'How odd', thought Henry, 'only three buttons.'
Something was tugging at his brain.
Something was definitely trying to get his attention.
Was it the spoon? he'd seen spoons before, this one - upon examination - didn't appear to be anything special. Perhaps something about... the... comb? No, no, not the comb.
He sat back and scratched his head mighty wearily. Somebody was indeed playing silly buggers and he was just beginning...
The bloody buggery keys!
He seized them, leapt joyfully into the air and began a dance around the circle of crap that had showered from the occult wellington, spinning and leaping... and gasping... and folding gently back into the sand.
Never dance on a tropical beach with a hangover, no matter how important it is that you've just found your van keys.
"Pounding Headache... check
Wellington boots... check
Van Keys... check
pile of crap... check..."
'Hang on' thought Henry, 'I still haven't said anything in this epic yet... so who's doing the talking?'
The hamster looked up at him and shrugged (as best a hamster can) and intoned, in a voice like the squeak of a midnight exercise wheel that's smoked 40 a day for a decade:
"Well it's not like you're doing much to sort things out, is it!"