I was escorted by two men to the en suite wazzer and they waited outside while I performed the necessary. Once alone, I did what any self-respecting fugitive would do and tried to escape through the window. I hoped that the groans and gasps that issued from me as I tried to wriggle through such a tiny gap would be interpreted as the normal utterances of a man who needs more fibre in his diet. But after twenty minutes, they grew suspicious and burst in to find me firmly wedged in the window.
When they finally got me back to the magistrate, I was still wearing the window frame, since it had been the only way they could free me. It was a grotty old window frame, not really my colour and it really didn't suit me, but I tried to style it out.
"Account for yourself," demanded the magistrate.
I'm not really an accountant, but I gave it a go. "There's one of me," I said. "And I am zero-rated for VAT purposes."
He then asked me what I was doing in the wardrobe. I sighed and told him my story: about searching for my wandering sandwich, about being fired from a catapult in another dimension, about pretending to be a roofer and falling from the sky. Well, you know when you've said the wrong thing, don't you?
"Witch!" cried the magistrate. "Witch! Witch! Burn the witch!"