Sic Transit Gloria Mundi

'Dust into dust,' murmured the T-G, who was sitting in a vast green leather armchair sipping a glass of absinthe toasting his toes in front of a roaring driftwood fire.  His bare feet rested on a brass fire dog while a pair of multi-coloured stripey toe-socks dangled from the mantlepiece.  The blunderbuss, with which he'd blasted us out of our previous situation (see previous post), was propped by the mullioned window alongside a pair of sea-boots and high-powered infra red binoculars. 

There was a loud creak as the heavy oak door was shoved open by a muscular fore-arm.  Mrs T-G bustled in carrying a plate of black sausage rolls (her specialty) and placed them on the oak monastery table which stretched across much of the room.

We were in the 'Tower Room' of Tupfinder Towers,  enjoying the hospitality of the T-Gs.  

'You'll need to sweep that chimney T-G,' reminded Mrs T-G,' We don't want it going up again like before.  And you won't be doing your chilblains any good with your feet right in front of the fire like that by the way.'

'Yes yes dear,' soothed the T-G., staring into the dancing flames.

'I'm only saying,' she sniffed as she left the room.

Mrs T-G never socialised with visitors, or indeed anyone.  In fact, she was rarely seen, even inside her own home.  She liked sitting in the large kitchen by the range, polishing copper pans and preparing the pastry and fillings for her famed black sausage rolls.  Nobody knew what she thought about while she sat there all alone ruminating with her tin of Brasso and her yellow dusters.   And I'm sorry to say it,  but nobody cared.  

'She's always been like that,' the T-G would say when badgered by Val Nark, who was convinced Mrs T-G was menopausal and would benefit from an ear-candling session.  'She's a lone wolf.  She doesn't want friends, or indeed ear-candling.'

'Dust into dust,' he murmured again, topping up his glass from the decanter at his elbow.

'What do you mean, T-G?'  I asked.  Geoffrey fluffed his feathers and leaned in closer.

'The human race is over.  Grieve for it now, while you can.  The great days, the great battles, the great days of wisdom are fading into the dark.  The ancient yew by the chapel has watched the rise and fall of Man over many centuries.  And it will watch its End.  Humanity, despite the best efforts of a few, is finished.'    

'Does this mean that Evil has finally won?' asked Geoffrey. 'Is that what you're saying, T-G?'

'Are we the few?' I wondered silently,' And is it worth struggling on?  Is there ANY hope?'

The pale light of the rising Moon shone through the mullioned window and reflected on the polished oak monastery table as the T-G topped up his glass of absinthe.

more later

Tuppence has a Meltdown

 'Van Morrison is a fat old anti-vaxing bigoted brexiteering fat old gammony old fat bigotty anti-vaxer who has no insight into his own white old fat bigoted antivaxing privilege,' declared Tuppence, smashing my original vinyl copy of 'Veedon Fleece' off the mantlepiece and into a thousand pieces. 'Did I mention him being old fat and bigoted?  Much like you and Uncle Geoffrey.  Now for Astral Weeks.'  He reached into the wire 'LP' rack which I'd bought in Woolworth's in 1971 and now was buckling beneath the weight of late 60s West Coast sounds, 70s prog, plus Van Morrison and a few random items purchased when under the influence and in a weak-minded state, best left to the imagination. 

'Oh for goodness sake Tuppence.  If you must destroy them can't you melt them over a soup bowl and re-purpose them into ashtrays or something?  This is carnage.  Wanton carnage.'

'You see this is typical of you Uncle Tuppy.  Ashtrays?  Who do you think smokes these days, besides you and Van Morrison and probably Eric Clapton?  I've told you before to educate yourself,  read something intellectually stimulating that will shine a light into your cholesterol-addled old brains - and I don't mean the People's Friend or the Daily Record.'

'We just use the Daily Record for toilet paper when we have visitors.  We cut it into squares and hang it on a nail by the lav.  We don't actually read it,' said Geoffrey. 'Same with the People's Friend.  We just get old copies from the bin in the tourist car park.  About once a year or thereabouts, when a bus party's been through.  Sometimes they throw cakes out of the windows. I got a whole cherry bakewell once.'

'I read them when I think I'm going to be on the toilet for a while, if you know what I mean', I said.  'I used to quite enjoy Coleen Nolan's problem page.  I don't think she does that any more though.'

'Oh yes that was good,' enthused Geoffrey. ' I do like Coleen.  She's so down to earth.  You could imagine sitting down with her for a nice cup of our usual poison, couldn't you Tuppy?'

'Let's cut to the chase.  When are you two going to join the 21st century?' lectured Tuppence.' No don't answer that, cos I already know.  NEVER, that's when.  So, for the good of the planet someone needs to round you up along with Van and Eric and shove you down a mineshaft.  I don't like to sound specific or anything but I know just the one.'  Smashing 'Astral Weeks' off the mantlepiece he brandished one of the shards and gestured towards the door. 'Out you go.  Go on.  Never mind the medical chest and the corned beef sandwiches.  Just get moving.  You know I'm armed to the teeth with a brace of loaded pistols and a bandolier of ammo, as always.'

'Can I take my baccy pouch?' I asked meekly, while staring at Geoffrey who was still perched, aghast, on the end of the sideboard. 'FLY GEOFFREY - FLY!!' I screeched.

Geoffrey can of course fly,  because as any regular reader will know, he is a seagull.  I, on the other hand, cannot, as I am a sheep heavily laden down with wool.  I don't regard this as a disability, although some might encourage me to do so.

'Oh - oh right - of course,'  said Geoffrey, fluttering. 'I'd better take my glasses, if only I could find them...'

'They're on your head,' I hissed,' Now fly - and fetch HELP - preferably the T-G with his blunderbuss.'

More later

 Times are dark now sure enough what with the covid and all, but they've always felt a bit doom-laden hereabouts.  Death at your fireside and so forth.  The *thud-thud-thud* of the Grim Reaper's scythe-handle hammering at the door when you least expect it, and were hoping for a quiet evening by the fire with a favourite book, a pipeful of Black Bogey, some crisps and a bucket of absinthe.

'If you aren't preparing for Death, you aren't really living,' opined the T-G.  'If you're wise like me,  you'll always keep an empty chair by the fire, directly opposite your own, as a constant reminder of your inevitable demise.'

'Doesn't Mrs T-G mind?' asked Geoffrey,  'After all surely that's her seat,  opposite yours by the fire?'

'Oh she doesn't mind.  She doesn't have time to sit by the fire.   If she isn't scrubbing the floors and blacking the grate she's usually in the kitchen cooking black sausage rolls (see paperback for recipe) and doing the washing up.'

More on stereotypical gender roles and toxic masculinity later (or not - most likely not actually)

Dave Nark - Covid Tester and Wildlife Vidder

 A year on, almost, from the previous post.   And we don't have 'covid marshals' any more.  No - we have 'vaccines' and 'vaccine certificates'...and covid testers...

'So.  Dave Nark's a covid tester now.  Sticking cotton buds up people's noses in a caravan in the tourist car park for what he claims is a 'competitive salary'.'   The T-G had stopped by for a glass of piping hot Madeira and was reading a crumpled copy of last week's 'Daily Bugle'.

'He needn't bother sticking one up my nose,'  I said, throwing a piece of driftwood on the fire.

'Or mine', agreed Geoffrey.

'Or indeed mine,' said the T-G.  

'Is he still posting those wildlife vids on Youtube?'

'I believe so Tuppy.  He did get banned for a while after his trail cam filmed a staycationer doing the toilet in the burn.  He posted it without realising, or so he said.'

'Gracious.'

'Indeed.  Number twos, as well.  Val was mortified.  People were saying Dave was a pre-vert.  She was terrified the negative publicity would ruin her ear-candling and hot stones for well-being business.  She was running out of furlough money and it happened at exactly the wrong time, so she told Mrs T-G anyway.  Not that there would ever be a right time for that kind of thing.'

'Good grief.'

'Indeed.   Apparently the clip went viral before it was removed.  They've put portable toilets in the car park now so there's no reason that kind of thing should happen again.  Black Bogey?'   The T-G proffered his worn Spanish leather tobacco pouch.

'Thanks T-G.  How does Mrs T-G feel about it all?' I asked.  'Is she pro or anti vax?'

'Oh she's been double-jabbed, like me,' replied the T-G. 'We've had no side effects to speak of, other than the pustule eruptions, the chronic halitosis and the growth of the tail.  And of course Mrs T-G has the enormous wart on the end of her nose - but that was there before.'

'When I went for my jab I asked - ' Geoffrey spluttered and had to pause to control his laughter - 'I asked - ' Geoffrey doubled over in hysterics - ' I asked -'

'Oh do get on with it Geoffrey.  We've heard this one umpteen times already and it doesn't get any more amusing in the telling.'

''I asked if I'd be able to play the piano after the jab,' he blurted, ' Of course, replied Dr Wilson, looking amazed as he waved a needle in my face.  That's great,  I answered. Because I can't play it now!  Ba-boom!'  Geoffrey rocked back and forth with laughter while the T-G and I lit our pipes and stared grimly into the glowing embers.

'Interesting times,  Tuppy,' said the T-G.  'Interesting times...'

more later