"You ball bag." Naboo seemed unimpressed with my arrangement of stationary village. I had added a staple roller coaster that toured the perimeter of the shop.
"Would you like me to take it down?" I have seemed to aggravate Naboo more than usual of late, and Bollo appears to have more bad feelings than good.
"I'd like you to take the memory of this situation out of my brain, stamp on it, boil it and then put it in a bowler hat of a homeless German."
The cockney Shaman was out of place, even in Camden. His pale, almost translucent, white flesh like whipped cream, under his jet black strands of cream, his nose, like a slope of solidified cream. He covered his cream self with satin and silk from the Arabian Tesco round the corner and nike trainers. Naboo's real age is not known, as he got very secretive after his 467th birthday.
At the very moment when Naboo's gaze started to soften and his body began to drop from the aggressive stance that once possessed him, a mysteriously tall man entered the Naboutique.
"Vell hello, I vould qvite like to have a qvick view of your finest rainbow vheat." The man was obviously from Germany, his stance, accent and his overall demeanour gave off a slight whiff of Deutchland. His bowler hat, however, told a story of his long, torturous journey to Hackney. Literally, his bowler hat had a mouth that only could recall the story of the travel to England.
"Straight through this way, sir" Naboo took the mysteriously badly-timed German through the corridor; on his way out flicking me a final glare and pointing to my work of mechanical art, gesturing that it be taken down this instant.