Smelling buttered crumpets, the bat eagerly quits the beach (knowing that, no matter [or energy] the time [or space] in the Tavern it is always noon at this here beach) and whirls widdershins around the wonder-footed African man's head, squeaking L'Abidjanaise somehow amazingly in harmony with the tooralooras.

Of course from the African's point of view, looking up, the bat is moving clockwise.