Cleolinda everywhere

Aah, reminiscences...how they delight my wretched soul. Often, in the middle of a busy day, I'll stop whatever it is I'm doing, put on the kettle, break out the knitting needles, and take a moment to peer down the boundless corridor of the past at that magical week we spent together in the underwater ruins of Atlantis. The view of the shipwrecks, the tickling of the seaweed, the smell of...well, of nothing, because if we inhaled we would have been drowned instantly. Truth be told, I feared we might never escape that watery graveyard. What luck, then, that the benign nation of Sweden should be testing top-secret government-funded submarine chocolate factories nearby, thus enabling us to hitch a ride back to the surface. To this very day I can't so much as look at a piece of fudge without going into hysterics, rolling about on the floor and muttering obscenities about Eartha Kitt until someone manages to get me into a pair of water-wings. But alas, a suffocating haze begins to surround me, and the details of our further exploits vanish into the evanescent mists of time, leaving me alone with my kettle, which I will probably use to attack squirrels at the local park.