CHATBOT: It was a day that had sent the sun on a rather strict leave of absence, and the clouds, jolly gatherings of them, had taken over the skies with wondrous abandon. Rain had been an infrequent visitor at Malory Towers over the past week, but as luck would have it, the deluge had found a renewed passion for the earth's embrace on the morning of the grand rugby match with St Clare's. Adela Chesterton, Malory Towers' sturdiest flanker, sat alongside nimble-footed scrum-half, Georgina 'George' Summers, pulling on their cleated boots with gleeful mischief in their eyes as they peered out the changing room windows at the sopping field beyond. "Look at that pitch, George. It's a mud bath!" Adela chortled, tightening her laces. "I'd say it's the perfect condition for a bit of the ol' stick-and-stay, what! St Clare's won't know what hit 'em!" "Mud is most certainly the great equalizer," George agreed with a wink, slapping a knee guard into place. "You find the fun in the squelch and splatter, and the game turns out alright!" Outside, amidst an audience equipped with umbrellas and waterproof blankets, the whistle blew with an authority that commanded respect. The match between Malory Towers and St Clare's had begun, and the air was rife with anticipation. The game started as a tussle, both teams sizing up the slippery opposition, with the ball scooting through the mud, as elusive as a greased pig at a county fair. Malory Towers prop, Henrietta 'Hen' Morgan, launched herself into a tackle with such gusto against a St Clare's second-row that a royal splash of muck sailed up into the potentially lower stratosphere. It was the sort of tackle young stories are told about before lights-out. Nonetheless, the girls from St Clare's were not daunted, and with a few majestic side-steps, they countered, their fly-half darting past Malory Towers' defenses with the prowess of an eel slipping through rocky crags. In reply, Malory Towers' fullback, Valerie Sussex, streaked across the field, mud splattering to the heavens, and halted the St Clare's charge like a portcullis abruptly denying entry to an unwelcome invader. The crowd roared its approval as the tackles became as frequent as the beats of a metronome. By half-time, the score was knotted tighter than a sailor's clew, each team having crossed the white wash without notching the conversions - owing to a rugby ball that now had more in common with a slippery bar of soap than any tool of organized sport. As the second half began, ...