Bogg snorkelling

Even such a global junket-punk as me (Phileas Bogg - round the world in 80 jaunts) was getting pissed off in Japan (they don't do second hand so my jokes were about as popular as Chris Grayling at a Brighton boarding house) so I left Hillda Ogden-Newton&Ridley to it (being a woman I expect she loves looking at displays of cherry blossom). She has a lifesize dummy of myself that she is lugging around to official functions so I can pretend I am still there with the added advantage of it not offending anyone.

I decided to spend Easter camping. On Thursday morning I flew home and arrived in time for a last supper with 12 members of my staff. It all got a bit messy. Hector disgraced himself by wondering around claiming his real name was Peter and denying three times that he is after my job. And Fab Jobsworth betrayed me by trying to take some cushy paid chair roles I was after for 30 pieces of silver. Then I disappeared until yesterday when I rose again from the mud - for I am the son of Bogg.

My aim was to recreate the exploits of the woman mentioned in this story and I pitched my umbrella tent by the banks of a stream. However, it got pretty muddy when the rains came and even though I am Boggy by name and nature I was unprepared for the impromptu Bogg snorkelling I was obliged to undertake. By the end of yesterday I was regretting not staying in the land of the rising gamp.

I will leave you with some Japanese umbrella haiku (spoku).

It was pissing down
My umbrella came to life
And kept my clothes dry