And there I was a constipating consumer in the piss-coloured hangar fraught with ghost of owls spinning wheels over the carpet I’d previously installed under the impression that it would make them go away. “Sprocketed handlebars!” I cursed, “These blasted nonsensical ghasts of intellectual depravity shan’t ruin this picnic like they did the last!”. I was determined not to let some deceased avians absorbs into their meek bodiless bodies the last residual trace of enjoyment in my life. I, as any good Englishman craved the picnicing joys one can extract from that endeavour, and I knew that true enjoyment would be owl-less.