27 November, 2003 
and? everybody in good form, said sponge.
shape more so, said breadroll.
are we supposed to, said block of wood.
why? i am just asking, said sponge.
meanwhile the sun was illuminating the room.
and why is that happening now, said breadroll.
the Book of Sponge and Others.
annabloom.
why
persistence
all three were lined up on chairs, soaked and ready for people to sit on them.
wet bum squad, although block of wood would have preferred a glass of champagne placed on him.
rushers
breadroll made tea and got ready for sausages.
block of wood in the meantime played monster to the orange kids and collected their juice in jars.
sponge was finished in the bathroom and admired the breakfast table.
then they thought of the jolly tricks they could play in work and left the house.
meeting
when shall we three meet again, in carpark, toilet or in rain, said breadroll.
doesn’t matter, as long as anyone brings cigarettes, said sponge.
doughy identity
no no no, said breadroll, you will not flatten me.
but…
i know, i would be flat then, obviously, and take up less space in the train.
or in the bus.
or in the bus. exactly.
but if you flattened me, breadroll said, i would be flat, obviously, and i would look like a pizza.
what wrong with that?
i am a breadroll, breadroll said with pride.
sponge all in a sudden had this vision of a sponge chair again. it’ll go with a pizza, he said.
plates
chicken shit. a whitish substance. and you?
cow dung. cow dung brown. not solid, not too runny either. what did you have on your plate recently?
breadroll did not answer.
block of wood, what about you.
ice cream once.
ice cream? that’s awful.
i know. i am getting it seen.
chicken legs
run, said block of wood, run, dear breadroll, run for sponge is going to stuff you. he deliberately kept some old meat to stuff the breadroll with. yumm, he would say, breadroll stuffed with meat and fried pans and steamed pots.
and you burn the oven, said breadroll.
boil the kettle, said sponge, breadroll, slap some cheese on.
words
wednesday.
right.
bread and butter, said block of wood.
that’s not nice, said breadroll.
lads, it’s the one-word competition. one word, alright? now, it’s getting late, let’s go.
porridge fairy
bowl of porrige, steaming hot, impersonating acrobatic headstand volcanoes waited to be eaten.
eggs and crispy bacon were quietly smouldering in the pan. 3 disgruntled breakfast faires argued for the last drop in the whiskey bottle.
ladies, sponge said, would you mind keeping it down. breadroll, block of wood and i don’t have to get up for another 4 minutes.
moonday
ladies and gentlemen, we proudly present ‘the load of the ruler, the two emails’.
playfully breadroll had worked out this caption, set the breakfast table and freshly squeezed juice in a jar.
in vain, as blokk stabbed him with a buttered knife and sponge watered his crust. that’ll teach him to display a good mood in public.
the public is not ready for that yet, says the chairman, sponge said.
philosophy
twinkle, twinkle little star, see me staggering to the bar. this and other songs had been prepared for the grand celebration. block of wood and breadroll quivered with exitement.
sponge closed the windows, spilt the beer in the flower pot and told the bunch to go to work.
go for it
go for it baxter, breadroll said, but there was nobody and nothing baxter could go for. there was no baxter either.
sponge and block of wood instead did not move.
doing stuff
what are we doing here, said sponge.
not much, said breadroll, we just try to get ahead of things.
block of wood was peeling potatoes.