...

That just seems like a really bad way to solve this problem.

But it's still not Victor's business.

On Saturday there are twenty-four letters rolled up and hidden inside each of the two dozen eggs the milkman brings. Vernon spends the day calling the post office and the dairy trying to find someone to complain to.

"Who on Earth wants to talk to you this badly?"

"Someone who can put letters into eggshells, apparently!"

On Sunday morning, Uncle Vernon sits down at the breakfast table looking tired and rather ill, but happy. "No post on Sundays," he reminds them cheerfully as he spreads marmalade on his newspapers, "no damn letters today—"

Something comes whizzing down the kitchen chimney as he speaks and catches him sharply on the back of the head. Next moment, thirty or forty letters come pelting out of the fireplace like bullets.

...that's not good, that's not good at all - Victor freezes in place. He can't think of anything to do that seems like it might be a good idea.

"Out! OUT!"

Petunia and Dudley duck and use their arms to protect their faces as they try to dodge the letters and escape the kitchen.

It takes Victor a moment to unfreeze, and then he runs for the back door. This is not a good time to be near Uncle Vernon.

"Not that way, boy!" he bellows, grabbing Victor by the waist and carrying him to the hallway before slamming the door shut.

He will have no trouble carrying his terrified nephew anywhere he likes.

No, he won't. "That does it," he says, trying to speak calmly but pulling great tufts out of his moustache at the same time. "I want you all back here in five minutes ready to leave. We're going away. Just pack some clothes. No arguments!"

Victor is certainly not going to argue with his uncle in this sort of mood. He goes upstairs and packs some clothes and surreptitiously throws his hoarded letter out the window, and he's back downstairs two minutes later.

His uncle hits Dudley round the head when he holds them up trying to pack his television, VCR, and computer in his sports bag, and in ten minutes they're in the car and driving.

While he sniffles quietly in the backseat.

Not much Victor can do about Dudley sniffling. Not much Victor can do about any of this, really. Why couldn't they have just provided a way for him to send an owl...?

They drive. And they drive. Even Aunt Petunia doesn't dare ask where they were going. Every now and then Uncle Vernon takes a sharp turn and drives in the opposite direction for a while. "Shake 'em off... shake 'em off," he mutters whenever he does this.

They don't stop to eat or drink all day. By nightfall Dudley's howling. He's never had such a bad day in his life. He's hungry, he missed five television programs he wanted to see, and he's never gone so long without blowing up an alien on his computer. Uncle Vernon stops at last outside a gloomy-looking hotel on the outskirts of a big city. Dudley and Victor have to share a room with twin beds and damp, musty sheets.

Whoever cleans this room is not good at it. If there even is anyone who cleans this room. Maybe Victor should clean this room.

Dudley will not offer to. He will try to sleep, and snore loudly when he finally manages to.

The room is spotless by the time Victor finally goes to sleep.

Which is nearing sunup, and he gets very little actual sleep before Vernon wakes them up and drags them to eat stale cornflakes and cold tinned tomatoes on toast for breakfast in the morning.

It's not the best morning Victor has ever had, but also by no means the worst.

Dudley begs to differ.

They've just finished when the owner of the hotel comes over to their table.

"'Scuse me, but is one of you Mr. V. Evans? Only I got about an ’undred of these at the front desk." She holds up a letter so they can read the green ink address:

Mr. V. Evans
Room 17
Railview Hotel
Cokeworth

...Uncle Vernon is not going to respond sensibly to this, is he.

"I'll take them," he says simply, and follows her to the front desk.