Rubella sat in a cloud of steam, deep in the bowels of the Rigor Mortis, and howled. In her chubby hands she gripped a basket filled to overflowing with stinking truccaneer pants and stockings.
‘THIS ISN’T FAIR!’ she bellowed. ‘I DON’T DO CHORES!’
She threw the basket across the room and grunted like an angry bull. Why her? Neville was probably sitting around somewhere doing absolunkly nothing! Why didn’t he come to see her?
‘That’s it!’ she yelled. She wasn’t going to touch another pair of panty-bloomers if it was the last thing she –
Suddenly the laundry chute rumbled and hundreds of pairs of troll-sized underpants tumbled down on her head like an avalanche … a very smelly avalanche.
