Rubbing melons into purple faces

Melons have a habit of rolling into or over Bessy's tail. She's begun to take a philosophical angle on them and appears to be rather interested in the phenomenon she describes as pick-up-on-the-purple-man-and-rub-it-in-the-face school of thought. At least, that's what I interpreted from the bark and the tail wag and the look that accompanies lopsided ears, when I woke this Sunday morning. Margaret said the dog needed letting out and that last night's desert had nothing to do with philosophy. She's black and white like that is Margaret, from time to time.

Felix tells me there are three ways to break into prison disguised as a melon. However, for reasons of national security, he won't tell me what they are.

Being a Sunday, though I am thinking of the pleasant haven I call work, I am not there so cannot report on the goings on of George and Cookie. George did mention he was planning a weekend of tumultuous nakedness in abstract places, and Cookie that there was no such thing as a weekend since she had lost them in a bet (which had something to do with moles and souls - not sure - you'd have to ask next time you pop in).

So there I am. The end of a weekend that may well have been pawned to pay for salvation, and the discovery that the person rescuing me might have had two other disguises with which to climb in. If that doesn't tempt you to rub your face purple, I don't know what will.