Waiting in a wardrobe, the door was suddenly thrown open. I don't mean that the door was waiting in the wardrobe. Sorry, that is an example of a bad grammar: a dangling wotsit, or something. Let me start again and I'll do it proper.
As I waited in the wardrobe, the door was suddenly thrown open.
You see, that's a much better grandma. Anyhoo, standing there, framed in an aura of blinding light, was a chappy wearing thigh-length riding boots, a tie-died duffle coat, a shark's tooth necklace and an absolutely massive hat with a feather in it.
"You must be the magistrate," I said, blinking at him.
"How did you know?" said the magistrate, winking at me.
"Well, you're not dressed like a plumber, are you?" I replied, making a certain gesture.
"You have a point," said the magistrate. "I am Sir Digby Popwick, local landowner, magistrate and master of the ferrets. And you sir need to explain what you are doing in this young lady's wardrobe."
"I wasn't doing anything," I replied. "Although, if you hadn't arrived when you did, there might well have been an accident. Do you think, before we proceed, that I might pay a visit to the smallest room in the house?"
"Why would you want to visit the boot cupboard?"
"No, I mean the little boys' room," I explained. "The relief closet. The piddletorium. The wazzer. The widdle chamber. The slash boudoir. The source of the Nile."
The magistrate just shrugged.
"I want to do toilet."
The magistrate suddenly twigged. "Quick, get this man to the piddletorium!" he cried, and his minions escorted me as I hurriedly hobbled out of the room.