‘Ouch’, said Keats, tripping painfully on a cabbage. ‘Hurry up’, said Chapman, ‘much more of your time-wasting and we’ll be late for the reading of Sir Myles na gCopaleen’s will.’ It was true, that eminent old gent had passed away of a lingering case of trench foot, and our two heroes were hoping for a small bequest. But no sooner had he stood up than Keats tripped over again, this time on a turnip. ‘Ouch!’ he shouted, ‘I can’t move.’ The poor man lay there on his back, apparently paralysed. ‘But the will!’, replied a clearly flustered Chapman. Eventually Keats bestirred himself and got to his feet, with a few precious minutes still to spare. ‘You see, you can move when you want to’, chided Chapman. ‘Yes,’ agreed Keats, pushing open the solicitor’s door, ‘I was starting to fear there I’d been left a vegetable.’
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