Queen Charlotte’s she was, the way she swept Muzzy Beauclerk orf his feet, what?”
“Look, I said I was sorry; there’s no need to get so highty-tigh – oh, hang on, there really isn’t any need to get so highty-tighty about it. It was just the extension cord! See?” and he rose up from a sudden crouch, almost bashing Nikola on the chin with the back of his head, as Tesla craned down to look as instructed.
As St Valentine towed a sulky Cupid away from the bar, he explained what he he had seen. One person who was certain he and Cupid weren't even real, and a man who thought he was unhelpful! Him - the hero of love, Valentinius Sanctus, patron saint of lovers, BFF to those who wished to wed! He'd been martyred for these people, he complained, sounding er, martyred. He'd had his head chopped off for the ungrateful little apes! Whatever happened to respect, to omnia vincit amor, and all that? I mean, what did they want from him - blood?
'I wouldn't mind' mumbled Cupid. 'Still had half a Peroni left'.
Polly opened her mouth to tell him she had no idea - maybe petition the local member? - when she realised she absolutely, most definitely did know what she was going to do.
She smiled. It was the smile of a crocodile as it sights lunch on the banks of the river in the shape of a plump, juicy antelope with a broken leg.
'I'm going to sue the human race for negligence against each other and the earth'.