>Be a receptionist at a vet's surgery in the usually sleepy English village of Sandford.
>You've got an online booking system. Basically just an email address and a messenger program, but you can get "emergency" bookings right away with the messenger.
>Surgery covers pets in a larger town as well - the vet at the practice that deals with farmyard stuff generally just takes the calls on his mobile directly.
>Usually for the emergencies other than that, it's just stuff about dogs that cut their paws.
>But since Fluffy Ponies are so prone to sudden and unpredictable injury they seem to pop up on it a lot.
>Even seems to be a lot of owners can't recognise when a fluffy is pregnant until they're squeezing the foals out.
>Customer sends a message saying they've got to bring in two "litres" of fluffy ponies.
>Common enough typo when someone is stressed, you think.
>Ten minutes later he arrives.
>"Hi, I'm Anon A. Anonison, I messaged you about the fluffies?"
>You nod.
>"Sure, what's the problem?"
>He puts a large plastic bottle that apparently once held cola on the counter.
>You can hear muffled cries from the balls of fluff inside.
>"Hewp! Fwuffeh stuck!"
>"Why meanie pwastic nu wet fwuffeh go?!"
>Somehow two fluffies managed to get inside despite the opening being only about two centimetres in diameter.
>It's like a bizarre ship in a bottle. A fluffy, retarded, ship in a bottle.
>...Oh.
>Two Litres of fluffy ponies.
>Now you get it.