It was a sad fact that being called Graham didn’t go with being a nome. And neither did a penchant for long words, a leaning towards political leftism, and a plant based diet.
All of which meant Graham took an awful lot of bullying, thinly disguised as ‘banter’ from a section of the garden community. Until one night, under a gibbous moon, his patience snapped.
Next morning, the croquet lawn resembled a war zone, with disembodied bits of nome broadcast like discarded toys.
Bertha smiled grimly. “If they gets reassembled, maybe them buggers’ll learn when a joke stops being funny.”
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