Little Hairy-Harry jerked himself back to his original posture, because, in that other direction, the odour was becoming, frankly, quite brutal. He was almost ashamed of having complained previously.
But ‘Ow! Ow! Ow!’ he yelped.
He had pictured seamlessly straightening up his head, but hadn’t quite foreseen putting it back. Pain shot through his little neck. Now whom could he blame? His nose! That sensitive, delicate schnozz of his. Little Hairy-Harry dreamed of it becoming an asset to him one day, a passport to the marvellous world of perfumery.
While he cursed his nose, his perfect nose, he was resolute not to budge as a strategy to tide the pain.
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