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"Sjå her, Torgisl," sa han og dunka jaktkameraten i sida. "Har du sett kva kokka har laga til oss? Ei kake som ser ut som ho skammar seg over å vere kake. 'Nei, eg er slett inga kake, herre konge, berre sjå, eg er ein blomebukett, nei, ikkje et meg, herre konge, la meg vere, sjå, no kjem sommarfuglane.'"
He turned his head and looked at me furiously. "You woke me up. Why did you wake me up? I was back home. I was just about to carry out a serious refrigerator raid. My mom made a cheesecake! A strawberry cheesecake, and I don't mean one of those things from a mix; the woman can make cheesecake."
Then he looked at me again, more dubious. "David? Are you spooning me?"
'I don't hold with paddlin' with the occult,' said Granny firmly. 'Once you start paddlin' with the occult you start believing in spirits, and when you start believing in spirits you start believing in demons, and then before you know where you are you're believing in gods. And then you're in trouble.'
'But all them things exist,' said Nanny Ogg.
'That's no call to go around believing in them. It only encourages 'em.'
He pulled up the sash. A cloud of mist rolled in. The parakeet looked at him.
"Message from the stinking prime minister's office," it cackled. "You are requested to attend that prattle-brained Lord Palmerston at 10 Downing Street at nine o'clock in the morning. Please confirm, arse-face. Message ends."
Burton's brows, which usually arched low over his eyes in what appeared to be a permanent frown, shot upward. The prime minister wanted to meet him personally? Why?
"Reply. Message begins. Appointment confirmed. I will be there. Message ends. Go."
"Bugger off!" squawked the parakeet, and lauched itself from the sill.