Cull me, Ishmael.

Cull me, Ishmael.

A daring taunt for an albino whale to make, so easy to spot as he surfaced but make it he did - with mist from his blowhole. Ishmael was ready this time. He hobbled to the poopdeck

with his harpoon. He thought about Queequeg just as the albino whale lunged through the water, directly at the ship. The waves were as large as cottages. Ishmael fell over and

tripped on a loose board. His head hit it hard and hovered in a vegetative state for weeks before giving up. No one ever found the harpoon. Queequeg lived to tell another tale.

This one was about the suit jacket that had £200 sewn inside it. The money was returned to a shelter which is still there some 55 years after this episode of human kindness. The

other one was about a less compassionate moment, when a young man, finding an elderly woman's purse in a dumpster, grabbed the jewelry and made off with it.

Panting, the nimble thief ducked and weaved through the shadows, unsure if he was still pursued. Skidding around a corner of the tight alleyway, a huge shape suddenly reared up!

“Blast!” the thief cried. It was Grandma, her lips curved in a condescending snarl. “How did you...?” “Grandma counts every cookie in the jar. She knows when one goes missing."

And that's the way the cookie crumbles.