One day, Dawson Filter set out for outside. He opened the door, letting in light; and walked out, finding that this resulted in even more brightness. After taking a few steps, he realized that he’d forgotten his lawnmower. He reopened the door, walked inside, found a lawnmower, and turned around to walk out again. As he turned around, it occurred to him that he hadn’t remembered to close the door as he came inside, and a burglar stood before him.
“You just stole my train of thought,” Dawson Filter said, “Oh, yes: lawnmowing.”
Dawson Filter turned the lawnmower sideways to fit it through the doorway. The burglar, who didn’t think he’d ever seen a lawn before, followed Dawson into the yard.
Watching Dawson Filter push the lawnmower across the yard, the burglar called out to offer his help.
“If you like, I can do some of the mowing. We can divide up the work into rows and columns, and then you can start off doing every other row and every other column, and I can fill in the squares that are left over from that.”
Nodding, Dawson Filter continued to mow the lawn. When he was finished his portion of the rows, he began work on his columns, forming crosses with every row he passed over. Just as he finished the pattern, the burglar came outside with a tray of lemonade.
Sylvester Denny arrived carrying a small pigeon.
“Nice yard,” Sylvester said, eying the tartan Dawson Filter had mowed into the grass, “is that Scottish?”
The Scottish Heritage Foundation of Murderville, who had been stalking Sylvester Denny, overheard him and ran to inspect the lawn. They muttered some things in a huddle, then faced Dawson Filter to tell him that his yard bore some resemblance to the Graham tartan.
“Such a fact!” Dawson Filter exclaimed.
“We’ve actually been looking for a place to meet,” said Aggie Oliver, chair of the SHFoM, “and your yard has a nice, post-simple, Lee Perfect kind of feel. We’d fancy taking as the new home of our group.”
Dawson Filter opened his mouth to object.
“It’s not actually for sale,” he said.
Alasdair Braveheart, the member of the group with the broadest shoulders and the only one wearing a nametag, stuck a sign in the ground.
The group laughed a chilling, trilling laugh; and Sylvester Denny released his pigeon as a metaphor for losing control. Babe Listowel, King of Murderville, had neglected to establish any police force to speak of, let alone a police force that would care about theft. The burglar shuddered at the thought of what the heritage group was doing.
“Sorry lads,” Aggie Oliver said, “this is the Scotland Yard now.”