Talking to the deranged Potato-Master, I was told a tale of woe and befuddlement, tempered only by the three songs the shampoo salesman had sung by the pool.
He narrated his adventures like a brick wall crumbled, despair and triumph ran circles around us like a blind bird trying to find its way to Yugoslavia. It was only when the kebabs were done did the gravity of the situation dawn on the bouncing Brigadier, who promptly ordered the twin guitarists to fetch a magic frying pan from across the seven seas. This they did as swiftly as the flying mushroom would carry them.
When all was fried and done, it was the wisdom of the Potato-Master that had saved the day. He had foreseen the coming of the purple umbrella, and knew it was only a matter of time before the rain would come thundering.
