Vroomfondel fought desperately to orient himself, but it was no use. After all these millennia in the body of a mouse, he still hadn’t worked out what the point of a tail was, but the dominant species of this accursed planet seemed to think they made excellent handles from which to dangle mice. (They were merely the dominant species, after all, not the most intelligent. Vroomfondel would have preferred their company, but he didn’t really like the water.)

Vroomfondel knew he’d never hear the end of this from Majikthise. When Vroomfondel suggested they pop down to Germany for some beer and bratwurst, Majikthise had countered that they should go to Switzerland instead. “They’ve got lovely cheese, and much less goosestepping,” he’d said. But Vroomfondel had insisted and now here he was, floating upside down and with nary a sausage in sight. All he could think was that when the Ultimate Question was finally computed, it had better not be something daft like “What do you get when you multiply six by seven.”

[If none of the preceding made any sense to you, please stop what you are doing and read Douglas Adams’ The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy. Seriously, read the book. Don’t watch the movie; it’s terrible.]