spockfingers returns

Well! you'll never guess what happened just before the poker dice game got underway. Just as Tuppence and Wilson were getting down to serious business, I offered to crack open another bottle of Duke of Malmsey's finest in order to oil the wheels of...the game, or whatever. This was declined by Wilson, who of course is - or claims to be - a very strict teetotaller. I then - out of sheer politeness - offered to make an innocent pot of tea, which he accepted, with the rather churlish caveat "make sure you give the cup a good wash, Tuppy, I don't want swine flu". Unfortunately, I failed to secure the cover of the spout (it's a whistling kettle, of course) and when the kettle reached boiling point, said cover blew off making a noise like a pistol shot and whacked Wilson square in the temple.
He then crashed to the floor like a felled tree, and in a trice Geoffrey flew to the sideboard and retrieved the sal volatile from the medicine chest. After waving it beneath Wilson's nose for a few seconds, he opened his eyes, sat up, and regaled us with several verses of "Spaceman" by well-known pop combo, the Killers.
"Oh oh oh oh, Oh oh oh ohoh..."
"Where did you learn that song?" asked Tuppence.
"I've no earthly clue," replied Wilson, rubbing his temple. "The song which came into my head when I came round, was Chris de Burgh's "A Spaceman Came Travelling", but somehow this other one came out when I started singing."
"FA-A-A-A-B-ulous choice!" a familiar voice bellowed from the doorway. It was none other than Mr Spockfingers, who had stopped off to sing backing with the Killers at T in the Park on his way home from the health farm he was sent to after failing to win Britain's Got Talent (see previous posts please, if you'd like more details....)

we dice with death

Tuppence stopped by last evening. First time we'd seen him properly in ages.
"Crikey you've aged, Uncle Tuppy," he trilled in his callous way."In fact, you look like DEATH!"
I took another sip of madeira, and stared at him sourly. "You might at least say death warmed up."
"Heh heh heh." a horrible snigger emanated from outside the half opened window. Geoffrey flew over.
"Wilson!"
Who else. There he was, clad in black, swinging his scythe without a by your leave or a care in the world.
"Come in, Wilson, why don't you," I suggested in a cold high voice. Geoffrey stared at me in amazement. Wilson had never before crossed our threshold. (for reasons which need no repeating for regular readers)
"Tuppy, old fellow - what on earth are you thinking of?"
I winked. "Yes, come in Wilson! make yourself at home. But leave your scythe at the door, if you please."
Tuppence pricked up his ears. Unlike Geoffrey, he had cottoned on.
"Shall we all have a game of poker dice?" said Tuppence, as Wilson eased himself into the shabby armchair opposite my own - which is usually Geoffrey's favourite. Been to uni and all that, but he's got no manners and not an ounce of sensibility. Geoffrey flew on to the mantelpiece and perched uneasily by the clock.
"Why not?" said Wilson expansively.
"Shake em and bake em," said Tuppence, blowing on his knuckles. Little did Wilson know what he was up against....

enjoy it while it lasts

This morning over breakfast - lorne sandwiches, washed down by lashings of tea, which we ate outside in the warm July sunshine, serenaded by the deep and mournful tolling of a bell, or "death knell", which was rung by the ghastly Wilson, who was sporting a black hood and carrying a scythe, still banging on about us not wearing sunscreen and bellowing "we're all doomed!" - Geoffrey kindly reminded me, in his cheery way, that as we are all to be dead of pig flu by end of August, there is little point in going to the bother of discussing death from other causes, and its avoidability or otherwise, with the Tupfinder. (Little point in wearing sunscreen, either, then). But, we'll just pop up to Tupfinder Towers anyway, and probably have a game of whist or something. The Tupfinder does love a round or two of Russian Roulette, but luckily Tuppence stole his service revolver (see previous posts) some time ago, and as I don't think his muskets and other antique weaponry would be suitable, I think we can safely assume that anything unduly alarming is off the cards. Mrs T.G. doesn't participate in Russian roulette, or indeed in anything much, but does provide the sandwiches, and on past occasions we've heard high pitched girlish-style giggling from behind an arras-style wall hanging type thing, and we deduced that she enjoys company albeit from a distance.
By the way we also suggested to Razor Bill that he return his faulty toilet roll to Somerfield - however, he informed us rather curtly that he "couldn't be arsed".

is death avoidable?

Razor Bill stopped by with the post this morning. Not that we ever get any real post, it's usually just Reader's Digest competitions, Betterware catalogues and address labels and stuff from the PDSA. Not to mention the occasional lump of dog muck. The item we look forward to most of course is the weekly Somerfield specials leaflet, which generally features our fave things, such as crisps, drink, fizzy juice, pies and korn bif.
Bill informed us that he'd treated himself recently to a multi pack of Somerfield own brand LUXURY toilet paper, and was SHOCKED to discover, on opening it, that the perforations were missing! imagine his horror!! not to mention the sheer inconvenience of having to rip it!!! that'll teach him to indulge in unnecessary luxuries.
Geoffrey and I, having used up the supply left by the visitors, have now reverted to our practice of going " au naturel".
The weather's been a bit hot recently so I got Geoffrey to clip my wool. He used the no. 1 setting on our tondeuse set which gives me quite a severe look, but I think I like it, although it does age me a bit. I then went out for a stroll along the cliffs to get a breath of air. On the way I bumped into the ghastly Wilson ( see list of characters if you don't know who he is) who was patrolling the cliffs to check that anyone out and about was wearing sunblock. Wilson demanded to know if I was wearing any - when I said no, of course not, he screamed at me to get back indoors, as in my hairless, fairskinned state, I was a cancer risk, and as such, was liable to give him an awful lot of unnecessary work, and possibly die, at some future date! charming!!
This led to a conversation between me and Geoffrey about death - specifically, is death avoidable? as we sat comfortably by our fireside (fire unlit, due to heatwave, and no tartan knee rugs, either) sipping a glass or two of iced madeira and puffing away on our pipes, after a slap up dinner of Somerfield steak and gravy pies and hash browns, followed by two blueberry muffins apiece, and looking forward to a late supper of korn bif and salad cream sandwiches, we pondered the question. If we did as Wilson demands, and gave up our pies, drink, pipes, and complete lack of exercise, if we never went out in the sun without hats and sunblock, if we never crossed a road, or had a bacon or processed meat sandwich, would we live forever? could death actually be avoided? we're going to ask the Tupfinder what he thinks, tomorrow.