The gerbils are tremendously excited about the Spitfire.
The Sleep and Dream Logistics Unit has quietly pivoted into full wartime mode.
At the centre, Commander Gwendoline is gripping the rail, eyes fixed on the route board with the intensity of someone who has absolutely decided this is now her life’s work. The Spitfire’s path has been translated into gerbil-scale operational detail: coloured pins, string lines, and at least three slightly conflicting interpretations of where “Bristol-ish” actually is.
Around the table, the junior gerbils are doing what they do best—pointing at things with sticks while looking extremely purposeful. One has commandeered the toy vehicles to simulate ground support (unrequested, but tolerated). Another is updating the chalkboard, which still faintly reads “Bluestockingers Asleep” beneath a hastily added “—unless Spitfire passes overhead.”
There is a noticeable tension between their original remit (gentle, reassuring sleep support) and their current priority (tracking an aircraft with military precision). No one has formally acknowledged this shift.
In the corner, a stack of sleep rota schedules lies untouched.
Somewhere in the pub, a patron is probably trying to drift off to a calming dream sequence… while six gerbils in uniform argue about airspeed and whether Swansea counts as “on the way.”
Obviously the map bears no resemblance to the actual route. But no-one is that surprised.