Cake of the Week

This is a new feature - cake of the week. This week's cake is the Co-operative's Ginger Loaf Cake. The T-G brought it round yesterday when he stopped by for another chat about the pylon/road problem (yawn - call me shallow, but I'm bored rigid already). We didn't open it till he went away - naturally - but as soon as he disappeared across the moors, we ripped open the packaging and tucked in. As you can see, there isn't much left.
It's nice and moist with small pieces of stem ginger mixed through, and a crunchy sugar topping. I haven't examined the list of ingredients, as I don't want to scare myself, but the extreme lightness and stickiness of the cake leads me to suspect the presence of not entirely natural substances. I will update this later once I put my specs on/when I get round to it.

Geoffrey's back to normal

Geoffrey's back to normal, thank frig. The partial soul extraction "wore off" - although I'm tending to the view that it may well not have happened in the first place. A soul extractor? what a load of codswallop...oops - the Tupfinder General has just tapped on the door so better throw the old tartan knee rug over this lot for a sec. till I see what he wants.
Three hours later...the T-G was all apologetic about the "accident" with the soul extractor, saying that his sleeve must have caught on a handle, or something, and he brought a plateful of sausage rolls to make up for it. Fine by me. I'd swap my immortal soul for a fresh Tower Bakery sausage roll, any day.
He's still wittering on about the trench.
"We could get Titus and Spockfingers to do the heavy labouring, Tuppy."
"Oh yes. Asked them about it, have you?"
"Er, no."
"Hmmph. I shouldn't waste your breath. They aren't into manual labour. especially Spockfingers."
"It might help them shift a few pounds. Heaven knows they could do with it."
"Are you saying I'm fat? or are my ears needing cleaned out?" Spockfingers' dulcet tones bellowed through the half-opened window. (well, it IS spring-time)
"Probably both," replied the T-G rather acidly.
"How very dare you! I'm big-boned! Just you wait there one minute..." and there was a loud splintering sound as Spockfingers attempted to heave himself through the window-frame.
"See what I mean," I whispered as the T-G put on his cape ready for a quick exit.

Geoffrey has his soul partially extracted.

Blimey. What a week it's been. It all started with the planned meeting at Tupfinder Towers, to discuss ways of sabotaging the new road which is being built across the moors, to transport the wind farm turbines to goodness only knows where along the cliffs. The Tupfinder side-tracked things by insisting we first have a shot of his new soul extractor machine, and once he got the thing fired up there was no stopping him.
Luckily one of the poo foo valves over-heated and only a partial extraction/capturing of the essence was possible. And at first, there seemed no way of telling who it was that had been affected.
However, once the machine had cooled down and the meeting was convened, all became clear.
Mrs T-G came in with a platter of sausage rolls, and I'm sorry to say Geoffrey devoured the lot willy nilly and without so much as a by your leave. Due to the machine going off "half cock", his face had not been turned to stone, as such, but his expression definitely was "stoney". Not to mention his personality. He actually became quite aggressive if anyone (i.e. me) so much as sniffed a sausage roll. He even told me to "bog off", which I will not forget in a hurry I can tell you.
Currently the soul extractor does not have a reverse gear, but the Tupfinder feels confident he will remedy that soon.
I hope so. This carry on is doing my nerves no good at all. Geoffrey's snapping at me for the least thing - slippers not warm enough, tea not brewed to his liking, knee rug not positioned in exactly the right way. He's driving me up the flaming wall.
re. new road prevention solutions by the way - only idea that emerged from what - apart from Geoffrey's antics - was a VERY dull meeting was from the Tupfinder - he suggested digging a very large trench along the boundary of "Hereabouts", into which any alien/unwanted machinery would topple. I think that's a very poor idea. For one thing, who's to do the digging of this massive hole? I've got a dicky knee, and Geoffrey's got a "glass back". No, we'll have to think "outside the box"...

our breakfast

Geoffrey's sandwich is the top one, garnished with red sauce (he's still on the healthy eating thing), and mine is the lower one, garnished with brown. Either is good, to be honest, and just the very dab after a night at Stormy's lock-in. More of that later, plus more on the wind farm/soul extractor meeting.

the Tupfinder General reveals a new invention

"But why is the face twisted in that horrible, repulsive way?" whispered Geoffrey. "And is it REALLY the ghastly Wilson?"
"Yes!" boomed the T-G, as he opened the vast oaken, iron-clad door, releasing a cloud of smoke from his pipe and the wonderful aroma of a freshly opened packet of sausage rolls. "Yes!" he continued. "It IS Wilson. Captured in stone. Just shows you what can happen when the wind changes."
"But it's not really him, surely? after all, we only saw him the other day. Surely it's just his...er...likeness? not his real head?" quavered Geoffrey.
"It's his soul, Goeffrey," replied the T-G, proudly. " An exact likeness, as you put it, of his inner essence. I've got a machine that does it. I call it the soul extractor. Made it myself out of bits and pieces. Come on in and I'll give you a shot on it before we get down to business."
"Great!" we chorused. I heard two muffled "clicks" as Tuppence removed the safety catch on his pistols.

we have our stomachs turned on the way to the wind farm meeting

We all made our way along to Tupfinder Towers, as arranged, on Wednesday at the witching hour. Some people didn't know when that was, or were too scared to go out at that time, but at any rate Geoffrey and I were not deterred and bolstered by a flask of madeira and the prospect of Mrs T-G's sausage rolls we staggered up the ivy-covered steps, past the rows of grotesque, leering gargoyles, and hammered on the iron-clad door with a convenient rock.
"What on earth is THAT supposed to be?" gasped Geoffrey, staring in horror at one of the gargoyles.
"Don't you mean WHO?" piped a familiar voice. It was none other than Tuppence. We haven't seen him in AGES. He had crept up behind us in a pair of rubber-soled shoes, and was armed to the teeth, as usual, with a hunting knife stuck in his belt, knuckle dusters, and sporting his customary brace of pistols.
"Well, WHO, then? and for goodness sake keep those pistols pointing the other way. The OTHER way, if you please! the OTHER...oh for HEAVEN'S sake!"
"Look closely, uncle Tuppy and uncle Geoffrey."
"Blimey! it's enough to turn your stomach."
"Yes. That's the whole point, I think.

dreadful wind farm shock

What a terrible, terrible shock. Just as Geoffrey and I were tucking into our second round of double sausage and brown sauce sandwiches, and pouring ourselves another mugful of hot madeira, Razor Bill arrived with the day's post.
"Bad news, Tuppy old son," said Bill, sitting down heavily in our spare armchair, which promptly collapsed underneath him (and he's not even slightly obese - never mind morbidly, unlike myself - but that's another story). "Everyone's getting one of these." And he handed me a long brown envelope.
Inside, there was a letter, informing me that a "road" is to be built across the moors, in order to "service" the building of a "wind farm" on the cliffs.
"Well, there's plenty of wind round here. In more ways than one," I mused. "But I don't like the sound of this, at all."
"It's to do with green energy targets, Tuppy. You know the obesity targets Wilson keeps banging on about?"
"Don't remind me. We're all much too fat and lazy, and we've all to eat five veg. a day, not including red sauce, or we get sent to the hulks?"
"Yes. But this is much, much worse. It could mean the end of the Outcrop, as we know it."
"Oh no! Something must be done!"
"Yes. The Tupfinder's arranged a top-level meeting at the Towers, tonight, at the witching hour. Be there. Mrs T-G is doing sausage rolls."

Geoffrey returns

Early this morning (about 11.35) I was awakened by an eager "tap-tap-tap" on the window pane. At first, I thought it was just the loose sash rattling in the wind, so I ignored it and attempted to get back to sleep. But the rattling became more insistent and so I put on my "tupwatch tartan" dressing gown and staggered to the window. As I flung open the curtains, I saw dear old Geoffrey's face, peering back at me. You can only imagine my joy.
"Why didn't you just use the door?" I asked.
"It was locked, and my key wouldn't work," said Geoffrey, looking rather hurt.
"Well, I haven't locked it. I NEVER lock it, " I replied, giving the door a good kick. "It must have swollen up with the damp weather, and jammed. Come in and sit down and have a glass of madeira. I'll fire some sausages under the grill as well."
"That sounds lovely, Tuppy. I'm pig sick of seaweed and fresh fish."
Mind you, I have to say he was looking well on it. His feathers were gleaming and his eyes were brighter and more inquisitive than ever. How great to have him back where he belongs, sitting across from me by the fireside at the Rocky Outcrop, our home. I can't wait to hear about his travels.

recipes from the outcrop

Someone has requested the recipe for my fave koktale, the Purple Peril. Unfortunately, Stormy tends to mix this on an "as required" basis, and I'm not privy to the murky secrets held in the dusty cellars of the Puff Inn. I do of course have an idea of what MIGHT be in the mixture, and am only too aware that the main ingredient is very cheap - and also highly combustible. Apparently, one "measure" (if you use such things) exceeds the entire recommended weekly safe drinking limit for the population of Inverness.
Once Geoffrey returns (any day now!) I will ask Stormy to make us up a celebratory bucketful. In fact, once I've finished my pipe, I think I'll head off along the cliffs, and alert him. It will give him time to order in some extra salty snax, and book a decent band for the lock in (last time, we were regaled by Tuppence and his moog, when he was going through that awful prog rock phase and playing Rick Wakeman's Eight Wives of Henry the Sixth" or whatever it's called, incessantly. Here's hoping we don't have to put up with THAT again, or, worse, him playing Tull's "Minstrel in the Gallery" relentlessly at ear-splitting volume.)

Geoffrey changes his palate

Another letter from Geoffrey - this time, it contained a confession.
Dere Tpuie
I still wiff my cuzzins, just off the coset of Mull, I srie, I gone of the dyitt, I et sum fish and seewede it woz verry nise u c thay don' hav tins heer. I think I lost sum wait, hoping this fines u well
ure frend
Geoffrey xx

Readers will perhaps recall that Geoffrey and I embarked upon an experiment, just after January 1st. In defiance of all health-warnings we decided to try a "processed meat only" diet. We've always been fans of korn bif, Spam, sausages and such-like, so it was scarcely a hardship, and a good excuse to stick two fingers up at the Ghastly Wilson and his ilk.
But it looks like Geoffrey has been eating fresh fish and sea-weed, at his cousins' place - he might well have developed a taste for "healthy options" while away, so goodness knows how he'll adjust to our customary hi-fat hi-salt lo-fibre diet, once he's home.
To be honest, I've gone off the diet as well, as I've eaten crisps, which are a form of vegetable. I also enjoy the odd dollop of tomato ketchup on my korn bif sandwiches, and eat pies, which of course have pastry made from wheat and hydrogenated vegetable oil. So we'll probably have to start all over again and devise a new system. I'll discuss this with Geoffrey, when he returns.

the T-G looks down his nose at Geoffrey's writing

"For pity's sake," said the T-G in a shocked, hushed voice,"You'll have to send him to night classes. Is he alright in the, you know, head?"
"Of course he is!" I snapped, loyally. "He just can't spell."
"It's not just the spelling. It's the handwriting," he added in a disgusted tone.
"That's hardly his fault. Geoffrey doesn't have hands," I explained.
"Oh, of course," said the T-G. "I'd forgotten. I suppose he does alright for someone with webbed feet."
"Is Mrs T-G much of a writer?" I asked innocently, taking exception to his sneering manner. Any mention of Mrs T-G makes him jump and look guilty. "And isn't she wondering where you are at 1.30 in the morning? Not that it's any of my business."
"Ahem," he coughed," I think I'll just..."
His face had turned a ghastly and rather alarming shade of beige.
"Oh, forget it, T-G. Let's not fall out. Have another glass of madeira."
After all, I couldn't have him conking out on me.

letters from geoffrey

Well, it's taken me all week to work my way through Geoffrey's letters. I'd no idea he was such a prolific writer.
"dere tupie
heer i am just of the gulf of mecksicko. we must of hit a thermal or sumfing as this is pritty darn far from owr yewsyewal neck of teh woodz. anyways itz 2 hot for me, i don' much lyke it heer, i wont to cum hoam and am missing u very much
yure frend 4 ever
geoffrey xxx

dere tupie
well heer i am just off teh azoars, itz been pritty stormy and we've bin buffitted abowt sumfing awful.
hopa to c u soon
yure frend
geoffrey xxx

dere tupie well heer i am just off teh caost of madeera, we are wurkin owr way up toowords yoor good self and will geh hoam iventyewally.
hoap 2 c u sune
yure frend
geoffrey xxx

dere tupie
well heer i am just off the coast of sellafeeld pwr station my fethers hav turnt a funnie color
see u sune it wont be long now
yure frend
geoffrey xxx

dere tupie
I sorry I stoppt off in jura to c my cuzzins staid longer than i expekted
had a luvly tyme
yure frend
geoffrey

xxx

dere tupie
sorry i stoppt off in mull to c more cuzzins
wiff u sune
yure frend geoffrey xxx

boomerang effect

Fortunately, Spockfingers has a cousin on "the other side" who suffers equally from wind, and when I emerged via a water spout just off some cliffs on the Tasmanian coastline, he or she "let rip" and down I went once again, back through the hole from whence I came. I gave Doug McClure a wave as I sped past.
The searing heat of the earth's core ruptured the ropes which bound me to the trolley (yes, ropes) and when I bobbed to the surface in the Bay I found myself well and truly "off my trolley" and able to leg it for shore.
I can't swim very well, but circumstances being as they were, I managed to make it, and at quite a speedy rate. It helped that I kept seeing a large black fin looming into my line of vision.
My wool was absolutely sodden by the time I got to shore, and it was with great difficulty that I managed to clamber up the winding cliffside path back to the Rocky Outcrop.
I was met at the door by Razor Bill, who was delivering the post.
"Where on earth have you been, Tuppy?"
"Australia," I replied proudly, seizing a bundle of letters. All from Geoffrey! I'm just drying my wool off by a roaring driftwood fire, and calming my nerves with a glass of madeira, and then I'll settle down to have a good read.

an unexpected trip

"Woh-woh-wo-wo-woh-woh-woh-woaoaoah!" As I continued to bob about in the Bay - still ON my trolley, worse luck - I could hear Spockfingers dulcet tones echoing across the mirror-like water from the direction of the Puff Inn. Clearly he'd been indulging in a bar lunch, and most likely one of Stormy's bean and vegetable Hotpots, as after regaling anyone within a 25 mile range with his version of "Do You Know the Way to San Jose?" he positioned his backside directly towards the Bay and began to pass wind in the most frightful fashion. This powerful outpouring of gas began to disrupt the water and before I could say Burt frigging Bacharach I was caught up in the most terrifying whirlpool.
The vortex thus created drove me and my trolley through the earth's crust and we are now powering our way down through layers of molten magma (and stuff) towards the earth's core! I think I just saw Doug McClure, wearing chaps and a rather grubby stetson! Ooo-er! whatever next?
(By the way - if you're wondering why Stormy has started providing bean and vegetable hotpots, instead of his usual crisps 'n' salty snax, you'll have to wait, cos I don't yet know, myself.)

Kwak meets a rather nasty end

Well, how would YOU feel, strapped to a trolley with a bright light shining right in your coupon and a masked figure "bearing down on you" clutching a loaded glass syringe? 'specially if you knew full well that the masked figure was a stark staring maniac, backed up by his best pal and so-called medical colleague, another even more stark-staring maniac, clutching a smoking test-tube filled with a noxious potion which stank of over-cooked sprouts.
Blimey. Anyway - just as Kwak was saying "Let's commence the experiment, Heston", and depressing the plunger (not to mention me), I heard an enormous roaring and splashing sound from the Bay. (readers will recall that we are presently in a CAVE, overlooking the bay, following my header over the cliffs - do keep up!) It was none other than my nemesis, Baby Orca - only on this occasion, due to his antics in the Bay, he turned out to be my salvation.
Kwak jumped in fright in response to the noise, caught his sleeve on the edge of the trolley and sent me hurtling out of the cave and towards the bay. Still strapped to the trolley, of course. As I made my rapid exit, one of my feet caught the lip of the caudron and sent its contents a-spillin' and a-swillin' on to the floor of the cave.
I flew Bay-wards, accompanied by the sound of shrieks and screams
"Aaaaagh!! Heston - the potion - it's acid, and it's eating away at my...aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaarrrrrrrrrrrrggghh!!!!!!!!"
As for me, I'm bobbing about in the bay on the trolley. I do hope to be "off my trolley" very shortly, and high-tailing it for shore, as it can't be long before Baby Orca notices me.
I'm still reeling from the revelation that the Ghastly Wilson has a first name, and that it's Heston. Ooo-er.