I sense the return of my mental powers

"Geoffrey."
"Yes?"
"I've calmed down a bit now."
"Good. Did the raw opium help?"
"Yes. And the brandy, the madeira, the absinthe pastilles, the Piriton and the extra strength junior aspirin. Thanks Geoffrey. I sense the return of my mental powers."
"And?"
"Well - "
Just then, a familiar voice trilled,"Hiya uncle Tuppy! any chance of a cup of tea?"
And in strolled Tuppence, muskets stuck in belt as per usual.
"I've got a munny-making scheme that just might interest you..."
"Well? spit it out," I snapped. "Though I can assure you that munny doesn't interst US in the least."
"So you say, uncle Tuppy. But it interests ME - and besides, I think ALL our interests just might coincide on this occasion. IF I may be so bold."
"Oh, no doubt you will," I muttered sourly. "Get on with it."
"Listen up then."
Turns out Tuppence and the rats hatched a plan to kill baby Orca, and process his meat "for sale"!!
"How utterly ghastly!"said Geoffrey.
I had to agree. Nobody is more scared of baby Orca and his terrible mood swings than I am. But to commit cold-blooded murder? Never.
"Think of all the fish fingers we could make out of him!" beamed Tuppence, leaning forward eagerly in his seat. "We could flog them to Speedispend! We'd make a frigging fortune!"
Geoffrey and I exchanged glances. This was going MUCH too far. But how could we stop him?
We'd have to think of ANOTHER plan. That's TWO now. Blimey.
"Medical chest, Goeffrey! Quick!"

Medical extras

Great news! turns out that Tuppence and his gang of rats are doing a nice line in "medical extras" down in the tunnels, and we're fully stocked up now. So, we don't have to go to Speedispend. Thank goodness - after our last experience.
No, we don't want to be strung up on the gallows again, or be tested for bowel cancer while we're waiting at the checkout, thank you very much.

I embarrass myself, and the medical chest runs low

...c-c-c-c-l-l-l-l-i-i-i-i-f-f-f-f-s-s-s-s!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"
In my excitement over winning the rice pudding challenge, I forgot myself, and toppled backwards over the cliffs.
I'm SO annoyed with myself. I've spent most of my life here on the Outcrop, and even when I've over-indulged down at the Puff Inn, I'm so well aware of the dangers that I've never embarrassed myself like this. (Especially since I've pushed a few others Over the Top myself. Or so the tittle tattlers would have you believe. But that's all documented in previous posts.)
Fortunately, Ranald and Sandy Wand'ring Albatrosse were flying lower than usual, in search of some cave or other which they were scheduled to refurbish. They swooped underneath me and attempted to push me back up to the top of the cliff. However...
"Ow! For pity's sake, Tuppy! not being rude or anything, but how much do you weigh, exactly?"
"Let's not get into specifics, Ranald. This isn't doing my back any good. I'll simply have to let him go."
"No, don't! don't!" I cried, glancing down to the Bay, where a very familiar fin was circling ominously.
"Well help us out here Tuppy! do some work!"
And with that they heaved me as close to the clifftop as they could manage. I seized hold of a tuft of grass with my teeth (thank goodness they are my own) while the T-G gripped my fore legs and pulled me up.
"Blimey, that was close. I thought we'd have to get the winch," sniggered Tuppence, who had been watching the whole proceedings with folded arms.
Ranald and Sandy collapsed on the grass beside me, demanding hot stones and a Swedish massage.
"Swedish massage? Hereabouts? Hardly. The best we can do is some embrocation. I think there's some left in the medical chest..."
"No Tuppy. You drank it last Saturday after the madeira ran out, remember? to wash down your Ginster?"
"Oh yes. Fetch the medical chest, anyway Geoffrey! I feel a bit bilious..."
"Tuppy - I'm sorry to say this, but the medical chest is running low. We're out of mostly everything. Sal volatile. Opium. Morphine. Junior Aspirin. Rennies. Senokot. Japps. The lot. We'll have to go over to Speedispend and stock up. Do they still do opium tabloids in a multipack?"

The Death of Prog

"Whatever happened to prog?" Tuppence shrilled for the umpteenth time, as he lay slumped in the corner, exhausted after his five nite run at the Puff Inn performing The Six Wives of Henry the Eighth" on his moog. "Nobody gives a toss any more about Tull, or Yes, or Egg."
"You can say that again," muttered Geoffrey, who had long since lost patience.
"Look, Tuppence," I interjected. "What more do you want? You've just had a five nite run at the Puff Inn, with an audience of at least three each nite, and five on weekends. That's pretty good, for Hereabouts. The Alexander Brothers had an audience of minus twenty five last year. Think on. Think how THEY must have felt, faced with an audience of anti-matter."
"I know, I know. Tom and Jack got sucked into a black hole. I've heard it all before. But I want something different. I want the Big Time. I want the Skye Gathering Hall. I want the Birnam Institute! I want the Gig in Blairgowrie!"
Geoffrey and I shook our heads sadly and exchanged glances. "Fetch the medicine chest, Geoffrey. Before it's too late."

Oo-er - feeling a bit bilious

Out in the old coracle again this afternoon - heading for that crack over there in the cliffs...maybe I shouldn't have had that third packet of FJRs...

"Geoffrey! medical chest please!"

blimey - medical chest disaster

I don't know if it's age, the time of year, clocks going back (or is it forwards?) but I seem to have lost me thread i.e. am going what I believe psychiatrists call "doo-freakin'-lally". Quickstyle.
I reached for the sal volatile earlier today, as it usually helps at such times, but was devastated to find that the bottle which has been my saviour on so many occasions (see previous posts, if you want to know exactly HOW many occasions - but be warned - you may be some time) contained nowt but a weak, namby-pamby mixture of synthetic eucalyptus and menthol. A quick whisk through the other items in our recently re-stocked medical chest (see previous posts - recent ones this time so it shouldn't take too long) revealed a horrifying sight. No morphia. No "equipment", viz. needles and syringes. No mustard plasters. To cap it all the emergency strait jacket (sometimes required for guests) has been replaced with one made of "stretchee" lycra-mix and has velcro fastenings.
And who has so defiled our box of medical basics? the ghastly Wilson, of course! a vile little label was stuck inside the lid, informing us that previous contents constituted a red alert-style health and safety hazard, and that henceforth we would be "allowed" only junior aspirin and elastoplast, plus of course the wishy washy eucalyptus and the rubbish straitjacket. What's the point of having a straitjacket that you can get out of in a trice? we used the old one to restrain the occasional houseguest - for their own good of course, but more importantly, for our entertainment!
We suspect that Wilson has purloined the old straitjacket so that he can restrain passersby willy nilly and without a by your leave,while he fires needlesful of swine flu "untested on anything remotely sentient, but totally safe" vaccine into their unsuspecting backsides.
Fortunately, the T-G has a replacement "genuine" one, which he is prepared to lend us as we assist Titus in his efforts to "unseat" Wilson (see previous post). Hopefully we will be able to preempt his vaccination mania before too many of us lose our sanities. We expect mission to be accomplished by tomorrow tea-time at the latest. That will leave the evening free for the usual Friday lock-in at the Puff Inn.
Aaaaaaaaaargh!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! too late!!!!!!!!!!a large needle and syringe has just lodged itself dart-like in my behind!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

phew - a near death experience

Well, here I am, back at the outcrop - and I couldn't be more relieved. There was I, breathing my last, the strength draining out of my exhausted limbs, when Geoffrey appeared as I knew he would - sculling along in the coracle. I was alarmed to see that Tuppence was with him - as readers will know, Tuppence went right off the rails after his ghastly prog rock phase. But I needn't have worried.

"Grab an oar uncle Tuppy," he piped, and in a trice I was hauled on board and a flask of brandy was at my lips - but it was too late for brandy - I fell into a deep swoon - the last words I heard were,"Oh-oh - we're losing him - fetch the medical case, Geoffrey," as Tuppence snapped into his "officer in charge" mode.

I awoke to find Tuppence's concerned eyes peering anxiously into mine. "I think the adrenalin's working, Geoffrey. You can stop pumping now. Fetch the sal volatile, will you?"

Pumping? Indeed, I could feel the steady rhythm of Geoffrey's webbed feet beating out a one-two-one-two directly over my heart. Next, he snapped open a vial of sal volatile and waved it under my nose. I felt like my old self in no time at all, after that.

Later on, we sat by a roaring driftwood fire at the Outcrop, slippers on, enjoying a glass or two of madeira, a pipeful of Black Bogey and a bowl of savoury bacon flavour snax, and I was so glad to be home once more and among friends. Tuppence apologised for his past - quite frankly vile - behaviour, and I agreed to let bygones be bygones - for now anyway...

Word had also arrived, while I was "away", from Mr Spockfingers - he sent a photo of himself enjoying life on his health farm.