Willy Wonka sighed, dramatically flopping onto a more-than-relatively new sofa that just-so-happened to look directly into the bleak courtyard of his not-very-humble factory. The time, as his very fancy and highly polished watch informed him, was almost spot on—Charlie would be home any minute.
Willy was bored. Bored stiff, nearly. But he would only admit to being bored, and not bored stiff, lest he let on just how old he was getting and let it slip that he wasn't three hundred seventeen any more.
Then it was two forty seven: Charlie came home, all smiles and leaps and bounds of joy—and Willy Wonka wasn't bored anymore.