A short story written by Andrew Wood, The storry was a 'bored preject' something to make me chuckle if i ever felt down


This particular story starts alongside the River Thames, a majestic stink hole, it used to be good old London town’s only means of sewage. By this now idyllic river lies a little cottage, so different from the rest of the bustling city, but still green from smog. The cottage is called ‘Craggy Stupor’ named after the wrinkly drunk who owned it last, but now, it is owned by a cabinet minister, who is secretary of cornflakes for the Dodgy Party. Gregarth Handeely is the name; whole grain cereal is the game.

“Lovebud!” Greg called to his wife; the lazy munster was still in bed.

“What?” She called down, congealed with that gooey stuff that’s on your face when you wake up.

“I’m off to work.” Greg called back, “The good people of London need their whole grains.”

“Okay, my little snukky-wukky-sniggle-wiggums,” was the reply and then Z’s were floating heavily on the crisp morning breeze once more.

And with that, Gregarth set off, umbrella in hand. His first job of the day was to catch a taxi to the headquarters, a secret location that not a single soul knew, so as you can imagine, it would take a while for the taxi to find it. Two hours later, the taxi pulled up outside the secret location, and Gregarth had to brainwash the poor driver into thinking he had just taken an old wither-pot to the launderette.

Gregarth had taken less than two steps when he was engulfed in a cloud of smoke and, as if appeared from nowhere, Mrs. Ting, London’s most feared bad-news psychic appeared from nowhere. Taken aback, Gregarth gawked as the smoke cleared.

“Where the hell did you come from?” Gregarth asked, stunned beyond flabbergastation.

“Ireland, originally,” Ting replied, looking as solemn as a salmon. “I have bad news for you, Gregarth Handeely.”

“I thought as much,” Greg said, not listening, Mrs. Ting knew Greg was a skeptic, so she warned him cryptically.

“You may hear 9, you may hear 10, you will even hear 11, but, you will not hear 12,” And with that, Mrs. Ting disappeared with a dong.

“What the hell?” Greg was displeased, not only could he make no sense of the advice, but his eyes hurt from this incessant smoke.

Greg finally got to his office, floor twenty six of twenty six, (all that government money and the lift is still broke)

Greg got out some important paperwork, and started posting invoices to the Kelloggs factory in Shropshire. Greg looked at his clock.

“9 ‘o’ clock,” He sighed, he could here the faint sound of Big Ben, chiming away. Work had to be done, so Greg got his head down, then, the leader of the Dodgy Party came in to have a dinky-doo.

“Hi there, Archie!” Greg said.

“Hey G!” Archibald Skip, leader of the Dodgy Party replied, “How’s my favorite cereal minister?”

“I’m a bit bored,” Replied Greg.

“How is that paper work on the rise of whole grains coming along?” Archie asked, completely (and quite obviously) uninterested.

“Not far to go now, Sputnik.” Gregarth chuffly replied, (Sputnik was Archie’s wartime nickname, he was a army general once.)

“Good work,” Archie said, “And by the way, don’t forget to get those agendas for the government meeting ready, the cereal matter, I hear, is of great importance.”

“Will do, Sir.” Gregarth said, with honors, and he set to work, clicking away on that keyboard of his.

The hours passed, and Big Ben chimed away. And soon it was Dinner Hour. 11:30. Greg set off to Gregg’s down town, (his mother makes excellent pasties) and he just couldn’t wait for a succulent meaty treat.

“What nice weather we are having,” Gregarth commented to himself, he was pleased that he had done almost all of his paper work this morning, and he was extremely sure that ol’ Sputnik would give him a raise.

Walking down the street, Greg met Mrs. Ting.

“What the hell did you mean this morning?” Gregarth asked, perplex-ed as the next man.

“You’ll find out in…” Mrs. Ting was cut short by the deafening dongs of Big Ben, Mrs. Ting Donged away. Leaving Greg stood in bewilderment, counting the dongs. “9… 10… 11…” The donging stopped, a puzzled Greg looked up, to see Big Ben’s Bell falling on top of him.

DONG! The bell crushed Gregarth, and the poor, poor cabinet minister had met his end.

The End.

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