Now, hidden in the English Channel is an island called Piffling.

On the island is a village Piffling Vale and the village has a square and the square has this lovely little antique shop.

But opposite the antique shop is a funeral home, which is where much of this little chronicle would be set unafraid.

You see, I want to tell you all about a man named Ruddy Adfun.

He owns the funeral parlour. He's responsible for all the funerals in Piffling Vale.

And today, he experienced what was undoubtedly the worst day of his life, which to be honest, was probably long overdue.

Wooden overcoats by David K. Barnes.

Episode 1. The Bane of Ruddy Adfun.

We gather here today to celebrate the life of Stanley Jessup, Carmichael, who was taken from us every five days.

It all began with a funeral. The antique dealer, Stanley Carmichael, who shop was immediately opposite Ruddy Adfun.

The witnesses had led a life of peace and ordered calm for some 89 years and been subsequently crushed to death by a granite sundial.

Stanley's relatives pricked up their ears at the prospect of getting something for that granite sundial,

whilst nearby his eyes sunken and his skin pale and drawn, stood Ruddy Ad, looking at his watch and wishing strongly that the reverend wasn't an agnostic.

His undoubtedly looking down at us from his place with God.

Unless you don't believe in that only thing which I won't hold against you, mind you, God probably will,

unless he doesn't exist, in which case he won't have anything to complain about really.

Sorry, did somebody say...

Oh, hello, Bradshaw.

You're rambling.

You're rambling again.

Oh, God, am I?

Yes.

...