Serious looks are exchanged. A fresh bale of hay breezes through the
room. A throng of people dressed in black follow through and stand around in a circle sullenly. "What the hell's going on?" you ask Donald. "They're
mourning the loss of your sense of humour" he replies, in a snivelly, lip
trembling kind of way. The priest then arrives, holding a donkey. Do you
interrupt the proceedings shouting "My sense of humour is alive and well" jump on the donkey and attempt a quick getaway or resign yourself to everlasting misery?