Glancing blows, a blood-stained map, and a Potential High-end Tourist Destination

A gloomy lochan with an island in the middle 

A map.  Or is it?

 

'You're WHAT?'  I gasped, dropping my pipe (unlit, but stuffed with baccy) on to the threadbare Aubusson fireside rug.  I knew it was an Aubusson because there was a faded yellowing note pinned to the wall beneath the fireside bell pull saying 'mind the Aubusson' in spidery handwriting with a downwards-pointing arrow.   It was Saturday afternoon and we were 'taking tea' with the T-G and his good lady wife at Tupfinder Towers.  Or not so good, depending on your point of view.  But the least said about that, the better.

For now, at any rate.

'We're Opening to the Public,' repeated the T-G, glancing at me.  'What's wrong with that?  Tupfinder Towers is a historic building, with Scottish history crammed into its every nook and its every dusty cranny.   Each spider's web tells a story.  We've every potential to become a high-end tourist destination.'

'You've been talking to Val Nark, haven't you.'  I glanced back at him.  And that wasn't a question.  Val was on a mission to transform our homely neglected backwater into a money-spinner using the powers of Instagram, Facebook and her own-made nettle jam.  Regardless of potholes, hairpin bends and a general lack of appropriate infrastructure.  

I glanced at the Aubusson as I spread my third scone with a thick layer of butter and an even thicker layer of Val's jam, which, despite its resemblance to mud was perfectly edible once you got used to the stinginess.  Several mysterious brownish stains marred the rug's original faded, threadbare pattern.  

'What's the pattern on your rug, T-G? Looks like a map of some sort.  Beneath the brown stains.'

'Yes,  I believe it is a map. Or it might be just a brown stain under more brown stains.  Who knows. I can't remember.  The Old Tup might've...' he glanced up at the large gloomy oil painting depicting a red-faced, tartan-bedecked gent sporting a periwig and posing beside a gloomy lochan with an island in the middle of it that hung beside the fireplace.   'They're not blood or anything like that.  Well, they might be.  Anyway it's too fragile to clean, even if one were inclined...'

The T-G stared at Mrs T-G momentarily, then sighed and poked the ashes of the fire with his swordstick. 

'I can't do everything!' snapped Mrs T-G. 

'No no no Mildred.  Of course not.  And nobody's asking you to.  You have logs to chop,  gutters to clear, ditches to dig, laundry to mangle, toilets to muck out, pheasants to pluck and rabbits to skin.  Not to mention keeping your moustache under control and crafting your delicious black sausage rolls and pickled worms. You can't be beating the carpets as well.  At least, not every day.  More tea, anyone?'

I glanced at the oak mantlepiece,  where a shaft of sunlight illuminated the dull brasswork of an ancient sextant.  I glanced again at the 'map'.  The more I looked at it the more I was sure I'd seen it somewhere before.  I glanced at Geoffrey, who was glancing at me and then at the map in a significant manner.  He shook his head, and glanced away.

'If you're opening to the public,  then - and I hate to say this - you're probably going to have to get some staff in.   You might even have to pay them T-G.'

The swordstick clattered to the oak floorboards. 'S-s-staff?  P-p-pay them?  Oh well I hardly think...'

'Times have changed T-G.  You're going to have to change with them and employ folk and pay them Real Cash Munny - I know it sounds dreadful but it seems that nobody works for free these days.  We hear all the news from Tuppence when he comes round for his tea.'

More later.

next time...the T-G forges ahead with his plan - or is it Val's - to open Tupfinder Towers to the public. Geoffrey and I discuss the 'map'.   Tuppence comes round for his tea, and we hear more horrifying tales of modern life...

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.  

The Vaxing Yurt

 

Fortified by large helpings of sausage and tomato casserole with extra sausages and no tomatoes we sat uncomfortably on the Morocco ottoman by the mullioned window and awaited further thoughts from the T-G.  

'Would you look at the nick of that roaster with the cattle prod in the hi viz jacket - who is it Geoffrey - I can't tell what with the mask, the safety goggles and the balaclava helmet.'  I rubbed at a diamond-shaped pane of glass with a corner of my plaid scarf and peered at the grassy knoll far below, where a tall, rangy figure stood waving his arms and gesturing with a cattle prod towards a newly-erected yurt.

'Of course you can.  It's Dave Nark.  Who else would it be?  He's rounding up stragglers who won't take the vax.  People won't go into the yurt now because they're saying they've seen others go in and never come out.  That's why he's using the cattle prod.'

'Cripes.  Can't we nobble him?'

'I'm sure that's not beyond our wit and skill Tuppy.  But we'll need to be careful.  Oh - settle down.  The T-G's on the starting blocks again.'

We moved towards the roaring fire and sat gingerly on the fender seat.  The T-G sat on his customary leather armchair beside us with his long sea-booted legs stretched before him, a Meerschaum pipe gripped between his teeth.

'Is there at the core of Man such a limitless darkness that can never be apprehended by the human mind?' he began.

'You know Val Nark's selling heat logs made from compressed sawdust,' said Geoffrey, sotto voce.  'They're meant to burn quite well and are much more eco-friendly than normal logs.  Perhaps the T-G...'

'Don't be stupid Geoffrey.  They wouldn't do on a fire this size.  You need proper logs three feet long to fill this fireplace, not Chad Valley rubbish.'

'Well I was only saying.'

'Fine, but don't bother next time.  Did you bring the hip flask?'

'N-nooo,  I left it on the - '

'Oh for pity's sake.'  I needed that hip flask, and I needed it badly.

'We are the void.  We are blackness.  We are the manifestation of the type of evil that results from sheer ignorance - our actions driven by wilful blindness to our own faults and a vainglorious belief in our superiority as a species.  At best, we are egregiously foolish, at worst, deliberately wicked.  Or is it the other way round.  I'm not sure.  Anyway,  in short, we should never be allowed out on our own.  None of us!'  The silverware on the oak monastery table rattled as the T-G thumped his sword stick on the floor.

Many floors below there was an unearthly scream as Dave Nark cattle-prodded another quivering victim into the vaxing yurt.

'We're going to have to do something aren't we Tuppy.  How I hate it when things get to this stage.'

'Afraid so Geoffrey,'  I said, stifling a sausagey belch.  'Fetch the blunderbuss and limber up.'

more later

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

'I hate you lot.  You're old stupid fascists with no idea about anything and I'm going to cancel you all.'

 'Why are your ideas, needs and wishes more important than ours, Tuppence?' 

'They aren't,' said the T-G.  'He just doesn't understand the need for compromise.  Or that older, more experienced minds generally know best.'

'I understand that you lot have lived longer than I have,' said Tuppence, ' but that doesn't mean that you know any better.  Look at the state of you!'

'What do you mean?'  I paused as I reached for the baccy jar.

'You live in a tumbledown shack with a hole in the wall for a door.  You survive on stolen food, not to mention drink. You've not got a brass ha'penny to your name.  You've never travelled beyond your immediate environment. And I'm not even going to mention your toilet habits.  You've never even been to uni, for god's sake!'

'We went 'Overthere', remember?  About ten years ago? (see books for details of the trip) And we went to Flannan Isle. You were there too Tuppence.  Don't say we never took you anywhere.'

'You never took me anywhere.  I went places in order to rescue you.  You lot couldn't handle yourselves!  It was me who learned how to shoot a pistol, and use a crossbow.  Not to mention, captain a submarine and fly a plane.'(again, please see books for details of these exploits)

'I've been to 'uni',' said Geoffrey quietly.

'Oh what.  The 'university of life' I suppose? All that means is, you're old and too thick to have gone to proper uni! You lot are pathetic right wing fascist nutjobs who don't even know what privilege means, you're so thick and uneducated.  Read some books!  and I don't mean the Beano annual because THAT'S fascist too.'

'I really HAVE been to uni,' said the T-G. 'I attended the university of Holstein Carlsberg Saxe-coburg Gotha in 1846, and after finishing my degree, I did a further research degree on the lethality of curare poison when applied to small wooden darts and fired through multiple bamboo pipes and its possible use in wiping out the world's excess population.'

'Cripes!  You really ARE a fascist T-G!' shrieked Tuppence, spilling his Vimto.

'I don't subscribe to any political creed,' T-G replied, packing his pipe with Black Bogey. 'I think it was Nietzsche who said, I am not my book.  In my case, I am not my research paper.'

to be continued

'

Well!  Guess who turned up at Stormy's funeral?  Stormy!  yes, he wandered in half-way through the cage fighter's dismal reading of Stop All the Clocks, and asked whose funeral it was.
'Yours,' I said. 'Oh wait...'
 Turns out the bones that were found inside the wicker man *weren't his after all*.  SO WHOSE ARE THEY?
The problem is, we don't have 'police' or 'coroners' or 'procurators fiscal' hereabouts.  No.  We attend to everything ourselves.  If you recall (and if you don't, it doesn't much matter), we solve many of our local difficulties by simply chucking them 'over the top', i.e. off the cliffs and on to the jagged rocks and boiling seas below.  Where often-times (excuse the egregious use of 'often-times') there can be found a hungry Orca, with jaws a-gape, bored out of its mind, and only too pleased to snap up a juicy morsel.   We also hold an annual vote to decide who is the year's 'most unpopular' person, and whoever it is gets dead-legged on a midnight clifftop ramble, and hey presto! it's a happier, simpler world hereabouts. 
'But you were seen climbing up the wicker man,' said the T-G.
'Maybe I was, T-G.  But I climbed back down again.  It wasn't that hard. I roped myself up and everything, I'm not TOTALLY thick.  I went up to have a look for the clipper that was due to sail past on its way from Portugal to Massachusetts with a holdful of best Madeira.  I thought I'd get a better view from the head, and so I did.   I waved my storm lantern and guided it nicely on to the reef, where it foundered perfectly.  Since then me and the rats have been shifting the Madeira from the clipper to the Tunnels.   We could've done with a hand by the way.'
'We thought you were a goner Stormy.  We thought we'd never sup another pint of Purple Peril again,' said Geoffrey.
'And I thought I'd never get another gig again,' said Tuppence. 'When are you opening up?'
'I've got the social distancing worked out and I've extended the bar area outside by rigging up a few yards of tarpaulin.  We should be on for Friday night, given a following wind.  I've got ten gallon drums of hand sanitiser and - '
'Never mind all that!' snapped the T-G. 'What about the crew of the foundered clipper?  I take it you didn't allow them to drown?'
'And what about us?' growled Stormy's relatives. 'We ain't turned up here for nuffink.  We thort there'd at least be a funeral tea with 'am sandwiches and a bottle or two of stout.  Plus the reading of the Will of course, leading to us probably inheriting the Puff Inn and selling it on to a property developer and then going on a fancy holiday with the proceeds and being set for life.  Not that we were expecting anything or had thought it all through on the way here or that.  We're just saying.'

Next time - everyone goes to a socially-distanced 'welcome back' night at the Puff Inn.  Including Stormy's relatives and the crew from the foundered clipper.  Tuppence powers up the Moog and does a selection of E.L.P. classics before someone cuts the electric cable and causes a power outage.  There is a massive fight in the darkness caused by a shortage of cheese and onion crisps and general over-ingestion of alcoholic comestibles.  Nobody knows who is hitting who and nobody much cares. Meanwhile, the unidentified pile of burnt bones still lie in what was supposed to be Stormy's coffin...

'Stormy was a racist and a transphobe,' declared Tuppence, nailing a poster stating the same to the door of the Puff Inn.  'I'm glad he's cancelled.'
'He's not 'cancelled',' said the T-G,' He's dead.  You set fire to him, remember?  He was inside the wicker man when you burned it down.'
'Oh dear how sad what a shame never mind.'
'That's a terrible thing to say Tuppence,' said the T-G. 'In fact, you should be careful.  You might be done for 'hate speech'.'
'Not to mention, murder,' I added. 'Although it doesn't sound like you're especially worried about such niceties.'
'The world's a better, kinder place without his sort,' replied Tuppence, twirling his hammer. 'He was spiritually and morally and intellectually dead anyway.  The physical death was just a technicality.  And an inevitable one, given his incredible moral turpitude.  All for the best, that's what I say.  And so will anyone else who matters.'
'I wonder what his family will say to that.  Aren't they people who matter?'
'Stormy doesn't have a family.  Does he?'
'He does actually.  Or rather, he did,  poor bloke.  Stormy Junior is a cage fighter in Vegas and his ex-wife is a Thai kick boxing champion.  His sister (formerly brother) is a retired Olympic weightlifter and built like a brick outdoor convenience-style facility. Her hobbies include knuckledusting and biting the heads off live chickens.  They're all arriving for the funeral tomorrow and they're staying in Val's campervan - they would have stayed in the yurt had you restrained yourself from burning that to a crisp last evening.  You really need to stop all this wanton destruction Tuppence.  It won't end well.'
'It will! I'm only destroying anything offensive.'
'But not everyone finds it offensive Tuppence.  And must you resort to murder? Can't you live and let live?'
'No.  Besides,  I think you'll find Stormy's death was an accident. Not murder.  How was I to know he was inside the wicker man when I set it alight?'
'You can't prove that you didn't know Tuppence,' said the T-G.
'I wonder what he was doing in there?' mused Geoffrey.  'He must have had a reason for climbing inside.'
'Perhaps he was looking for something.'
'Or, perhaps he was hiding something.'
'Never mind all that,' I said. ' Here we all are standing outside the Puff Inn, scene of many a night of wanton revelry, and it's SHUT.  Not merely 'coronavirus shut' - it's shut because the landlord is no more.  He is an ex-landlord.  An ex-everything.  Soon to be pushing up the daisies.  Who's going to run it?  Who's going to serve us our socially-distanced Purple Perils and salty snax?  Who's going to book you in for gigs Tuppence - you and your dreadful prog band?  Nobody else would pay you to play,  I'll guarantee you that.'
'Oh bore off.  You three need to educate yourselves.  Read some books and I don't mean the Beano summer special!' snarled Tuppence.
'You can start lecturing us about books when you're not in danger of being arrested for murder Tuppence.  Are you going to turn yourself in?'
'Certainly not.'


Next time - Stormy's funeral brings his relatives, and they aren't happy with what they're told about his 'accidental' demise.  They are determined to find out the truth.  Tuppence is forced to hide out in the Tunnels and as all the korned beef, snax and Madeira which are usually kept therein were consumed during lockdown he must survive on rations lowered down to him by rope till he can be smuggled out to a place of safety. Or, until the relatives leave...

How Come We Aren't Dead?

'We've been in this cave for nigh on a year,' sighed the T-G,' with nothing to eat but a packet of ginger crunch creams and nothing to drink but random drops of condensation dripping randomly from the roof.'
'We should be dead,' said Geoffrey. 'How come we aren't?  How come we aren't T-G?  Tuppy?  How come we aren't?   TUPPY!  TUPPY!  Stay with me man!  We're losing him T-G - we're losing him!  He's slipping into unconsciousness again!  TUPPY!  Stay with me!  Look at me Tuppy!  Look at me!' and he slapped me round the face with the shredded plastic remnants of the ginger crunch creams wrapper.
'Oh who cares,' I replied, opening one eye.  Everything felt warm and fuzzy.  Outside, the sea washed gently against the rocks below. I settled deeper into my yellow hi-viz jacket and did up the Velcro neck flap in preparation for yet another comfortable afternoon's torpor.
'YOU LOT ARE DEAD,' a scornful voice bellowed over the ear-splitting roar of a powerful outboard motor. As it circled rapidly past the cave entrance and hove to we were drenched by a spray of icy sea water, and I spluttered into unwanted wakefulness.   'BRAIN DEAD! A-HAHAHAHA!'
It was Tuppence of course.
He wheeled the boat cave-side and deftly threw the painter over a jutting rock.  Peering through narrowed eyes I could just decipher the name of the boat in the gleam of the low afternoon sun - 'The Young Brexiteer'.
'Crikey Tuppence - you haven't changed your mind about Brexit have you?'
'No Uncle Tuppy I haven't. You unspeakable old fool.  How could you have even imagined in your wildest, most Madeira-addled, most senile and gammon-like imaginings and that, that I - I - of all people - would change my mind about Brexit?'
'Then - '
'This isn't my boat.  It belongs to Apsley and Cherry Fulmar.  They rent it out to supplement Apsley's pension and get spends. Cherry's a WASPI you see so she doesn't get anything till she's sixty six. They've got a camper van they rent out as well and they're Airbnbing their shed. A lady from Bulgaria does the cleaning and change-overs on a zero hour contract.  They let her stay in the shed when they've not got guests and they take the money off her wages. Obviously they don't let her use the actual beds or the cooker and hot water or that. When they do have guests she gets a bit of tarpaulin and hunkers down in the woods.  Apsley says she likes it, she's only seventy one and enjoys the fresh air.'
'So they've got quite the business going on,' mused the T-G. 'We've missed it all what with being stuck in here for a year.'
'You've no idea.  Loads has happened.  The Narks' yurt burnt down.  Val was doing an ear-candling session and the candle fell out while she was at the toilet because it was faulty. The candle that is. That's what they're telling everyone anyway.  Dave's building a new yurt from coppiced willow wands and hand-loomed jute and that while they wait for the insurance claim to be processed.'
'We can get the gossip later,' I said,  'Have you come to rescue us or what?  After all it was you who abandoned us here and left us for dead in potato sacks.  What's the story now Tuppence? Why the change of heart?  And where's Alexa?'
'In the boat.'
'No she isn't,' I said, peering.  'There's nothing in there but a brace of pistols, a bandolier, a length of rope, a portable toilet, a mysterious square package wrapped in oilcloth, a Genesis CD and an empty Pringles tube.  What have you done with her, Tuppence?'
'Nothing I tell you!  Nothing! anyway aren't you going to ask about Mrs T-G, T-G?  After all she is your wife.'
'No Tuppence.  As you know only too well she threw me out of Tupfinder Towers when I told her I'd voted Brexit, and chased me off the premises with a blazing pitchfork.  I don't expect I'll ever see her again.  Or taste her black sausage rolls.  And stop changing the subject - a very poor attempt at deflection, by the way.  What have you done with your so-called girlfriend?'
'Like I said last year, Alexa isn't my so-called 'girl'friend.  Alexa's like me - she doesn't believe in boring, old-fashioned binary distinctions and she likes her politics like she likes her music- relentlessly progressive.  No, she's not in the boat T-G. But she was.  She's got a zero hours contract Overthere at Speedispend Hypermarket and Compulsory Screening Centre, stacking shelves for whatever the under-25's minimum wage is. I dropped her off for her shift just before I came here.  She's hoping the money'll help her through her next term at uni. cos she doesn't have parents, you see. No bank of mum and dad for her.  At least I've got you three for support.  In theory, anyway. '
'That sounds awful.  I almost feel sorry for her.'
'You lot are so privileged. You don't know what sorry even means.  You've never worked a day in your lives. You've never had to think about uni fees and generation rent. You just hide away from reality in your strange little world, smoking your pipes and swigging Madeira thinking nothing's ever going to happen to rattle your cages.'
'Rattle our cages?  We've only been stranded in this cave for a year thanks to you!  I've nearly run out of baccy and I'm gasping on a pint of Madeira and a fish-finger sandwich.'
'Fools!  Have you learned nothing from your isolation?'

Next time - we return to the Rocky Outcrop only to find the entire place in lock-down following the outbreak of a horrendous 'pandemic'.  We're forced to return to the smugglers' Tunnels under cover of darkness to steal korned bif and toilet paper.    You couldn't make it up!

I woke up with the familiar sound of the incoming tide washing relentlessly against the rocks and the smell of musty potatoes in my nostrils.  I struggled to free my hands which were secured behind me but it was no use.  I kicked my legs but could barely move them an inch as they too were tied.  My back was against a wall of rock and I could feel a length of chain digging into my spine.
'Help!'  I quavered.  'I'm hog-tied in the tunnels with a potato sack over my head and the tide's coming in!'
'So am I!' cried Geoffrey.
'Never fear Tuppy.'  Suddenly a bright gap appeared, and a pair of nail scissors flashed in the evening sun.  The potato sack fell to my shoulders and I breathed clean, must-free air for the first time in - well, I wasn't sure how long because I couldn't remember anything after receiving the 'thud' on the back of my neck.
I blinked a few times and looked around me.  Someone wearing a yellow 'hi-viz' jacket was sawing away at the potato sack next to me with the nail scissors.  For a panic-stricken moment I thought it was Tuppence in his yellow oilskin, or heaven forfend, Alexa, but no - from the cloven feet and the sword-stick I could tell it was the Tupfinder General.
'Just as well I had Mrs T-G's nail scissors on me,' he said as he freed Geoffrey. 'I'd forgotten they were in my waistcoat pocket.  I must have popped them in there after I trimmed my eyebrows this morning.  If I hadn't had them I'd have had to use the business end of the sword stick and it's blunt.  I'd have been sawing away for ages.  We'd better get out of here before they get back.'
'They?'
'Tuppence and Alexa of course.  They want all us oldies out of the way.  It isn't only you two, and it isn't only them.  Can you both walk?'
'I can fly,' said Geoffrey.
'Of course.  All right - you fly over to the next tunnel and see if it's empty.  We'll follow along.  Fly back and let us know if anyone's there and if so we'll try Plan B.'
'What's Plan B?  and why must we go to the next tunnel along?  why can't you take us to Tupfinder Towers?'
'For goodness sake Tuppy.  Don't you know anything?  Don't you follow The News?  Don't you read the People's Bugle?'
'No.  I don't like News.  Unless it concerns me directly, and hardly anything ever does, thank goodness.'
'Well, I'll -'
'The next tunnels full of huge boxes T-G,' gasped Geoffrey, who had just flown back in. 'I couldn't read the labels in the dim light so I don't know what's in them.'
'I do,' said the T-G grimly,' It's stockpiled medication and probably other stuff as well. We must be right next to Dr Wilson's cached supplies.  Were there any - creatures in there?  anything - living?'
'I didn't see anything.  But I couldn't be sure. Because of all the boxes I couldn't see right to the back and it was awfully dark.  I was frightened T-G. I don't mind telling you.  It just didn't feel right and there was a funny smell, sort of like -'
'Like marzipan?' said the T-G.
'Yes!'
'Hmm.  Well, I think it'd better be Plan B after all.  Just in case.'  The Tupfinder General threw me a yellow 'hi viz' jacket and a length of stout rope.  'Put that on and tie the rope to your waist Tuppy.  We're going to have to climb.  I'll tell you all about The News when we get there.'
'Where's there?'
'Just shut up and do as I say.'
'Charmed I'm sure!  What do you make of that Geoffrey?  he's telling me to shut up!  did you ever hear the like!'
'He's right Tuppy,' said Geoffrey, struggling into his own little yellow jacket, 'Have you forgotten that we were bumped on the head by your own awful nephew just last night and hogtied with potato sacks over our heads?   Get a move on and tie that rope round.  We've got to get out of here before they come back.'

more later
  

Not so fast, coffin-dodgers

'Not so fast, coffin-dodgers.  Put those night vision goggles down and listen up. Me and Alexa are taking control from now on.  Now move.'
Tuppence (yes, for it was he, surprise surprise) stood outside with legs braced, just visible through a vast cloud of blueberry-scented vape-steam. He  waved a pistol in the direction of the hole in the wall.
'But - '
'No buts.  Shift your fat lazy butts and start walking.'
'But wh - '
'Any more of that and I'll shoot.  I mean it Uncle Tuppy and Uncle Geoffrey.  Alexa says - '
'Who's Alexa?'  I managed to ask.
'Alexa is my partner.  I would say she's my girlfriend but I'm not sure which gender she is.  And it's none of my business so I'm not even going to ask.  And neither are you.  All you need to know is, she plays bass in my new band, the one I want to tour German unis with, she's woke, and she's deeply resentful about brek-sit.  Even more than I am.'
'But you're calling her 'she' Tuppence. Surely that means that she is a she and therefore IS your girlfriend?'  I backed towards the fireplace, where I hoped to reach the poker and with any luck the button that operated the trap-door in the floor which led to the tunnels.
'I don't know and I don't care Uncle Tuppy. Anyway, we're prepared to accept that you two are much too old and thick to have made a considered and informed decision about brek-sit and therefore instead of killing you outright we've decided to simply lock you up somewhere secure until you die a natural death.  Remember when you were a prisoner in the Chateau d'If Uncle Tuppy? (please see e-books and/or Seapenguin paperback for details)  It'll be just like that except you won't ever get out.  It's for your own good and that.  You know as well as I do that you've no understanding of modern life and you're only in the way.  You'll be chained to the wall but on the plus side you'll have basic rations, a straw mattress and a bucket to do the toilet in.  Twice a day the tide will come in and you can have a bit of a wash in the icy seawater.  It'll probably do you a world of good, sort of like a health spa.'
I groped behind me as I inched towards the fireplace.  The lethal cold steel of the poker was almost within my grasp when  suddenly there was a blinding flash, I felt a 'thud' on the back of my neck, everything went black and all I could smell was musty potatoes.

more later

Death Brek-sit

The territory

I was enjoying a fully-cooked Brek-sit of bacon, Cumberland sausage, black pudding, fruit pudding, scrambled egg and fried bread and looking forward to washing it down with a pint of tea followed by a finisher of thickly-buttered toast and marmalade when Geoffrey flew in through the hole in the wall, feathers shedding everywhere as he caught a wing on the rusty nail on which hung the roughly-painted sign 'PRIVIT'.
'Tuppence wants us to die Tuppy,' he gasped.
'So what's new?'  I finished the last piece of egg and dabbed my mouth with the embroidered napkin left to me by my great aunt Agatha in her will.  Stitched into the napkin and only visible by the light of a waxing gibbous Moon was a secret code detailing the whereabouts of - but that's another story. 'Stop sweating and have some Brek-sit. There's another coil of Cumberland sausage in the larder.  Fire it on the fire.'
'No he really means it this time.  There's no time for Cumberland sausage Tuppy - unless I eat it raw, which I don't quite fancy.  We have to move, and move fast. He says if we hurry up and die he can travel all over the E.U. without beastly tariffs and stuff.  He wants to take his new band on a tour of German colleges and unis because he thinks they'll have an appetite for prog and he can't make any arrangements until he knows for sure what's going to happen.  He says we're ruining his life, it's all our fault because we're old and bigoted and it's high time we weren't around.  Tuppy - he's homicidal.  Even more so than usual.'
'I see. Where is he at the moment?'
'Do you mean, where is he in terms of his views on Brek-sit or where is he in actual, physical form?'
'Stop dithering Geoffrey.  We can't afford to waste any time.'
'He's firing his pistols at targets with our faces on, out on the moors.  So far, he hasn't missed.  Val Nark said it was healthy because he was getting fresh air and exercise as well as flushing all the aggression out of his system in a harmless-style manner but I bumped into Dr Wilson as he was stockpiling diabetes medication in one of the tunnels and he said he was behind Tuppence all the way and it was only a matter of time before we got our just desserts and the country could return to normal. '
'Great.  Start packing Geoffrey.  I'll fetch the coracle and the medical chest.  It's time we were on the move.'
'Where to?'
'We must destroy the Irish back-stop.  Forever! Before it's too late.'
'What is the Irish back-stop?'
'I don't know.  But it's our only hope.'
'It is?'
'Stop asking me things.  And don't forget the mustard plasters, the night vision goggles, the frogmen's suits, the diving bell and the full-face balaclava helmets.'

more later

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Am I invisible or am I a vampire?

Why is Tuppence averse to work?  Why are you, you might well ask, and who are you to criticise, since you never do a hand's turn.  Well, I can answer that one.  It's different for me, because I'm Older, and life was different Back Then. I never had to work.  In fact, we took a pride in not working, back then.  We diddled along, as best we could, living on supplies stolen from the Tunnels and stuff Geoffrey found in the bins at the tourist car park.  We asked for nothing and we took nothing, except what we needed plus a bit extra just in case.  Of course as you know,  the tourist car park has in recent years been transformed by Val and Dave Nark into an eco-friendly holiday park with yurts and 'pods' all ready with welcome packs filled with Val's hedgerow jams, nettle gin and the like. Forty pounds per person per night and that's in low season, thank you very much. I wouldn't pay that for a rat-infested glorified tent with a 'green' toilet, but lycra-clad, wet-suited, kayaking, paddle-boarding fools with a penchant for quinoa do.  The bins are now lidded and labelled for recycling by the way.  Any spare food goes for composting.  Not that there is anything - nothing that appeals to us, at any rate.  Nothing worth nicking.
No, what we need is a good old Wallace Arnold bus tour.  Overfed pensioners who can't finish their crisps and chuck half-empty packets out the window, along with cheese and pickle sandwiches, cocktail sausages, Chelsea Buns and Empire biscuits.  Discarded Chelsea buns would enable us to make an attempt at a five a day,  not that we care about such things, with their half-dozen raisins and the glace cherry on top.
Anyway - why is Tuppence averse to work?  Answer - he isn't, not in my book.  Tuppence works very hard at the things he likes to do, for example playing in his band and firing his pistols at random strangers. What's wrong with that?  Leaving aside the exploitation aspect, why should he have to clean toilets for three pounds fifty an hour, when he doesn't like it?
I challenged Val Nark about this the other day but she just barged past me as if I didn't exist. Perhaps I don't.  I'm actually starting to wonder.  They do say you become invisible when you reach a certain age.  At least that's what Mrs Tupfinder-general wrote in a letter to Polly, the 'Bugle' problem page agony aunt last week.  Am I invisible or am I a vampire, she asked. Because I can't see myself in the mirror.  Is it me, Polly - am I yet another victim of 'male gaze syndrome'?

more on this later.

Next time - 'Polly' turns out to be none other than Bert Vickers, moonlighting taxi driver and part-time journo, who learned writing in prison.

Tuppence goes on the Rob

This morning Tuppence burst into the kitchen wearing a full-face balaclava and twirling a brace of pistols.

'I've packed the job in and I'm going out on the rob,'  he announced.

'Low-hanging fruit?' asked Geoffrey, buttering one of those round, chewy, bread-y type things with a hole in.

'Yes!  I might as well get something out of three weeks of humiliation as a modern apprentice toilet cleaner.'

'Not to mention the risk to your health, from the wrong-sized Marigolds,'  I said. 'Well, all I can say is, don't dirty your own doorstep.'

''course not.  What do you take me for?  I'm doing tourists only and before they know what's hit them they'll be away back to wherever they came from - '

'Overthere,' said Geoffrey, adding marmalade to his round, chewy, bread-y type thing with a hole in.

'Quite,' I added. 'Overthere.  You've been to Overthere, Tuppence, only you were too little to remember.'

'I remember it all right!  Oh yes! We sailed off in the coracle to look for the oracle, and we got some crisps or something to eat, and you and Uncle Geoffrey tried to avoid the BMI assessment and compulsory health screening or something*. You didn't care about me - '

'We did!  We did!'

' No you didn't, and that lack of care and insight has scarred me for life. Twisted me, psychologically.  You two, in fact, are responsible for me being an arch-crim -'
'What's wrong with that?'
'- and a total failure in the job department.'
'That's another positive, surely?  It's a blessing to be an independent thinker, Tuppence.'
'That's not what Val Nark says.  She also knows someone who will sort me out with a few sessions of ear-candling and so forth, she's already discussed my case with them because they've been staying at the yurts this week and she says the sixty pounds a sesh will be well worth it.  It would normally be sixty one but she's getting me mates' rates. Anyway, what I was saying is - '

'The tourists will be away home before they know anything's missing.  Hmmm.  Sounds like a reasonable plan Tuppence, and much more enterprising than continuing as a modern apprentice toilet cleaner slash wage slave for £3.50 an hour.  Now I wonder what it is that you're planning to steal, that they wouldn't immediately miss?'

Later - Val Nark's ear-candling mate discovers her ear-candling kit is missing, and Tuppence sets up shop as an ear-candler...

*all true and details can be found in the e-books and paperbacks

Tupfinder Towers and the soon-to-be-obstructed view

So what's been going on in the world for the last few years, and how's it been affecting us at the Rocky Outcrop?  The answer to the first question is a fair amount, and the answer to the second is, not very much, by and large, except that everyone's 'poor' and Dave and Valerie Nark have objected to the Council about a housing development (ten percent of which is to be 'affordable homes')  up beyond the tourist car park on the grounds that it will interfere with their yurt/glamping business and also destroy valuable wildlife habitat despite the hundred yard 'buffer zone' mooted by the developers. 
Mr and Mrs Tupfinder-general have also objected, as it will obstruct the view from Tupfinder Towers, and possibly encroach upon fragile overwintering sites for the Tupfinder's South American wasp colony, only he hasn't mentioned about the wasps due to it being illegal to keep them.
More on this later.
Another new 'thing' is the food bank.  It sort of evolved from one of the overflowing bins at the tourist car park (where Geoffrey used to get his crisps from, as readers will know).  It's run mainly by 'incomer' Chic McFarlane (more on him later) and seems to only have tins of 'value' rice pudding and packets of cheesy pasta, which would suit us fine as these are our favourites, only we don't get access to the food bank as despite our threadbare lifestyle we do have a roof over our heads, and aren't actually 'starving' and don't 'qualify'. 
Yet.
Tuppence has been in trouble - or would have been, had he been caught - stealing from the foodbank and attempting to 'sell stuff on at a profit'.  Not that he made much 'profit' from tins of value rice pudding.
'There's a market for everything if you look hard enough Uncle Tuppy!'  he shrilled, throwing his bulging rucksack to the floor with a massive metallic 'CLANG!'  'I'll stockpile it and cause a crisis in the market!  I'll make my fortune yet, you mark my words!'  and he collapsed on the settee exhausted.
More on that, and plenty of other stuff, later.

We Don’t Like Yurts and New-fangled Stuff

(an excerpt from Seapenguin(2) Three Tales of Woe)

May Day has come and gone, with its fires and sacrifices and such-like, and we’re still here. Another year whizzes by, like a juggernaut down the M6, speeding who-knows-where with its load of petrified animals or toxic waste. And who-cares-where, as long as it’s nowhere I have to be.

“The trouble is, Tuppy, the world doesn’t stand still,” preached Geoffrey in his most patronising and sanctimonious manner, as he stood by the stove stirring the lumps out of a packet of Value cheese sauce mix. “It moves on, and…”

“I know that! I’m not thick!” I snapped. “And by the way — you’ll need a whisk for that if you want to get rid of those lumps.”

“…you’re not a mover and shaker Tuppy, and neither am I,” continued Geoffrey, ignoring my culinary advice as he groped his way towards some sort of rather pathetic conclusion, or dare I say it — insight, “We don’t fit in any more. Perhaps it’s an age thing. We’re hardly in the first flush of youth.”

“We’ve never been movers and shakers Geoffrey. We never have “fitted in”. Yes, we’re geriatrics, chronologically speaking, but it’s not an age thing, as such. We’ve always had a geriatric mentality. We’re slow, dull-witted, boring, inward-looking, narrow-minded…”

“Yes!” Geoffrey agreed eagerly, “We’ve never liked strangers, and we hate change. Remember the Narks, who lived in the yurt in the tourist car park? We tried to make their life hell so that they’d go away and leave us in peace, just the way we like it. And they did! Were they communists Tuppy? I’ve always wondered.”

“I don’t think so Geoffrey. I think they were hippies-turned-capitalists, trying to turn a dollar or a groat or whatever from eco-tourism. If we hadn’t got rid of them, that car park would have been stuffed with yurts, and eco-toilets, and people selling crafts and hand-made shoes, and over-priced vegetarian food, and nutters running around on stilts wearing jester’s hats and before you knew it there would have been another car park covered with more yurts, and then another, and another, and then there would have been some sort of summer fire festival, and Dave and Valerie would have built a massive bespoke eco-house from recycled whisky barrels up on the moors, with a view out to the far horizon and its own helipad, and we’d have been driven off to some ghastly council home in a “town”, heaven forbid, and our ramshackle un-eco-friendly old home would have been bull-dozed flat in the name of progress….”

“Stop, stop!” cried Geoffrey, “I’m scared they’ll come back! If they were so powerful, and determined, they might…”

“Geoffrey — they have. They have come back. In fact, I’m not sure that they ever left. Weren’t you listening, when Razor Bill arrived with the post this morning? But never mind that now. Hurry up with that macaroni cheese — my stomach thinks my throat’s been cut.”

**********

After the talent night debacle, Geoffrey and I took some “downtime” in order to refresh ourselves and to give our bottom end tummies time to recover after the unwise ingestion of Mrs T-G’s extra black sausage rolls with extra blackness.

I was drifting into a fairly pleasant semi-stupor when Geoffrey piped up.

“Tuppy?”

“What NOW?!” I really, really, really couldn’t be bothered.

“Dave Nark was asking me how we managed to keep body and soul together when we have no obvious source of income. He was wondering if we work from home, or if we’re maybe on benefits, including tax or pension credit. I said I didn’t know. Do you know, Tuppy?”

“I might do, but I’m certainly not telling Dave Nark. He’s a self-righteous nosey git. Him and his so-called wife Valerie and their so-called eco-friendly-so-called-life-style, living in a so-called wind-powered so-called yurt in the tourist car-park. They eat goji berries and quinoa, Geoffrey! You’re not telling me that’s normal. And besides — they were a mite over-fond of the Peruvian hat before they became weirdly popular last winter. Never trust anyone who wears a Peruvian hat who doesn’t have to for medical reasons, Geoffrey.”

“I also told him that you sold your soul to the Grim Reaper a while back and so none of the above probably applied to you.”

“That is true. I’d forgotten about the vast, yawning, infinite black-hole-style vacuum that I drag around with me like a duffel-bag-ful of mega-spanners, that used to be my Soul. Do you know Geoffrey — it feels heavier than one of Mrs T-G’s rock buns made from Real Rock?”

“That’s terrible! What a dreadful burden for you! It must be all but intolerable!”

“Yes — it is rather — “ I began, hesitantly.

“Anyway — back to ME,” Geoffrey barged on, oblivious, “How on earth do I manage to keep body and soul together? Please tell me Tuppy because I haven’t a clue.”

“Your soul is stitched to your body like Peter Pan’s shadow, Geoffrey,” I said wearily, “I’m afraid the stitching becomes a little unravelled from time to time, which results in “moments”, such as the one at the talent contest the other night.”

“But everything always works out all right in the end — that’s what you’re trying to say — isn’t it Tuppy?”

“Yes Geoffrey. Everything always works out all right in the end.” And I glanced over my shoulder at the yawning darkness inside the duffel-bag that lurked in the shadows behind me….

BOOK AVAILABLE ON AMAZON — see link below

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Bedwetters and Brainless Oafs

'Dark skies over yonder, Unkle Funkle.  Hoist the main-brace and crank up the -'
'Thar she blows!  The Great Whale of the West!'
'That's not the Great Whale of the West, you blind fool. That's Mrs T-G, sunbathing on the Fulmars' decking.'
It was half past ten on a Tuesday morning, and already Tuppence was raving.  His Unkle Funkle obsession was well out of hand.
He'd stormed in at eight, demanding rum, and wearing a patch over his left eye and a fake 'peg leg'.  Receiving the reply that we hadn't got rum, we'd only Madeira, and precious little of that due to 'austerity cuts', he'd stormed out again till ten, spitting over his shoulder as he went, and cursing horribly.
'Best ignored,' I said to Geoffrey, 'Like most things in life these days.'
 We then had our usual 'triple bacon' sandwich, accompanied by five cups of tea and an argument about pigs, and why it was OK to eat them and cows, but not OK to eat sheep or horses.
'It's because we don't know any pigs personally,' explained Geoffrey, wiping some red sauce from his snowy white breast feathers.  'I'd never eat a sheep, because I know one, i.e. YOU, personally.  Just as you'd never eat a gull, because you know one, i.e. ME, personally.'
'True.  We don't know any cows - oh!  Except Mr Spockfingers.  But he was a Highland cow and perhaps - '
'PerHAPS you should enlarge your circle of acquaintances,' snapped Tuppence, who by then had reappeared.
'And perhaps YOU should keep a civil tongue in your head and lay off the rum.'
'Why on earth should I listen to a pair of old bores like you?  You're not experts in anything.  You've no moral fibre.  You're fat and lazy. You're failures in every possible respect.'
Geoffrey began to sob.  I knew Tuppence had hit a nerve; Geoffrey lacks my capacity for denial.
'It's true Tuppy!  We ARE fail - '
I interrupted, shaking my head and gesturing for him to be silent.  'Easy to criticise from the dizzy heights of youth Tuppence. What are you an expert in, then, other than catapults, bed-wetting, and raspberry chews?'
'I was not criticising, merely suggesting.  You brainless pair of oafs.'
'Well!  Unkle Funkle must be turning in his grave.  He'd be shocked to his marrow if he heard your cheek.'
'Two problems with that last statement Uncle Tuppy.'
'Oh really?  Do pray continue.  I'm all agog.'  I yawned in a faux-theatrical manner.
'I fully intend to continue.  If you'd stop interrupting and yawning in that pathetic faux-theatrical manner.   Firstly, Unkle Funkle was unshockable.  Secondly, he was stone deaf, so even if he had been shockable, which as I've already said he was not, he could not have heard you. Or indeed me.  Thirdly - '
'TWO problems you said.  Now it's three all of a sudden...'
'Is it?  Oh.  I can only count to two.  Being young and all that.  Anyway - as I was saying - '
'Oh DO hurry up.  I've sausages to fry.'
'All right.  Thirdly - he's not dead.  Ergo, he is incapable of turning in his grave.'
'WHAAAATT???????'

more later.

Here's a link to my Amazon page and more Tall Tales

Tuppence reads - Wise Words from Unkle Funkle...

...he of the Wintry Isles circumnavigation fame.  Or notoriety.  Or infamy.  Or nothing at all.  Whatever.

'What are you reading,  Tuppence?'  Imagine him, reading, I thought.  Him!   Of all people!
'Don't you mean 'HE' of all people,  Tuppy?'
Geoffrey was at the mind-reading again.  Tiresome at times*.  'He of all people? Does that sound right to you Geoffrey?'
'Well, it sounds about as right as 'him' of all people.'
'Are you talking about me, you fools?' said Tuppence, glaring at us over his golden pince nez. Not that he needed 'eyewear' of any type.  His vision was perfect, even at night. Convenient for his exploits with the rats (see e-books for details).  The pince nez, therefore, were a mere affectation.  A phase.  Next thing will be tattoos I imagine - ghastly depictions of his fave prog rock stars, such as Rick Wakeman and Mont Campbell of Egg. 'If so, 'he' has got a name.  And I'm  reading Unkle Funkle's Diaries.  I found them wrapped in oilskin in a rusty tartan tin under the stairs, along with a packet of Lipton's tea, three tins of rice pudding and a Kendall Mint Cake wrapper with a use by date of June 3rd, 1920. The tin was labelled 'KLEENING MATERIELS' - that's why you wouldn't have ever opened it.  I only did cos I was bored and looking for - well, anything really.  But preferably cash.  The Diaries are ever so interesting Uncle Tuppy.  I think he went completely insane from time to time, what with the sea water drinking and the unfortunate incident with the albatross and all, but in between bouts of madness he made some useful observations.'
'Oh yes?' said Geoffrey, settling down and fluffing his feathers on his favourite end of the  mantlepiece.
'Such as?'  I said.
'Such as never work for a living, if you can possibly avoid it.  And if you must work, never ever work for someone else as an 'employee'.  Especially not in catering. He wrote that bit while employed as cook on the clipper 'Violet Carson', tacking round the Cape of Good Hope.'
'Well before he found the Wintry Isles then.'
'Yes.  He didn't like working as a cook.  He jumped ship in South Georgia and made a raft from balsa wood and a sail from his erstwhile cook's apron, and steered north, by the stars.  Only he went south, due to the prevailing winds and his getting mixed up with the northern and southern hemispheres and stuff.  And he ended up at the Wintry Isles, with a case of rice pudding, a pound of Lipton's tea and five bars of Kendall Mint Cake to see him through six months of Antarctic darkness.'
'Did he ever regret chucking his job in?'
'No.'

*useful at others

This Morning's Conversation - Do Animals Have Souls?

'Discuss.'
'Not till I've had my second cup of tea.  How many TIMES?'
'Ooh testy.'

Tuppence is out of the sweat lodge (please see previous posts for details*) and is recuperating** on the sofa by the fire in our 'house'.
Well, I call it a house but that's a very loose term really.  It doesn't conjure up its ramshackle walls, the hole in the wall that we use as a door, or indeed the 'tarp' roof.
But regular readers will know that.
'Bear Grylls and that other outdoorsy fat chap off the telly would love it here,'  enthused one of Val's yurt guests recently, as they peered through the hole in the wall while wandering past on one of her 'guided wildlife excursions'. 'It's perfect. Not a single mod con in sight.  Mind you I couldn't cope without underfloor heating and a rainforest shower.  I couldn't actually LIVE here.'
'You're so right!' cooed Val obsequiously, 'It's a pastoral idyll, perfect for de-stressing and taking a break from the pressures of city life.  At least that's what I've said on my website.  Mind your step on the sheep muck Demelza. You don't want to get that on your Crocs.'
'Ray Mears?' sneered Tuppence, throwing a used hankie at them, 'He's not outdoorsy.  He uses stock cubes for Christ's sake!'
'Oh my god - is that a talking sheep?' gasped the yurt guest. 'I thought it was a rug.'
'Yes.  And here's another one for you - bigger and ten times uglier,' I snarled, 'Now sod off and let us have our breakfast in peace.'
'Any minute now...' said Tuppence, struggling to his feet and dusting the biscuit crumbs off his britches.
I knew just what he was about to do.   He was about to...
'Fetch the shotgun Tuppy!' cried Geoffrey, flying in. 'Fetch it now, and blast them to smithereens!'
'Where's smithereens?' said the yurt guest. 'Val - where's....'
But Val had fled.  She knew us of old.
'Oh no.  My Crocs...'
Tuppence leapt through the hole in the wall and seized the yurt guest by the 'bingo wing'***.
'You're our guest now...' he smiled as he deftly roped her into the wooden rocking chair by the fireplace. 'Now,where were we Uncle Tuppy?  Something about animals having souls, wasn't it?'
'Oh yes.  But that can wait.  Let's have a bacon sandwich.  I've not reached full cogitation strength yet.'

*there aren't any
**eating biscuits
***the bit that really hurts when you grab it

I've five e-books all featuring the same characters doing various things - find 'em on Amazon here.

Fart fart fart &c.., oh - and higher selves...

'FART FART FART OWF DE AUTOBAN.  FART FART FART OWF DE AUTOBAN. FART FART FART OWF.....'
'No, he's not cured yet.  Put him back in, and give him an extra knee rug,'  I shouted to Geoffrey, through the hole in the wall.  I shouted because I was on the settee, with my feet up, picking my nose and reading the letters page of the 'Daily Bugle', and Geoffrey was Outside, by the Ersatz Sweat Lodge, which we'd built by the Old Midden, from a kit we'd bought from Val Nark's eco-health-shop.
'Right-oh.'
'And turn the dial up to 'red'.'
'Okey-doke.'
'And make sure you close the door properly this time.  We don't want any heat to leak out, like it did before.'  Not to mention his tiresome singing, I thought to myself.  But I didn't say it out loud. Which is unusual for me.
'Like it did before, when it was YOUR turn to close it by the way.  Anything else?'
'Pick up a barrel of best brandy, three pounds of baccy, some tea-bags and a bag of jellybabies when you're passing the tunnels.  Oh, and a pint of milk.  Make that two.  And a tin of Campbell's meatballs - I feel like having something different for tea.  I'm going to curry them.'
Anyway.  As you'll have gathered, if you've been following things recently,  Tuppence has been suffering from an intractable fever and pickled onion flavr Monster Munch addiction after his stay in gaol; on the advice of Val Nark we built an Ersatz sweat lodge for him to stay in till he's cured.
So far there's been no change in his condition, except that he keeps singing any Kraftwerk song which includes the word FAHRT,  phonetically, in a heavy and terrible German accent.
We're not sure how long the cure is supposed to take - there was nothing in the instructions and Val was a bit vague time-scale-wise. 'Just till he's better, for God's sake!" she barked.  "Now go away and use your common sense.  I WOULD say consult your 'higher selves' using hazel rod divining twigs, but I know you've not got those.   Higher selves, that is, not the twigs.   The twigs are available to buy in my shop, prices starting from £10.99 per individual twig.  You two idiots, with your persistently oafish refusal to address your vile processed meat, alcohol, salty snax and baccy predilections will probably remain on the basest, crudest and most repulsive level for the rest of your unnatural lives.  Anyway I've sixty pallets of flapjacks to ship to North America and I need to focus.'
'Level?  Level of what?'
'Spiritual development, of course. An ability to commune with your higher selves.  Me and Dave do that all the time, of course, what with us being vegan and having an eco-business and living in yurts and all.  But you two never, ever will.  Be able to, that is.  Now sod off and let me get on.'
Oh dear.  Higher selves though?  I was intrigued...
'Just get me the Monster Munches and I'll be right as rain,'  a thin voice wailed as Geoffrey secured the flaps and thumped the pegs into the ground with a mallet. 'I'm bored in here.  I know it's meant to be hot and dark and sweaty and it's all for my own good but I'm fed up now - please let me out.  And if you don't let me out, rest assured that I'll wreak a horrible revenge...you know I will....'

Next time....Tuppence finally gets out of the sweat lodge, and Geoffrey and I run away from him and his wrath, on the pretext of setting off to find our higher selves.....