Charles Gray was a gourmet who had eaten everything including human leg. The only thing he had never eaten was a ghost.
So he set a ghost trap, caught his ghost and flambed it in brandy.
The damp little gobs of fried ectoplasm we saw him wolfing down looked a lot like the pancakes I made yesterday.
I blame the soy milk. The pancakes just wouldn't set. I soused them in lemon juice and sugar and ate them out of a sense of duty, but I wasn't happy.
Pancakes are a Shrove Tuesday tradition. Shrove Tuesday? That's Mardi Gras to you guys.
The rest of the world has carnival and public nudity and drag queens in mile high feathers and we Brits think, hmm, lets really push the boat out and eat some pancakes.
And Gray, what happened to him? I don't remember exactly. How do you end a story like that- except lamely? Perhaps he was haunted by the ghost of the ghost, or turned into a ghost or was eaten by a ghost. Who cares?
But I'll bet he had the most terrible indigestion.