Geoffrey is a Psychopath

 'So now on top of stealing from them you're having a go at people who donate to foodbanks.  You pair are so horrible I can't even.'

'You can't even WHAT?' sneered Geoffrey, scraping his spoon round the inside of the tin to get the last vestiges of custard.  'We haven't said a word.'

'You've said that people who donate to foodbanks are donating crappy stuff.  You're basically calling them stingey and mean.  People who have almost nothing themselves,  yet still find the money for a tin of custard for a stranger in need.  And you two are slagging them off. '

'Did we say that?  Did you actually HEAR us say that?  Or is this just your unconscious bias rearing its head again to reveal you as the sanctimonious little Peter Pan-style twerp that we are apparently condemned to put up with for all eternity.'

'That's gaslighting Uncle Geoffrey.  But I'm pretty sure you didn't do it deliberately.  You're definitely too stupid to know how to gaslight.  So you must've done it unconsciously - or, unwittingly, more like, what with you being totally and utterly witless and all that.  Which makes you  an utter and total psychopath.'

'Well pardon me all over the place.  How old are you now Tuppence?  Thirty two isn't it?  Isn't time you moved on from the sixth year common room student activist stage, into maybe, oh I don't know - a job at Speedispend customer service desk or something?  And while you're here - let me get this off my chest.  You know what really annoys me more than anything about you Tuppence?  Away ahead of some strong competition?  It's your vocal fry. '

'My what?'

'You heard.  Let me tell you right now m'laddo...'

'I'm all ears.'

 'We're living on a rocky outcrop somewhere on the north west Scottish seaboard,' continued Geoffrey, flinging the empty custard tin grandly out of the window, 'Nobody is quite sure where 'somewhere' is exactly,  but we know where it definitely isn't.  And that's the United States of America ten years ago.  The only 'fry' required round here involves eggs and bacon with possibly a slice or two of black pudding, some kidneys and a couple of sausages.   Which reminds me of my original point - how did the foodbank comestibles find their way into the tunnels?  We don't have a foodbank in these parts, so what - or who - on earth brought them here?  And why?'

'Don't you know anything about what goes on round here - except your neighbour's personal business from listening at keyholes?  Of course you don't.  All you two ever think about is yourselves.  Cripes you are self-obsessed.  OK I'll tell you.  If you must know, Stormy Petrel is only opening up a mobile coffee wagon cum hi-end vegan burger van in the tourist car park.  He's going for the green dollar with McCartney sausages, maybe some bulgur wheat salads, hand-cut chips and buckets of coleslaw or whatever.  It means using half the spaces meant for cars so the tourists will have nowhere to park but he reckons that's even greener and better for an eco-micro-business cos they'll have to take the bus, bike it or walk.  He needs as many foodbank comestibles as he can get till he gets it off the ground cos he's skint.  The Puff Inn's on a knife-edge - it hasn't recovered from lockdown yet.  The foodbank stuff came from the donation trolleys in the Speedispend exit lane but it was all a mistake.  Stormy wanted the rats to nick stuff, supposedly to order, in return for a cut of his profits.  He asked for packets of Quorn mince and gluten free buns and ketchup and stuff but they couldn't be arsed hunting round the shop for all that so they took the foodbank's trolleys instead. He'll have to make do.  And now he can't even do that, because you pair have stolen it all.'

'Oh...'

More later

Pre-stolen comestibles

I'm ashamed to say that for quite some time we continued to raid the foodbank supplies in the tunnels.  We were stealing food, basically, from the mouths of those who needed it most.  

Or were we?

Theft, of the lowest order.  

Or was it?

All was not quite as it might seem.    Partly,  obviously - but not quite.

For the supplies had already been stolen - they were, you could say, pre-stolen comestibles.  Tins of rice pudding, mandarin oranges, baked beans, cartons of UHT milk and boxes of cereal left in the tunnels by A.N. Other along with a miasma of 21st century misery.  Did that make what we were doing - pilfering - better?  Did it absolve us of responsibility?

After a brief, rather dull discussion around 'degrees of theft' (to be continued) and the current direction of travel of moral turpitude in general, we lugged our tins of custard and packets of cheesy pasta back to the Outcrop.

'Geoffrey, this isn't vittles, this is crap.    Where is the korn bif?  Where is the Madeira?  Where are the pouches of best baccy?  What possible use can we find for custard and cheesy pasta?  Perhaps - and at the risk, heaven forfend, of sounding sanctimonious - we should lug it back to the tunnels, for someone who actually, erm... needs it.'

'Well Tuppy, not so fast there.   I'm a little embarrassed to admit it but I've been suffering from a touch of diarrhoea lately.  And I believe this is precisely the type of bland, fibre-free 'vittles' that might put an end to my toilet torment.'

next time - we discover who 'pre-stole' the foodbank comestibles - and why.  

 I raised the hurricane lamp and peered into the musty cobwebbed depths of tunnel 4a. As I inched forwards I stubbed my toe.

'Ooyah bandit.'  I put the lantern down so I could rub my foot and saw that the offending item was a battered CD of Mike Oldfield's second opus,  Hergest Ridge, which was wedged inconveniently between the tunnel wall and a large, slightly raised stone on the footpath. Presumably it had been left behind by a workman.  But surely the tunnels predated Hergest Ridge by more than a century, at least?  

Raising my lantern I saw oak barrels of madeira and port lining the walls and crates of tinned meats gleaming enticingly.  Far below at the other end of the tunnel, the sea crashed against the cliffs.

Somehow, the ghostly darkness and gloom and the relentless crashing of the sea against the rocks and the general awfulness reminded me horribly of the unmitigated Hell that I expect awaits us in the latter half of 2023.

But I couldn't afford to dwell on that.   I had a tartan shopping trolley that needed filling.

'Broadsword to Father Macree.  Come in Father Macree.  Hurry!' panicked Geoffrey, who was keeping 'shottie' at the tunnel entrance.  His voice crackled again from the walkie talkie. 'The Moon's rising.  Over.'

I packed a few tins of korn bif into the wheeled shopper.  What else could I grab?  I was hoping to see crisps or other types of salty snack.  After all, it wasn't as if...

FOODBANK,  HEREABOUTS

'What the...?'   I removed my spectacles so that I could read the label without the blur.  

FOODBANK, HEREABOUTS.  It was written in block capitals in red felt tip on a white self-adhesive square.  Every barrel of port and madeira and every tin of meat had one.  I could scarcely believe my eyes. 

'Tuppy - I mean, Father Macree!  This is Broadsword.  The Moon's UP and I mean RIGHT UP.   We have to go.'

'Yes, yes, just a minute Broadsword...'  I seized a large oilcloth package that smelled strongly of tobacco.  Surely that wasn't destined for the foodbank. 'Over and out...'

Later, back at the Outcrop, we examine the contents of the oilcloth package, and find ourselves caught rather uncomfortably on the horns of a moral dilemma vis a vis nicking stuff from the foodbank.