I want to slide into a hole and hide.

But there is never a hole to be found.

I have to remain erect, handing tea and bread-and-butter, while I mentally grovel.
I almost pray that a hungry blackbird or a prying thrush may chance to come my way, and consider me juicy and appetising.

You remember--the Vicar and _Mrs._ Vicar came to tea that day.

She wore brown spots.