The Sandwich: #121

The Sandwich


Right, I am returning to Mrs McGonagall's to ask her about my sandwich and this time I'm not going to take a sideboard for an answer. I knocked on the door, knock-knock-knocketty-knock. A big man answered the door in a ginger beard. "I am not going to buy a sideboard," I told him. "Good for you," he said, and closed the door in my face.

Fair enough. Well, that's established the ground rules. I knocked again, knock-knock-knocky-knocky-knock. The man opened the door in his ginger beard again. "I want to know where my sandwich is," I said. "No sandwiches, just cats," said the ginger beard man, and closed the door again.

Hmm, we were making progress, but it was slow. Perhaps this time we could have a sustained conversation. I knocked again, knock-knocky-knock-knock, knock-knock. "Hello," I said, jamming my foot in the door. "Please tell me at length what you meant by the phrase 'just cats', using diagrams and illustrations, if necessary." The man explained that he didn't know nothing about no sandwiches, and that this building was under new management, and was now the Fennimore Home for Agitated Cats, and that unless I had an agitated cat that needed treatment, I should leave immediately. He then pushed me out into the street and slammed the door. I walked around the building and came back to the front, and that's when I noticed that there was indeed a sign saying that it was a home for jittery pussy cats. I knocked on the door again, but he just shouted "Piss off" through the letter box. This was very naughty of him, but in the absence of any better ideas, I did as I was told.



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