Oh God, the quacktangle has gone ballistic! There are beaks everywhere. Just a pile of beaks. I shouldn't have honked so hard.

UPDATE: The beak is overflowing with bread. It's just a soggy, crumby ooze, palpable as cheese. But it's bread. Dripping bread.

The day is grey but I'm honking on the beak of a quacktangle. I don't care if I'm retching feathers by 6pm.