Quote of the week

Geoffrey and I found this in a skip outside the T-G's residence, yesterday afternoon. I'd like to say that our eyes just happened to fall upon it, willy nilly, as we were passing, but no - I'm afraid we were short of readies (not that we use "normal munny") and we were running low on crisps. Usually, in such circs., we would nick some from the Puff Inn cellars, or Geoffrey might rake the bins at the tourist car park. However, on this occasion, we decided to check out the T-G's skip. Reason? we'd heard via Razor Bill that Mrs T-G had been to a "Bums 'n' Tums" evening last Wednesday night, and had been so horrified at the state/size of her "Bum 'n' Tum" compared to the others there, that she rushed home in a right old state to Tupfinder Towers, and immediately emptied all fatty foods 'n' snax from all of her cupboards. There was so much, that the lid of their wheelie bin wouldn't close and the T-G had to arrange a skip.

Cue me and Geoffrey. We couldn't care less about our bums 'n' tums.

"But it was only recently that you got stuck in the crack, " queried Geoffrey, as we stuffed a bin liner with crisps and packets of pies. "Shouldn't you..well...be cutting down a bit?"

"I'm not even going to dignify that with a reply," I sniffed. How dare he betray me like that?

"I'm only thinking of your health," he ventured, noticing my hardening expression.

"Well don't flaming bother," I snapped. "Else you'll have to start thinking about your...here, what's this?"

And I picked up the book pictured above - Elizabeth Goudge's The Middle Window.

It fell open at page 54. "People talked a lot about the death of the body and the life of the spirit but what did they know about it? What did anyone know? Men laughed and talked and ate and drank inside a little lighted house of life and outside was a great windy darkness that stretched they knew not where and held they knew not what," I read.

"Indeed," boomed a familiar voice. "Couldn't have put it better myself."

"For pity's sake. can't you give us a break for five minutes? And don't you ever wear anything other than that ghastly black hooded cloak?"

It was the frigging Grim frigging Reaper, lurking about in his usual cheery manner.

"I find it covers up the "Bum 'n' Tum" very nicely if I'm having a fat day," he growled, twirling his scythe. "Plus, I never need to concern myself with "bad hair" days, either. Job done. Maybe YOU should get yourself one, Tuppy."

Bagged Up

"H-E-E-E-LP!!!" I screamed as the coracle hurtled towards the crack in the cliffs.
Not only was I suffering from severe indigestion, my waterproof trousers were cutting in something awful - possibly, though I hate to admit it, due to the bagging up effect of recent over-indulgence in FJRs.
Before venturing out in the coracle, Geoffrey and I were discussing the possible "health properties" of the jam, i.e. "fruit", in the middle, and wondering whether it might count towards our five a day (not that we're that bothered).
"Don't be so stupid," sneered a scornful voice. It was none other than the Ghastly Wilson, sticking his head through the open window (the chimney had been smoking again) all geared up to provide us with yet another unwanted lecture on health/death avoidance.
"Oh, who cares anyway," we replied, grabbing some supplies and making a dash for the boathouse. "Let's go for a quiet sail and relax."
It has been pleasant so far, if a tad choppy. Let's hope we make it through the C-C-C-R-R-A-A-A-A-A-CK!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

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.

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.

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.

Happy New Year!!!

A very happy new year to all our readers! Geoffrey and I celebrated in traditional style with a sing song round the fire, and a lock-in at the Puff Inn, during which we imbibed our usual, plus. Plus what? well, I'll go so far as to say we had to rig up an impromptu stomach pump using an old bicycle pump and some plastic tubing that had been washed up on the shore at some point. When I say "we" rigged it up, I should really say "they", as said pump was applied in no uncertain manner to MY innards. Very undignified and I'm sure I would have been FINE without it. Geoffrey and I are still barely on speaking terms. I hate an atmosphere, despite what Geoffrey says about me creating them willy nilly. I can't think WHAT he means??
Our plans for the New Year are VERY exciting. We aim to defy medical science and make names for ourselves by changing our diet - or rather, modifying it. yes!! for the next six months we are going to subsist on meat products ONLY. No pineapple kubes. No beef, chicken or smoky bacon flavour krisps or salty snax. Prawn koktale flavr are a moot point at present. No wheat (rolls, bread, biscuits, cake etc.) or any other grain.
We aim to explore the full ramifications of eating a diet composed of processed meat, and processed meat ALONE. Watch this space for what I am certain will be eye-watering news. Speaking of which - I have to complete my bowel cancer test before the sell-by. Something (common sense, perchance?) tells me I'd better get it done BEFORE we proceed further along the processed meat route...

what exactly happens, after death?

Last evening, as we sat by our roaring driftwood fire, and chatted aimlessly over a glass of madeira and a pipe or two, Geoffrey and I realised that we had tired of our fave topic, "Is Death Avoidable?", and have taken the logical step of turning to the next rung up so to speak, viz., "Is There Life After Death?", or, "What Exactly Happens, After Death?".
"Does this mean that we've accepted Death as inevitable?" I mused.
"No Tuppy, of course we haven't," replied Geoffrey, refilling his pipe.
"All the same that doesn't mean that we're going to stop eating pies, surely?" I asked, worriedly.
"No. Pies, salty/fatty snax and processed meats will remain a major part of our diets. Have no fear on that front, Tuppy."
"What on earth do you mean then? According to the ghastly Wilson, our diet is killing us. Salt, the silent killer. Kidneys like conkers. Fatty atheromas. Plaques. You name it, we've got it."
"Yes, but who is Wilson, really? what does he really know? all this so-called research that he bangs on about viz a viz our diets could be just a load of old pants, quite frankly. And look at the state of him! So pale and scrawny. And that's him living on seaweed."
"Or so he says, Geoffrey. I've often suspected he might supplement his so-called diet with something else...but more of that later. I agree he does look as if he could do with a good feed."
"Yes and he's SO tense all the time! ranting on about people's mortality and getting worked up."
"Yes. I'm surprised that HE doesn't have a heart attack. He wants to chill out a bit. Anyway enough about Wilson. Get back to the point, please, Geoffrey. You were saying that we haven't given up on the idea that death could be avoidable?"
"Of course we haven't. But we might as well digress for a bit to consider what might happen should death occur - afterwards."
"Oh." I must say my heart sank as I contemplated this ghastliness. All sorts of depressing scenarios flooded my brain. Life without Geoffrey! And never mind that - would there be madeira, and crisps?
"No, Geoffrey, this won't do at all. This is depressing the hell out of me. We'll have to return to sunnier climes, viz., is Death Avoidable. And pass me that plateful of korn bif and salad cream sandwiches while you're at it."

wilson makes himself unpopular - again

I changed my mind - I won't describe the blast produced by Mr Spockfingers after all. I've decided to err on the side of good taste - as usual. (Also, cannot be "arsed".) Suffice to say, it worked - but there was a ghastly mess to clean up, and can I also say that I won't be able to face cabbage for a very very long time ( not much of a hardship!). Readers will recall that the first plan mooted was to flood the tunnels with raw sewage - and we decided against, due to reasons of mess and concern that our supplies of madeira would be contaminated (unthinkable). Well, the Spockfingers option must have rivalled that unpleasant scenario, and we had to spend hours flushing the caves and tunnels out with buckets of pine scented Flash and hosing down the crates of madeira and korn bif. There's still a bit of a smell actually.
However, I think I can mention without fear of offending anyone much, that my announcement, a couple of posts back, of Cherry Fulmar's forthcoming "happy event" was a bit previous. Turns out that her "bulge" is due to an increasingly severe food addiction, to Fisher & Donaldson fudge doughnuts, scampi flavoured fries and Nik Naks to be precise. The Fisher & Donaldson aspect has already been taken out of her hands, as the local branch has closed down. There isn't another F & S outlet for more than 20 miles. This is a bit of a pain for me and Geoffrey as we too are partial to a fudge doughtnut - or "F.D." - not to mention their steak pies and coffee/chocolate towers. Gloom.
Stormy Petrel of course has a monopoly on scampi fries and Nik Naks, and the prices he charges for buying them over the bar are outrageous quite frankly. Cherry has become so desperate that she has resorted to burglary and is raiding his cellars at night - the poor thing - of course Geoffrey and I would never stoop to that kind of pathetic criminal-style behaviour ( see previous posts for total contradiction)
anyway - as if that wasn't bad enough, the ghastly cave-dwelling doom-merchant Dr Wilson has thought fit to poke his horrible self-righteous nose in and lecture poor Cherry about her spiralling obesity problem and the risk of diabetes, heart disease and stroke. Bad enough that he's been bad-mouthing me and Geoffrey about our fondness for madeira and tobacco. Irritatingly he always proclaims that he's making these pronouncements "for our own goods", but that won't wash. It's obvious he's just worried about having an increase in his own future workload - plus, there is a terrible unholy joy about him whenever he climbs up on his soapbox, which is rather alarming. Really he should be worried about whether or not he's going to get a punch in the face - not that anyone Hereabouts is violent like that, and not that I would personally recommend that very physical type of reaction, especially when Wilson is clearly unhinged.
But I do think that we should consider chucking him over the top ( see gazetteer and previous posts). Titus, the horse, did that last year (see previous posts) if you ask me he did us all a favour - it's just a shame that Wilson scrambled back up again. Another option would be to banish him to the time space anomaly zone. I intend to discuss that fully with Geoffrey and the Tupfinder over a extra large glass or two of madeira this very evening.
Geoffrey and I have decided to help Cherry in the best way we can - by planning a raid ourselves on Stormy's overstocked cellars, and obtaining for her as many cartons of Nik Naks and scampi fries as we can. We're also going to lobby Fisher and Donaldson to see if they will re-open a shop nearby, so we don't all wither away to scrawny shadows like SOME people we could mention, namely Wilson.

kill two birds with one stone

Kill two birds with one stone, somebody once said. Well, I don't know about two, but I think I can be fairly certain that ONE bird is sailing pretty close to the wind.
Geoffrey's obsessive anxiety about his waistline has driven him clean out of his mind - well, that's just my opinion, going by his behaviour.
What happened is this. We had a meeting - me, Geoffrey, the Tupfinder general, and the Fulmars - to discuss what to do about Tuppence's persistent draining of the Fulmar's electric system. Not to mention the racket. We decided after some heated argey bargey that flooding the tunnels with raw sewage was not a great idea. For one thing, Wilson still inhabits a cave in the cliffs, and he would be none too pleased if any of the effluent contaminated his living quarters - which it would - especially if I was directing the flow. ( see previous posts re. my hatred of Wilson)
During the discussion I'd noticed that Geoffrey was becoming increasingly agitated and I was amazed when he refused a top up of madeira. He was clearly very out of sorts. Eventually he sprang to his feet and declared "I will kill two birds with one stone" and flew out of the window immediately.
Apsley and Cherry were alarmed, thinking that he was referring to them, but nevertheless flew after him, and reported later that they'd seen him fly into the tunnel entrance at the old coastguard hut - Tuppence's hideout - word later reached us that in what seems to be a desperate attempt to lose weight he's since been cycling hell for leather on one of the rats exercise bikes (previously used to power up the moog at the lunchtime gig at the Puff Inn some weeks ago) and Tuppence has taken advantage and connected it up to the moog. This means that the Fulmars are no longer having their electrics drained, so obviates the raw sewage option, but we are still left with the problem of the racket.
Not to mention Geoffrey's mental and physical health - he's been cycling without a break for days, and the sweat is lashing off him - we're very concerned indeed.

trendy

Readers will be anxious to know how Geoffrey is getting on with defeating his terrible crisp addiction. At New Year, he resolved to lay off crisps due to concerns re. his rising blood pressure, but his willpower is awfully weak. He still can't pass a layby without having a good rake in the bins. Now as well as sky high BP, he's worried about rampant middle aged spread.
"I'm turning into a gutbucket, Tuppy", he wailed. "I can't get into my white lycra bell bottoms any more - without looking grotesque."
"Just get a bigger size," I said absently - I'm bored with his constant whingeing about his age and appearance.
Obviously this didn't satisfy his need for sympathy and he blurted out his pathetic concerns to Cherry Fulmar when we went along to the Old Rectory to discuss the sewage-flooding-the-tunnels plan. "Wear a kaftan like I do. Paisley pattern. A nice big design, in towelling or chenille. Great for the chilly evenings, and so versatile," she said, yawning and passing him a sack of chilli heatwave doritos.
"But I want to look TRENDY!" he wailed.
"Your trendy days are over, Geoff," said Apsley, patting him on the shoulder. "You might as well accept it."
I had to agree with him. But Geoffrey clearly didn't. I detected a distinct glint in his eye, as he stared disdainfully at Cherry and Apsley's matching fleece housecoats.

cowering in the slipstream of the grim reaper's scythe

I managed to convince Geoffrey that I wasn't trying to bump him off with the chilli heatwave doritos, and after he'd performed his obligatory huff, we settled down with the madeira to continue our conversation.
"Yes, I accept that at our age we need to think about our blood pressure and so forth," I began, "but needs must. We have to enjoy life as well, and if you enjoy a dorito or two, where's the harm?"
"Well I'm cutting them out from now on. I can feel the breeze as the grim reaper's scythe hacks away willy nilly, getting ever closer..."
"For pity's sake, Geoffrey! let's relax and enjoy ourselves...while we still can! oh no! now I'm getting as gloomy as you!"
How on earth could Geoffrey and I snap out of our terrible depression? how could we conquer our fear of death?
These questions gripped us till dawn, when we decided upon an all or nothing solution...

whizzing towards the grave

Geoffrey and I were enjoying a pipe of Black Bogey and a glass of madeira by a crackling fire of driftwood - and the bits left over after we rebuilt the rocky outcrop - when we began reflecting on our years together as best friends.
"Why is it," asked Geoffrey," that as you get older, time goes faster?"
"I know exactly what you mean, Geoffrey. But I don't think it does. I think perhaps it only seems to go faster."
"No, there's more to it than that. Sometimes I feel I'm whizzing towards the grave. And I certainly didn't feel like that when I was young. When I look back and recall my childhood years, it seems like summers were always sunny and lasted for ever. Remember when we used to steal apples from Grandad Tupfinder's orchard, and scull across the bay in your coracle with the sun on our backs? These summer days seemed to last forever. Even the winters were properly snowy, the stars were brighter and it took an age for Christmas to arrive."
"Of course I remember these things, Geoffrey. We're just getting old. There's nothing more to it than sheer nostalgia. No need to get over-sentimental about it."
Geoffrey fluffed up his feathers huffily. "No need to be insulting, either Tuppy. I WAS going to tell you my theory about time, but I shan't bother now."
"I'm sorry Geoffrey. I didn't mean to upset you. I'd love to hear your theory about time. Look, have a packet of crisps. I've got some doritos in the sideboard."
"No, I'm giving up crisps for the new year. They're bad for my blood pressure. Far too salty."
I gasped. Geoffrey, giving up crisps? and worrying about his blood pressure?
"Geoffrey, please. Time is passing so quickly - or seems to be - that we might as well enjoy ourselves while we can. What's this nonsense about crisps? Next you'll be giving up tobacco and madeira!"
"I know, Tuppy. But all this thinking about time has got me in a panic. And I got a bowel cancer testing kit through the post the other day."
"Who on earth sent you that? don't tell me - Tuppence, up to his tricks again, trying to frighten people!"
"No, Tuppy. It's Dr Wilson. He says we've all to get it done, for our own goods."
"For our own goods? What kind of horsecrap is that?" I should have known that Wilson was behind it. I got to my feet and began to pace up and down the room, the peaceful atmosphere shattered. This wouldn't do, at all.
"Come on Geoffrey. Snap out of it. Think about your time theory, not bowel cancer. We've all got to die some time. Let's go out with a bang." And I brandished a pack of Chilli Heatwave flavour doritos.
"N-n-n-no! You're trying to kill me!" Geoffrey stood up and backed away, towards the door.