...And when Deana-bear went to make her porrige that morning her bowl was nowhere to be seen.
'Who's been eating out of my bowl?' said Deana-bear, opening all the cupboards in the office kitchen to see if someone might have (because there must be a 'q' in the month, or something) tidied up.
'It was on the draining board this morning,' said Mark-bear, eating his 52nd digestive biscuit and yet managing to retain the physique of a skelf.
'Well, it's not there now!' thundered Deana-bear, making her porrige in a lack-lustre communal bowl, which wasn't at all like her nice, white, steep-sided bowl that was her's because she chose it and bought it and did not like sharing it. At all.
At dinner time her bowl wasn't back.
And the next day it was still missing.
Deana-bear made her porrige in a not-very-nice bowl again. It just wasn't the same.
'Bowl? Bowl? I'm going to have Goldilock's head on a plate!' muttered Deana-bear.
'Grrrrr!'
The End
