Today's Conundrum. How Do I Become a Self-realised Soul?

Geoffrey's been attending Val Nark's Mindfulness and Self-realisation Training, every Monday at 7pm up at the new Community Centre.

Between that and his DebSoc and his Weekly Whingers Anonymous Group he's never in.  I keep forgetting that he's out. And then when he returns I forget that he's come back in, and I totter to the kitchen to put the kettle on.  I never put the kettle on!  For the past millenium I've always shouted through to Geoffrey to do it, quick as he likes.  I've even made my own tea, on occasion, due to this ghastly, new-fangled and disruptive routine.

It's not only that.  When he returns - and for days after - he insists on telling me All About It.  A blow-by-blow account of who brought the best biscuits,  who said what,  and endless theories about why they might have done so.

I don't mind the debating and the whingeing but mindfulness sounds like the biggest pile of - 

'Tuppy!'

'What?'

'I asked you to ping the finger cymbals after twenty minutes.'

'It's only been five, Geoffrey.'

'Oh.  It must just feel like twenty I suppose.' 

He's learning to meditate.  

Me,   I prefer to stare blankly out of the living-room window,  and smoke my pipe.  Preferably after a fry-up, four opium tabloids,  and two schooners of best Madeira.

Geoffrey used to do the same,  but he's fallen under the spell of Val Nark and her organic vegan lifestyle.

I doubt it will last.

Next Saturday at DebSoc, by the way, Val is debating naturopathy with the Ghastly Wilson.  Geoffrey's going along, of course, and he's so keen to impress his new so-called friends that he's baking his own biscuits and manning the 'Jackson' tea urn.  

More about that,  later....

World Mental Health Day

Geoffrey and I were sitting by the fire enjoying a bacon sandwich and a read of The Bugle.
'Anything interesting today,  Geoffrey?'  I wasn't expecting anything beyond Val Nark's health-food cookery column (hedgerow jam last week), letters to the editor written by the usual whingers, and a review of Grudge Match written by my nephew Tuppence.  Grudge Match is his favourite film.  He says it bears several repeat viewings to bring out the subtle nuances and he's written nine different reviews, or 'exegeses' as he calls them.
I thought there might be a few seasonal used items for sale in the small ads., such as fire irons, fleece dressing-gowns and slippers.   Cherry Fulmar tried to sell Apsley (her husband) last week. Clearly there's desperate trouble brewing in the Old Rectory...
But more of that later.
'There's a feature on World Mental Health Day.' Geoffrey was peering through his pince nez.
'How dull.  Move on. What's for sale?  Any sentient beings this week?  Has Val Nark got another vile recipe in?'
'Not this week.  It's her who's written the feature on World Mental Health Day.'
'Really?  Bore me senseless.
'She does therapy and everything.  And it isn't just the hot stones and the sweat yurt.  She does proper talking therapy as well now. She does counselling Tuppy.  It's only forty pounds an hour. I think you should go.'
'Why?  There's nothing wrong with my mental health.'
'That's because you mask everything behind a cloud of self-medication.  The drugs and pipe tobacco and that.  You're numbing yourself Tuppy.  You're not in touch with your inner self.'
'Opium and laudanum and Madeira and whatever else I can lay my hands on, are not drugs.  They're simple comestibles, like bacon and tea.'
'Val says you're an addict.  She says you need locking up for your own safety.  She says you're a fool to yourself Tuppy, and a bad example to Tuppence and the younger generation.'
'But it's Tuppence who supplies me!  Ooops I mean...'
'Aha!  So you've turned into a grass Uncle Tuppy!   I expected as much.  Fortunately,  I'm clever enough to evade capture - plus, I'm prepared for any eventuality.'
It was my nefarious nephew, and 'supplier', Tuppence.  He stood in the doorway armed to the teeth with a brace of pistols and a bandolier.  Behind him stood two rats, glowering and smoking roll-up cigarettes made with brown papers.
'Are those liquorice papers?' I asked. 'I haven't been able to get those for ages.'
'Don't try to distract our attention from your loose lips Uncle Tuppy.  You've let me down and in a Big Way.  AGAIN, might I add.  No wonder I've had to go to Val Nark for regression therapy.  I've learned loads.  Did you know, for example, that that cup of tea that you're holding is a quarter full, not three quarters empty?  Isn't that a marvellous insight?'
'But it's cold, and I don't want it. Besides, I don't give a flying *insert rude word of choice*.  Put the kettle on Geoffrey, and bring the thumbscrews.  I want to know when and why you were discussing my comestible consumption with Val *insert rude word of choice* Nark.'

More on (most of) this later.

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Whinge of the Week - the Snottish Refernerdernerderndernderndnernernum

'Is that the kettle I hear whistling or is it the sibilant campaign at the door again?'
'It's the sibilant campaign.  Should I tell them that we're ambi-franchised?'
'Yes.  Tell them we're sure that we're swinging both ways.  They can rely on us to do whatever they say.  Get them to come back next week, when it's all over, and we'll give them a game of cribbage and a custard cream.'
'Okay doke.'
Geoffrey was at 'DebSoc' last night.  Again.  He's been there every night for the last three weeks, and he's all clued up about the Snottish Referenernernerdernerndernnernernernernemum.  And so am I. It's all a bit much now.
'I'm bored out of my mind hearing about the Snottish Referenernerndernerndernernernernnemum!'  I snarled, when Geoffrey came back into the livingroom.
'I know how you feel, but it's imPORTant Tuppy,' he replied.  Besides, it'll all be over soon.  One way or another.  Have you decided which way you're going to vote yet?'
'I'm not going to vote at all.  I'm lying on the settee all day with a pint of Madeira, three opium tabloids, a multi-pack of square crisps and Michael Palin's Diaries.  I'm not even getting up to go to the toilet.'
'You're a disgrace.'
'It's part twenty seven of my fifty stage plan to become the world's fattest and laziest person.  Don't tell me I have no purpose in life.'
'I didn't!'
'Anyway, it doesn't matter to me who's in charge.  Life goes on - until it doesn't.  And there's nothing any of us can do about it.'
'Don't you want to get the government you vote for then?'
'No.  There's nobody I want to vote for.  They're all shit.'
'When you resort to foul language Tuppy, you've really lost the argument.'
'Bollocks.'
'Is that the best you can do?'
'Fuckwit.  Put the kettle on and make me a bacon sandwich.'
'What did your last slave die of?'
'Don't get stroppy with me!  I've got a dicky heart.  I need to be indulged at all times.'
'All right.  But really Tuppy, you're language is...'
'I know.  I'll try to stop swearing but it seems to be beyond my fu- sorry - my control.  Shit-bum.'
What was happening to me?  Tourettes syndrome, perhaps?
You may or may not remember that about a month ago I swore at little Chelsy, the Fulmar's three year old niece, who is currently staying with them.  I was worried that she might tell Uncle Apsley and Aunt Cherry about my over-reaction and my awful language and that ghastly revenge would be wrought, but so far so good.  Chelsy has kept her mouth shut.  This might be because I've been providing her with a constant supply of Froobs, but I'm not sure.
'I like you Uncle Tuppy!  You're my betht fwend evva!  get me more Fwoobth!'
'That child will get sugar diabetes, Tuppy,' warned the Ghastly Wilson. 'You mark my words.'
Nobody Hereabouts has ever marked his words and nobody seems any the worse, so I'm sure Chelsy will be fine.
Anyway - I am planning to spend most of tomorrow on the settee with a bag over my head (one with plenty holes in), but late in the night we're going to go over the the Fulmars' for a 'Refernerdnernernernedernenernernernernernernemum party, to watch the results coming in on their 97 inch curved screen 3D TV.  They haven't invited us but we're going anyway.
And at dawn,  Dave and Valerie Nark are planning to light bonfires to celebrate the bright new dawn of a bright new Snotland.

After that,  I expect that we'll stagger home and have a bacon sandwich.

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The Frankenstein Pants

'These aren't biscuits.  They're Rich Teas.'
I didn't want to be rude (yet), so I spoke quietly and calmly.  Then I placed the packet, or what remained of it after it had been stuck inside the underpants' back pocket while the Tupfinder General was wearing them, carefully on the games table.
I sat back and folded my arms. 'Well?'
'Well what?'
'Well, what else have you got?  You said you had biscuits.'
'R-rich teas.  They are biscuits.  It says so on the packet - look.  R-rich Tea BISCUITS.' The underpants were nervous, I could tell by the tremor in their voice and the way their legs were twitching as they sat on the edge of the settee.  I decided to press my point.
'A biscuit is only a biscuit if you can dunk it. FACT. You cannot dunk a Rich Tea.  Geoffrey - put the kettle on.  Three teas, extra strong with plenty sugar.  And bring the Hobnobs.  Let's do a comparison test.'
'Plain or chocolate?'
'Do I really need to answer that?'
'O I like a plain Hobnob,' enthused the underpants.  I could tell they were trying to find common ground, and connect with my better side.  Little did they know I don't have one.
'You'll never fit in round here,' I said. 'Rich Teas and plain Hobnobs?  We're on different planets. Next you'll be saying you don't like fishfinger sandwiches. You might as well go back to wherever you came from - oh!  it was the Narks, wasn't it?'
'Yes.  As you already know, Val Nark created us from cloth made from thistles and nettles.  She wove us on a loom that Dave made from salvaged timber and stitched us together with thread made from more thistles and nettles.  But she went too far in her quest to produce an everlasting and 100% eco-friendly product.  She made us strong  - but it was the wrong type of strong.  She gave us prehensile strength, and we couldn't cope with it, psychologically.  We've become clingy and needy. In fact, we're emotional leeches, and we can't stop ourselves from 'acting out' by refusing to be removed whenever someone wears us.  Can we stay?  PLEASE?  Don't send us back to the Narks' minimart-cum-farmshop-cum-postoffice.  We'll feel safe here because we know you don't wear underpants. You'll be saving us from ourselves and doing the world a favour.'
'All right. You can live in the woodshed.'
'Will you teach us to read and write so we can tell our story to the world?'
'No.'

The Prehensile Underpants, and the Tale of Uncle Funkle's Cirumnavigation of the Wintry Isles

'They're clinging on lads!  I can't get them off!'

'Of course you can't.  They have a mind of their own.  They have preternaturally strong hands that can grip preternaturally strongly - that's what preternatural prehensile strength means...' I snapped, before going back to my paper.  I didn't really know what I was talking about, but I didn't care.  I had not a shred of sympathy for the T-G and his underpants problem.  Serve him right for encouraging Val Nark by buying her latest 'wares'. 'Look Geoffrey - it says here they're building a community centre up at the tourist car park. What a sodding nightmare that will be.'

'Yes Val mentioned that last week when I booked us into her Positive Mind, Positive whatsit class.  She's going to be in charge.'

'You what?  Why ever didn't you tell me?'

'I thought you wouldn't be interested.  You don't like that kind of thing.  You're not community minded.'

'Who says?'

'Everybody. You as well now I come to think of it.  You don't like village life.  You think it's claustrophobic and unhealthy and full of nosey-parkers and crass bores who like being big fish in small ponds.  You say it every time you look out of the window to see what's going on.'

'Val Nark's got a finger in every pie that's going,'  I replied briskly, folding the paper and placing it on the packing case that served us (very well, as it happens) as a table.  'And it's the community-minded types among us who have to put a stop to her appalling megalomania.  I should oil these,' I added, picking up one of my several pairs of high-powered binoculars and polishing the lenses on my dressing-gown sleeve.

'Excuse me for interrupting,'  interrupted the T-G, 'But can you two stop gossiping about the community centre - which I fully intend to torch by the way, so do stop fretting Tuppy - and help me get these dreadful underpants OFF MY BODY?!  I need to go to the toilet rather urgently.  In fact I've been needing since half past three this morning.'

'Fetch the blowtorch Geoffrey,' I said, relenting. 'Let's see what we can do.'

'Rightyoh.'

*EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEKKKKKKKKKKKKK!!!!!!!!!*

The Underpants

The underpants emitted an earsplitting shriek.  'Leave us be!  We're not doing anyone any harm!'

'Yes you are.  I need to go to the jiminy-cricketing toilet.  My late uncle Funkle became faecally impacted after spending three weeks in an open boat when he was circumnavigating the Wintry Isles.  I've never forgotten the horror of what he told me.  I had nightmares for years I tell you.  Years.  And it isn't going to happen to me. Get off me.'

'You only had to ask,' huffed the underpants, sliding to the floor. 'Hi everyone!  Pleased to meet you!  Can we stay?  We've got biscuits.'

next time - the underpants move in, and refuse to move out until they hear the Wintry Tale of Uncle Funkle....

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The Underpants that Can't be Destroyed

Geoffrey's 'special ornament'

We had a visit from the Tupfinder General last night.  He had a terrible case of the jitters. He was twitching so much that at one point he accidentally fired off a round from his sawn-off shotgun and smashed Geoffrey's 'special ornament' - a ceramic boot which he brought back as a keep-sake from a holiday in Kyle of Lochalsh in 1974, and which has been gathering dust on the mantlepiece ever since.
'I'm sure it will mend as good as new Geoffrey,'  I soothed. 'Fetch the superglue. I'm sure we've still got some left in the Box of Useful Stuff under the sink, from when we managed to fix the lavatory seat.  I was keeping it specially for emergencies in case I had to glue someone's mouth shut.  But your 'special ornament' takes precedence, and we can always get more.  By someone, I don't mean you, of course.'
'Why are you being so kind to me Tuppy?  It isn't like you.'
'I don't know.'  It was true.  I didn't know, and it wasn't like me.  In fact, it was quite alarming.  But I'd think about that later.  In the meantime, we had the raving Tupfinder General to deal with.
Apparently,  Mrs T-G started writing a 'novel' yesterday morning, and is refusing to do any of her usual 'household activities' until she's written it.
'I'm going demented Tuppy!' he raved, 'She's locked herself in the upper room and she won't come out till it's done, and mark my words it'll take sodding YEARS for her to finish it. She can't even write a shopping list without consulting a thesaurus at least fifteen times.  I'm even having to make my own tea!  And I can't find my best socks. The stripey ones with no holes in. I've no clean underpants left and I don't know how to work the washing machine, and we've run out of biscuits and that blue stuff that she puts down the toilet.  What am I going to do?'
'Oh I wouldn't worry about your underpants T-G,' I began.
'We wear ours till they go crusty don't we Tuppy?' interrupted Geoffrey. 'And then we turn them inside out.  After that, they disintegrate.  In fact, we're rather needing new underpants ourselves, aren't we Tuppy? Would you like one of our biscuits, T-G? We've got loads.'
The T-G sighed and sat down on the squashiest part of the settee.
Just then, Razor Bill arrived with the post.  'Can't stop lads,' he said,'I'm doing a leaflet drop for the Narks. Val's giving me a week's supply of flapjacks if I get it done before lunch.'
I picked up the leaflet. 'Hmm.  Look, T-G.  This just might solve your problem...'
'What is it, Tuppy?' asked Geoffrey, peering over my shoulder.
'Val Nark's started a new line in her shop.  She's selling indestructible underpants.  She's making them herself and weaving them out of nettle fibres and thistles.  Apparently, they're indestructible due to their - and I quote - 'PRETERNATURAL PREHENSILE STRENGTH'. Good grief.'
'They sound like just the very dab!' said the T-G, leaping to his feet (or foot). 'I'm off up to the Narks to get a pair.'

Later - Geoffrey admits that he believes a 'thesaurus' is a type of prehistoric dinosaur-style monster, and the T-G models his new underpants...and encounters a not-entirely-unpredictable problem......

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Whinge of the Week, and the Mysterious Yoyo Wrapper

Geoffrey was the star turn at the ghastly 'Whingers Anonymous Club' last night.  He came home at half past eight, waving his badge and absolutely full of himself.
'Tuppy!  guess what?  I was the star turn with my whinge 'Why oh why must people call Sandwiches Sangwidges'!  They loved it!  They loved ME! I'm getting a hamper and everything!' he enthused for the umpteenth time, twirling and pirouetting round the settee. 'Next week I'm going to whinge about people who call sandwiches sarnies. It's simply intolerable, isn't it Tuppy?  Calling sandwiches sarnies.  It should really be sannie, shouldn't it Tuppy?  I'm right, aren't I Tuppy? They're going to love it - and ME - all over again!  I can't wait!'
'THIS is intolerable Geoffrey.  It's half past twelve in the afternoon and you're still raving on.
 Neither of us has had a wink of sleep, and if you don't shut your pie-hole NOW, I'm going to be
forced to shut it for you.  Now let that be an end to it.'
'An end to what? I'm entitled to enjoy my small successes.  I've little enough in life to enjoy, Tuppy.  I lead an impoverished existence.'
'Who sez that?'
'Val Nark.  She said it.'
'When?  You never mentioned it before, and it's definitely the kind of thing you WOULD mention,
under normal circumstances.'
But this wasn't 'normal circumstances'.  Not by a long stretch.  And we both knew it.  I was still on a health kick, and Geoffrey had gone stark staring bonkers. I sighed heavily, and out of sheer habit, tapped my pipe against the chimney breast.  Three spiders, a screwed up toffee Yoyo wrapper and a shred of tobacco fell out.  I picked up the tobacco and sniffed it longingly.
'Where did that Yoyo wrapper come from?' asked Geoffrey, pausing in mid-pirouette and collapsing - FINALLY! - on the settee.
'It isn't mine.'
'Come off it!  You've been eating chocolate biscuits on one of your five starvation days, haven't you?'
'Shut up Geoffrey, and use what's left of your pea-sized brain.  They haven't made Yoyos since the 1980s.'
'Where did the wrapper come from then?'
'I don't know.'  It was true.  I didn't know.  I picked up the screwed-up foil wrapper, and smoothed it out on my knee. 'Besides, what's a toffee Yoyo wrapper, compared to Val Nark telling you that you lead a so-called 'impoverished existence'?  The total cow.'
'I know, she is isn't she.  She said that last night at the Whingers Anonymous Club.  But I shouldn't tell you that because if people know who attends it won't be Anonymous anymore.  It's all meant to be hush-hush.'
'Nothing's hush-hush Hereabouts Geoffrey, as we know to our cost.  All the neighbours have night vision binoculars and telescopes.'
'I know Tuppy.  I'm glad I've told you now.  I don't like Val.  She always makes me feel bad about myself and I get a horrible feeling in the pit of my stomach whenever I have to spend more than two seconds with her.'
'I feel the same Geoffrey.  Luckily we never have to spend more than one, or indeed any seconds, with her.  So the issue doesn't arise.  It's a moot point or dead in the water or whatever. You know what I mean.'
'Oh I do Tuppy.  Only - '
'What?' My heart sank.
'I've agreed to attend her Positive Body, Positive Mind class on a Friday morning, up in the yurts.  In fact, I've signed us both up for it.  It's only six pounds a week for the two of us Tuppy - we've to wear loose clothing and no shoes....'  he babbled, backing away from me as I seized the poker and flung the Yoyo wrapper furiously into the fire....

Next time - the Yoyo wrapper mystery deepens, and there is an underpants crisis...

Diet Food of the Day - Keesh

I was featured in the local newsletter 'The Enterprise' this week as part of their 'health and fitness' promotion.  It wasn't a good thing.  Mainly because there was a photograph of me looking rotund, captioned 'How NOT to do it - One Sheep's Weight-loss Hell'.
I don't think that you'll be surprised to learn that 'The Enterprise'' is one of enterprising couple Dave and Val Nark's latest enterprises.  Or that its vile and clumsy motto is 'Boldly to Go Where No-one Has Gone Before - or at least, Not for a While.'
Val came round to ours far too early this morning with a copy hot off their bio-fuel-powered printer.  More of where precisely the bio-fuel comes from, later.
'There you go Tuppy!  I know we've had our differences in the past but Dave and I are nothing if not emotionally-generous and so we've put you right there on the front page!  I'm sure Geoffrey will be so proud.'
'Yes that's right - thank you V - ' began Geoffrey, before I kicked him smartly behind the knee. 'Ow!'
'Well I'll be off then!  Time waits for no-one and I've a pilates class at ten and I need to be on the door before they arrive so I can get the money up front.  Not to mention I also have yurts to fill, goats to milk, and a post-office to run. Do stop by the post office for a lo-cal goji-berry flapjack - I've got some stale ones on special.'
And off she whisked, power-walking back up the hill to what used to be the bare and empty tourist car-park, and which is now a sprawling mass of eco-yurts, the largest and pointiest of which has been converted into a post-office-cum-eco-minimart.
'Why am I not losing weight Geoffrey? I've had keesh for tea for the past five days,' I said, as I flung 'The Enterprise' into the fire and watched my own face staring back at me before it vanished forever into ash.
'I don't know Tuppy.  Keesh is supposed to be healthy.  Everyone eats it when they're on a diet.  You've also had salad with everything, as well, so what with that and the keesh you should be really slim by now. It's a mystery Tuppy.  I hate to say,  but you might have to consult Dr Wilson.  You could have a glandular problem.'

more later.

Breakfast

Geoffrey and I were sitting together on the couch first thing, feet up on an old tea-chest, sharing the warmth of the old tartan knee rug before the dying embers of last night's fire.
'Make breakfast, will you?'
'No.  It's your turn.'
'If I lived in a city I'd be roaming the streets right now looking for a diner.'
'It'd have to be an American city then.'
'Not necessarily.'
'Where else do you find diners?  You do mean diner as in restaurant, don't you, and not diner as in diner - someone who eats?'
'Ummm....not sure....'
'What would you have to eat, anyway?'
'Bacon, pancakes with maple syrup, corn muffins and two eggs over easy.'
'Wow.  That sounds good.  I can't stand this.  What have we got in the fridge?'
'Nothing.  There's a tin of tuna, some goji berries and a packet of Val Nark's flapjacks in the cupboard though.'
'Is that it?  For pity's sake.  Have we nothing that can be fried?'
'No.'

Home for Christmas...

We're not sure if we're really home, or if we're hallucinating due to lack of food and drink.  At the moment, we don't much care.
We seem to remember being pushed shore-wards at alarming speed by the Great 'Fat' Whale of Norway.  Both of us remember that,  so it must be true, surely.   We reached land at about 5 o'clock this morning - Christmas morning - and managed to leap ashore and throw the painter round a rock to secure Fancy, before she could escape.
It wasn't easy, weak with hunger as we were, and we wouldn't have managed it but for the assistance of the forward momentum provided by the Whale.
"Thank you, Whale!"  we cried.
"Don't forget me lads!  Throw me some food as soon as you get the chance."  The Whale circled slowly in the deep water of the Bay.
Not too far behind him, circled the other coracle - the Big One.   When we got back to the Outcrop, I found my most powerful spyglass and had a look at it from the livingroom window while Geoffrey set to in the kitchen, lighting the fire and getting some breakfast on the go.
"Sausages, egg, bacon, fried bread, tattie scones, beans....yes, that should do.  Brown sauce.  Mustn't forget that.  Toast and marmalade for afters, and a large pot of tea," I heard him murmur, amidst the clattering of pans, and the spattering of hot fat.  Comforting, homely sounds.
"That coracle's carrying a ragged black flag at half-mast,"  I said. "What do you make of that,  Geoffrey?"
The kettle whistled.
"Same as you,  I imagine,  Tuppy.  She's a Death ship, come to claim her own during the Dark Days of Winter.  Let's chuck a sausage sandwich down to the Whale and then light the signal fire.  We'd better warn the others."
"What others?"
"You know.  Our neighbours.  The Fulmars.  Stormy Petrel. The Narks.   Doctor Wilson."
"Wilson?  The Narks?  You must be kidding."
"Well, the Tupfinder-Generals then. Although, I'm quite certain he'll already be aware."
"Oh I can't be bothered Geoffrey.  At least, not until I've had my breakfast and a serious nap.  Surely nothing bad will happen today.  After all, it's Christmas.  Goodwill to all.  A time of joy and starlight and happy faces crowded round a homely fire over glasses of hot punch.  Everyone will be busy with their Christmas dinners and stockings and presents and stuff."
"Not everybody,  Tuppy.  Think of that poor Whale, circling round and round all alone in the cold and the dark.  All he has to eat is what we throw down to him."
"But that's his natural environment Geoffrey.  He's a Whale.  He can't manage on land, just as we can't manage in water."
"I can.  I'm a gull.  I can manage water, land and air."
"Don't be smug!   You know what I mean.  Not everyone can enjoy Christmas like we can,  but there's nothing we can do about it so we're just going to have to blot out the guilt with insane amounts of food and drink,  and hopefully every other nasty memory.  Is that breakfast ready yet?"
"Oh dear Tuppy.  That's not the way to approach things, at all."
"Well I can't help it,"  I snapped," I'm tired and I can't manage moral dilemmas and guilt on an empty stomach.  I hope you've made plenty tattie scones."
"I have,  Tuppy.  I have."
"Black pudding?  Don't say a word.  I can tell by the look on your face that you forgot."
"Well to be honest Tuppy - and I know this is very poor timing - I think we need to give up black pudding."
"Oh?"
Geoffrey swallowed anxiously.  "I want to go macrobiotic Tuppy.  There, I've said it."
" I'll have your full-cooked then."
"I didn't mean right now!  It's something for the New Year. You know the kind of thing."
"I do."
Phew!  I thought.  Macrobiotics?  It'd be yoga next,  if I couldn't nip this in the bud, and giving up smoking and opium.  And then where would we be?  Life wouldn't be worth a candle.  I'd need to keep a close eye on Geoffrey.

We sat by the fire and ate in silence, and then dozed pleasantly in the warmth as we waited for the sun to creep above the horizon.

And we tried not to think about the lonely Whale, swimming round and round in the cold dark water, or the coracle of Death, as it drifted ever closer....

We've Been Where Fancy's Taken Us - and now we're going home again (hopefully)

"Load it up Geoffrey.  Hurry!  The tide's about to turn."

"It would help if YOU helped, Tuppy. I can't manage all these bags of Spanish coin on my own."

"I AM helping.  I'm the look-out.  And if I help YOU,  I won't be able to see anything,  will I?  Just get on with it, will you?"

Fancy had taken us to the secret cave stuffed with treasure from a wrecked Spanish galleon (mentioned in a post last week.)  For days we had huddled in Fancy's bowels, surviving on a "sample" bag of dried cranberry and macadamia nut mix, three fun-sized flapjacks, and a flask of goji berry tea - all courtesy of Val Nark's table sale at last weekend's Harvest Home Festival.

We don't have a "church", Hereabouts, but Val and Dave felt that some sort of seasonal gesture would be nice, as well as being a good promotional tool for their ongoing yurt business.

"We're building a super-yurt next.  It'll be up and running for the start of the next tourist season," stated Dave, in his most irritating "I will not be denied" manner.

Naturally, that remains to be seen.  Or in other words,  NOT if we have anything to do with it.  Which we fully intend to ensure we do.  In every imaginable respect.  Especially if said respect involves large amounts of combustible material,  fire accelerant,  and a Zippo lighter.

"You shouldn't be taking samples," said Val, as we filled our duffel bags with flapjacks, goji berry tea, and anything else that was lying about. "You've tried everything.  You should be at the buying something stage by now."

"We just want to make sure that we like it all before making our minds up," said Geoffrey obsequiously, as he brushed a few macadamia nut crumbs off his waistcoat.

"Yes.  Times are hard and we can't afford to spend munny on stuff we aren't sure about,"  I added, through a mouthful of yogurt-covered dried fig and banana bar.

"Really." snapped Val.  "And since when did you two have a dog?"

We glanced at each other in astonishment.  "A dog?"

"Yes.  Those are organic vegan dog biscuits you're dunking in your samples of knotweed and dock leaf tisane."

Well we liked them.  But we thought perhaps best to leave Val to her rapidly-emptying stall, and her latest knitting project.

And so here we are on the far-flung outpost of Frockall,  loading our coracle with the treasure that we found at the bottom of the secret cave, and trying to avoid the attentions of the native cannibal sheep with orange wool...

"And truly massive incisors Tuppy.  Did you see the incisors Tuppy?  They're truly massive.  I saw the incisors Tuppy.  They're massive and they clearly belong to a serious meat-eating species."

Geoffrey was reading my mind again.  It's very annoying - although sometimes, very useful.

"Do stop panicking Geoffrey.  Have you finished packing the gold coin?  Oh I suppose that'll do.  We can always pop back for more.  Right.  Let's be off before  - aaaaaaaarrgghhh!!!!!!!!!!!"

Special Tea

A reader reminds me that Geoffrey and I were supposed to be hosting one of our "special teas" this week, for Dave and Valerie Nark. Sadly, I've been held up as I'm still wedged in the crack.

"You'll just have to "wait" till some of the "weight" drops off," shrilled Tuppence, who had travelled out to see me in a new motorised raft he had constructed.

"Bog off," I muttered, flailing my legs about in a vain attempt to loosen myself. Meanwhile, Geoffrey flew anxiously round and round.

"But what if the Narks turn up? I don't know how to make a special tea," he said as he wheeled past.

"No more do I," I said.

"Why did you say that then? Special tea?"

"Don't start on me now, Geoffrey, for heaven's sake. Just get me the frig out of here, and we'll think of something. And chuck us a packet of Doritos or something, will you? I'm starving."

"Can't be done, Tuppy," said Apsley Fulmar, who had flown out, along with most of the population of "Hereabouts", to view "the spectacle" i.e. me. "Tuppence is right. You're wedged in too tight for us to pull you out. You'll have to drop a bit of weight and starve yourself out - it's the only way, Tuppy."

"Can't I even have a sip of madeira, to strengthen myself? Get me the hip flask, Geoffrey, and a straw, for pity's sake."

"PUT THAT HIP FLASK DOWN!!" commanded a familiar voice.

"God almighty." It was none other than the ghastly Wilson, pushing his way through the crowds on the cliff top.

"Very Doctor Finlay. Just ignore him, Geoffrey. He's all mouth and no trousers. Tell him to eff off and get me a drink, for god's sake. And I wouldn't mind a puff of Black Bogey while you're at it."

"Righty oh Tuppy."

A Dose of the Narks

Well, Stormy had his usual lock-in on Friday and we all ended up three sheets to the wind. Spockfingers was there, giving it laldy at the karaoke machine. It'll be a long time before I'll want to hear "Overnite Sensation" again, I can tell you. Not to mention Black Box's "Ride on Time". At least, that's what I THINK it was called.
Anyone remember the T-G's idea about the trench? well, after Stormy finally called time, we all thought it would be a good time to start digging it. But after about five minutes hacking away at the heather-clad peat, we all ran out of energy. So we now have a kind of shallow ditch running east/west across the moor.
Remember Dave and Valerie Nark? the eco-warriors who lived in the yurt up at the tourist car park last summer? well, they've been away on an extended eco-friendly holiday somewhere hot 'n' horrible in Central America, but now they're back - and they are in a right friggin' state about the ditch.
"You're digging up priceless peat reserves. You're releasing immeasurable amounts of carbon into the atmosphere, and killing the planet," Dave raved, as he tied the chin strap of his Peruvian hat tighter under his chin, to keep out the north easterly whipping across the Bay.
Who knew? not us, obviously.
"Yeah? wot are U going to do about it?" said Spockfingers, belligerently.
Geoffrey and I decided to take a gentler approach, and have invited them round for one of our "special teas" later this week...