Paddington Races Ahead

There was a crash as Paddington landed on the floor with both legs in the air.
Miss Brimstone gazed down at him. “Oh, dear,” she said. “I was rather expecting you to remove your right leg first.
“Bravo, though!” she continued. “You have taken up the scissors position. None of my other clients have ever managed that the first time round.”

Paddington attempted to unwind himself as best he could. He wasn’t familiar with the scissors position. It felt more like one of Mr. Brown’s corkscrews to him and after a moment or two he gave up the struggle and remained where he had landed.
“Was that it?” he gasped.
“Was what what?” asked Miss Brimstone.
“The crash course,” said Paddington.

stage from where I was sitting and I saw a man putting someone’s skull onto a table. I’ve phoned the police with a description.”
“You’ve done what?” exclaimed Judy.

m sorry to be such a long time,” he said, as he handed it back to Jonathan. “But I think I know who did it . . .”
“Did what?” chorused Jonathan and Judy.
“Killed Mr. Yorick,” said Paddington. “I had a good view of

Paddington licked his lips. Privately, he thought Hamlet sounded like a small ham sandwich, but he didn’t let on. “What is it about?” he asked.

My treatment is guaranteed to take you out of yourself.”
“I think I’d rather stay inside it for the time being if you don’t mind, Miss Brimstone,” said Padd

“There’s a whole lot more to come . . . the rowing machine . . . the treadmill . . . we mustn’t rest on our laurels, must we.”
“I don’t mind, Miss Brimstone,” said Paddington. “Except it doesn’t feel like laurels. It’s more like the floor, and it’s very hard.”

“Tell me, what do you think of the Games so far? Are all the preparations to your liking?”
“What are they?” asked Paddington.
“What are they?” repeated Mr. Climes. “Do you mean to say you have come all this way and you don’t know what they are? This is quite extraordinary. They’re on everybody’s lips.”
It was Paddington’s turn to edge away. “Oh, dear,” he said. “I hope they’re not catching.”

“I’m sorry . . .” broke in Sunny Climes. Edging away from Paddington, he stationed himself on the other side of a nearby lamppost. “Would you mind holding it there . . .”
“I’m afraid I can’t quite reach it,” said Paddington hurrying round the other side of the lamppost to avoid climbing over his shopping basket on wheels.
“I don’t mean the microphone,” said Mr. Climes, moving back the way he had come.

“Alfajores!” she exclaimed.
“Bless you!” said Paddington.
“That wasn’t a sneeze,” said Mrs. Bird. “It’s a dish. I don’t believe it. I’ve been looking everywhere for that recipe ever since you arrived. I wanted to make some for you so that you would feel at home, but I couldn’t remember all the ingredients.”

So it could be worth a lot of money,” said Paddington excitedly.
“Not just yet, I’m afraid,” said Mr. Gruber. “Very often it’s a matter of waiting until the creator is no longer with us.”
“I could do the rest of my shopping, if you like?” said Paddington.
“I think it might take even longer than that, Mr. Brown,” said his friend tactfully.