Regina Boodler was sitting in her Aston Martin on the side of the road. "You're a Rapscallion for Making a face at Me" by The Roars was squawking on the radio. She turned the radio off.
For no apparent reason, she felt for her aorta and her Achilles tendon and her lip. They were all there. That was good. Also, her belly button was not turning green. That was good, too.
She felt dismal. She must have had quite a nap. What time is it? She looked at the clock. Ten a.m. About what you'd expect, still on schedule. The nap had taken no time at all.
She looked out the window. There was a stream visible across the road, but nothing special to see. Probably time to get going. She started up her Aston Martin and took off down the road. "Doobiryboo pitroosem," she thought to herself.