On my first and only visit to Mauritius, I climbed a really tall tree. As it was late at night and very dark, I decided to strip off naked in a bid to save scuffing up my chinos and deck shoes. I reached the top in under a minute, such is my monkey-like ability, but as I scanned the surroundings from my eyrie, I noticed a couple of torch-bearing policemen heading towards my area. I hastened down the tree in such a rush, I snagged my nugget sack on a particularly jagged piece of bark. I stifled a yelp of pain as I yanked my sack free, but the force of the removal caused the skin to tear and a family jewel to slip out and plummet into the gloom. Once the police had passed, I continued my descent. I dropped to my knees and began scrambling around, my hands grasping at the sand in a vain bid to recover my desiccated prune. Eventually, my fingers made contact with a small damp orb, so I grabbed it up, blew away the grains of sand, and pushed it back into my ruptured whoopee bag. It was only later on, as I attempted to UHU the tear back together, that I noticed I hadn't found my missing sapphire. In the gloom of the Mauritian night, I had hastily grabbed up a pickled egg. It remains in place to this day.
Only a matter of months before his brain or liver give in. Being eaten/bummed by a shark is a much kinder death.
