Whee! swoops the bat, down upon the proffered toes. One wingtip flicks a heavily-buttered crumpet within reach, as the glass that had been placed upon empty-seeming barstool, now refilled, recharged, and restrawed, appears to waft itself doen to floor level.

This calls for a different approach! All that whipped cream gets slurped up so the crumpet can be dipped in the coffee... pretty rainbows of butter creep across the surface. It takes three and a half crumpets to get to the bottom of the whiskey.

Yo, barkeep! What preserves have we? Damson plum, sour cherry?