Sentence The Fourhundredandninetysecond

“Mrs Kryszkiewicz,” said the Vet, using the name to which I am legally, if not morally entitled, “Little Caesar is quite a thrummy dog,” and I pointed out that he is a cat! “yes, rather a thrummy cat,

who looks very like a dog.” said the vet, insinuating something into Little Caesar's posterior, which he did not appreciate: I acquired him through the system of ultimogeniture by which my late father, who was never late in his life, bypassed my elder sister and left this feline inheritance to me; “he has a hilum in his phylum, which requires immediate emergency surgery to save him from a long and lingering, not to say painful and agonising, death,” but he did say it and I was in a quadrivial quandary, which is Latin for 'up shit creek without a paddle' and I burst into tears: “how much will it cost?” I wailed plaintively; “Five Thousand Pounds cash in advance, plus VAT” said the churl and I gathered Little Caesar in my arms, paid the receptionist £25 plus VAT for the consultation, which came to £30 and left the surgery in High Dudgeon, crossed the road, walked down Low Dudgeon and came back to Aunty Crist's, where I cried my eyes out, howled and bawled; she made me a soothing

cup of camomile tea and helped calm me down; now, 17 years later, Little Caesar is still happily purring on my lap and I am so glad I was too poor to be bilked by The Butcher of High Dudgeon!