Waxwork and walrus

It is in fact untrue that Western Metaphysics has only recently been illuminated, since as long ago as last fish-day there was a rather overpowering and vile stench of rotting cod, and of course let us not forget Hamlet's ‘other’ Brain which has hung in the corner over there since Queen Mungo ended her rain by dying her hare blue.

‘In the next chamber’ continued the guide, sniffing blue and being in a strange state of having eaten twelve-and-a-third fried eggs for breakfast every day since the Battle of Loowater, ‘there is a waxwork model which some of you may find mildly disturbing. The rest of you will of course find it hugely disturbing, since it appears to each person to be the perfect likeness of their own head roasting filthily on a skewer.’

An old lady screamed.

An old gentleman collapsed.

An old Radio 4 announcer laughed.

Somewhere in the distance an old bloaty walrus sneezed so hard it blew itself to pieces, but it was a Wednesday, so everybody noticed.