One day, we were mixing Cocktail Funk when up popped our friend, the atom.

“I’m missing an electron,” said he.

“Are you sure?” we queried.

“Yes, I’m positive.”

So we went to find the missing electron.

Dr Jane Sloblodge, microspokeswoman at the facility for electron microscopes spoke: “I’m trying to imagine an imaginary menagerie manager imagining managing an imaginary menagerie. But it’s really hard.”

Up piped the atom, “This looks like Fractured Communication to me. We’ll back your scratch if you can scratch ours back. Help us find my missing electron and we’ll make it plain, Jane.”

“Bonzer, mate.”

At that, we turned on our heels. “You horrible heels, you! You scum!” And we gave them all a jolly good wedgie.

Luckily, Jane had insider info – the electron had been orbiting the local eatery. We were positively charged with Steaking out the Hing Hong Diner to observe the indefinite particle’s movements.

Bubba, the fine diner owner was a loner stoner. We found him under the Spitting Neon, mixing Cocktail Funk for sub-brand suckers.

“Put your hams in the air, this is a Steak Up, baby!” hollered the atom, a banger gripped in his tiny fist. “Reveal the location of my missing electron, or there’ll be hell to pay, my little lamb.”

“It left with the Fingameeces,” blubbed blubbery Bubba, the dub-lubbing clubber. “Please sleeve me alone! Don’t get shirty or cuff me – I’ve been collared before! I think they took it to the imaginary menagerie.”

We all jumped for Joy, but she didn’t even look up from her meal. Prudence dictated “we should leave, and fast” but we were too hungry for that, and the dictaphone had run out of batteries anyway. So we stepped out with a kebab apiece. Dave came too.

We found the imaginary menagerie in a box under a bush with a cardboard lid.

“That’s odd! - a bush with a cardboard lid,” quoth Jane.

The box had breathing holes, so it was no trouble to reach in and grasp a Fingamaus in a sweaty palm, watching out for the coconuts.

“Oi! What did you do with that electron?” we interrogated, giving the squeaking kleptoelectrokidnapper the third degree.

The Fingamaus laughed, with a dastardly glint in its pie-bald eye. “I’ll never talk!” it enunciated clearly. “You don’t really think I’ll relinquish that quantum creep!”

“Of course we do! Maybe we could change your mind with some tapestry… Having tapestry instead of a mind can change your perspective. Or perhaps you’d like to see the inside of an ambulance.”

“No no – I’d like the tapestry please.”

Luckily, we were surprisingly skilled at weaving, and had brought along our gloomy loom in a portable room. A brief spell passed. C – A – T - Cat. And the tapestry was complete.

Dave said, “I can read changed minds, and can tell you this Fingamaus knows of a missing bracket on the secure storage facility door.”

So we opened the door, thanks to Dave’s Missing Bracket.

And the electron was recovered and we all had buttered scones for tea, with lashings of ginger beer and whipped eunuchs and thai fishcakes and bits of dog.