How was it that we began, when we began oh so very much heavily long ago on a winter's day night day, which happened not to be at school or work but in fact during a joint communal last ever holiday season break? With a jig. And some loudness, of which the like of which has never been felt in the flesh of a mortal or immortal who was mortal at the weekends before. Or a frying pan. Alas, poor frying pan, he was hit over the fridge by the heavy chocolate wheel, once sacred, now a bit of a pain really, and all a little bit over-cooked. In deep oil. Fried. And stuff. With bacon, lots of bacon, oh the irony! How bittersweet the choice of drafting a draft into the pan in the final seconds before being smushed into a lovely oneness with the fridge with the button and the pan and all that was contained, and hence it was that the fridge and the pan swapped and the fridge started to cook, and the pan was so holey it stopped stuff from moldising, apart from when it fell through the plot holes. Except the pan had been crushed so much it looked quite a bit more like a plate. Also, it's handle had fallen off, which helped. And Bob of the enormous transvestite peahen clan, said that it should eat off this holiest of plates, rather than try to dig a tunnel under a concert hall, where it could build a par cark, so it did, and got fat. And then it sat around all day playing with dolls.