Carefully filling the sandwich with his master’s favorite filling, Philip looked out of the scullery window.

There, an angry eye on the horizon, glared the forecaster of doom. Orbital body #237832, aka Gravely’s Comet, was making its terminal pass through the solar system.

One more week and the icy lump of rock would burst into flame and crash to earth. Landing, according to experts, roughly 23.5 meters away from the rather lewd and unpleasant Poseidon water fountain in the mansion’s formal gardens.

Close enough, the astrophysicists had assured Philip, to make a crater five times wider than the mansion and probably enough to sink the entire island that his master, Lord Moterey, owned.

Motey, of course, now eighty years old and well beyond his lucid days, didn’t believe a word of it.

So Philip, with a few of the more loyal servants, remained behind after the evacuation to continue to serve Motey in the most British of ways.

There, sandwich done, crusts removed. It was just perfect.