*hic**belch*
*hic*
*Wolfie falls through the kitchen door back up onto deck. His eyes, well, aren't really there any more: Rather, they appear somewhat glassy, and seem to be experiencing great difficulty in focussing on anything. He is wearing a supercilious expression, and speech - something he is evidently working up to now - is being preceded by a goldfish-like working of the jaw muscles. He stares at no-one inparticular and slurs*
I seem *hic* to have dishcovered something *beclch* -
A raucus (that is to say - disagreably harsh and violent) singing, using very colourful language, wafts up the steps from the direction of the kitchen. It's Hanki's voice, only she seems to be using slightly more prosaic language than usual. She is singing a song involving a blond, a redhead, and three kilos of lard, amongst other things. All in all, the song is the sort of thing that would make Chaucer blush.
*Wolfie pauses, while the song reaches a crescendo, swaying quite precariously, then continues*
I have dish-dishcovered *hic* that potato shwiskey is-is *hic* really quite sssssssspiffing (this last is said so enthusiastically, that anyone standing within thirty feet is drenched in drivel. His nose is also turning a rather disturbing shade of purple) and-and ah ... uh ... whatzshwas I shaying? Oh, yesh, *hic* it's evensh shtronger than Scrollops Lobster Scrumpy, or Dr McGlue's Amber Enema ... Anywash, Hank-Hanki and *he rolls his eyes lugubriously* I have been shampling. Very, very good...
*Bursts out with a loud guffaw, then collapses face down on deck*
From the kitchen, there is a very loud and unseemly belch, followed by a giggle.
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I am the sunlight on the sides of houses.