Sometimes Trotter gets bored of being a maniac and likes to rest his weary bones.
He wishes sometimes that he wasn't so jam packed, full, of naughtiness, because perhaps then it wouldn't escape so often and get him into trouble.
He wishes he didn't feel compelled to bark at the shopping trolley.
He can only dream of not being over taken by a mad desire to hump cushions.
A forlorn hope that he didn't have to shred standard lamps and pull up bushes surfaces briefly beofre sinking without a trace.
Oh, its hard being Trotter.
Poor Trotter.
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