A Cheese Ball Under the Bed.
“ I don’t know how it got there. I ‘never’ eat in the bedroom; and I never eat ‘cheese balls’ full stop.
I wonder if they could get a fingerprint off of it? What with the advances in criminal detection techniques over the recent decades , you’d think that it would be a done deal. Then again, would the fingerprints of the eater of cheese puffs – apart from that one – be on a criminal database? He (or she – why must it always be assumed to be a ‘he’?) might be recognised from a line up by the orange tips of his (or her) fingers; but, they (we shall use ‘they’ from now on – it’s less problematical) they might have washed, or licked, away the evidence.
Perhaps I shall never know who the culprit was.
I mean, a Cheese Ball can’t last forever. This one is hardly likely to be the last remaining remnant of a midnight feast in the time of good Queen Victoria now, is it?
I have bagged the evidence, and swept the area thoroughly for any more clues. You may call me Hercule, if you wish – it’s not my name; but, if it pleases you, please do it.”