“Where I am is good,” said the Smee (in his mind)
-- as he forded the overflow of the Misters’ flooded carport on his wee cat bridge (lovingly provided by his staff (aka the Misters)).
Pausing mid-crossing, the Smee was perhaps contemplating how, a couple of hours before, he had, in this very same spot, sip-slurped the rainwater (pooled up in such a way that this Mister felt necessitated the plunking-down of a plank so as to expedite passage to the raised seating area created for just such deluge situations as a result of hideous Christmas rains).
[ed.: The length-of-sentence alert having “dinged,” we must now close down this blog post forthwith.]
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