Covid Convos

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

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

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

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

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

Our Saturday Night plans: thinking of less cliched ways to describe Death.

'Does anything matter any more, Tuppy?'
'No Geoffrey.  Nothing matters any more, except the magical, the strange, and the unknown.'
'Isn't everything magical, strange and unknown, really, when you sit down and think about it?'
'I don't know about that.  I only know that my knee hurts, and my joints ache more in the morning with every day that passes, and if I'm not careful my back goes out when I'm least expecting it.  On top of that,  I can't manage any drugs harder than a junior aspirin unless I'm really in the mood to dice with Death.'
'Then you must come to terms with your own mortality.'
'I suppose I must, although I'll try my hardest to find a less cliched way of putting it.'
'All right.  So will I.'
'Great!  That's our Saturday night sorted.  Pen and paper Geoffrey - crack open the Madeira and the ginger crunch creams, and let's see what we can come up with!'
'By the way Tuppy....'
'Yes?  what is it?'
'You might try, as kind of a sub-set of our evening's task slash fun, to find a less cliched way of saying 'dice with Death'.  If it's not too much for you and all.'
'OK.  Fair point. I'll work on it.  But don't interrupt me again when I'm concentrating, or I'll tell everyone it was you who wee-weed in the community centre teapot last Friday, in a fit of pique after you failed - yet again - to win the DebSoc Whingers Anonymous Whinge of the Week Hamper.'


If they DO come up with any less cliched phrases, for anything, I will post them tomorrow.....

Meanwhile here is a link to more Tuppy and Geoffrey tales, on Amazon http://www.amazon.co.uk/Sea-Penguin-Fireside-Outcrop-Selections-ebook/dp/B007IKMM7E/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1411817855&sr=8-1&keywords=sea+penguin+part+three

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....

Is Everything an Illusion, and do we have souls?

"Are we safe?"
"No, of course not. Nobody's ever safe. You know that as well as I do. The membrane between life and Death is as fine as the caul on a new-born babe."
"Here we are, sitting comfortably by the fire, just had our supper, everything secure..."
"That's all by the by. Security is an illusion. The material world, as we perceive it, is an illusion. We - and I use the term merely because I can't think of another at the moment - are a collection - a confluence -of energy particles in a condition of flux. In fact, the only permanence, the only security, is flux."
"Is everything random then? Or is there an overall pattern? Look at that piece of driftwood for example. You can see how it's been shaped by its journey through the world. Where did it come from? We can only wonder. It was part of a tree, obviously. But was it part of the trunk, or a branch that fell off during a storm? Was it uprooted by a landslide, swept down to an estuary by a flooded river, and borne far out to sea on a Spring tide?"
"And then washed ashore and left high and dry by the ebb, ready for us to gather for our fire."
"Is that random? is it coincidence, or was it meant to be? And it's riddled with termite holes. It supported life, even in Death - like the story of the lion in the Bible."
"It's still supporting life. It's keeping us warm."
"I don't want to burn it now! I've grown fond of it now that I know it better. It seems like more than just a piece of wood. It's got a soul. I don't want to see it burning up and turning into ashes before my very eyes."
"Happens to us all Geoffrey. Might as well bite the bullet and face it."
"Do you think trees have souls Tuppy? Do WE have souls, come to that?"
"Trees probably do have them. You've probably got one. If not your own one, then somebody else's. I've not got one - I swapped mine a while back, for some decent sausages, remember? I did a deal with Death. I was starving. Well, peckish."
"Do you regret it now, even just a little bit?"
"No, can't say I do Geoffrey. I didn't know I had it in the first place."

Geoffrey goes insane

"I want to paint with my own shit," raved Geoffrey. He was still in his "art" phase. "I want to be primal. No boundaries. No staid, dull old conventions..."



"No consideration for other people," I muttered tetchily, wondering vaguely if Tuppence had managed to loot a strait jacket this time. He was due back from his ram raid any minute. "Who do you think you are, Geoffrey? R.D. frigging Laing?"



"His theories about family and society have been completely discredited," said a smug voice from just outside the window, which was permanently stuck open two inches at the bottom due to an ill-fitting sash. "Pills are the answer nowadays."



"You and your pills can do one, Wilson," said Geoffrey loftily. "We're on a different level here. We're entering a whole new plane."



"Oh yes. Has your old one lost a wing or something? Holes along the fusillage perhaps? Or just metal fatigue? " sniggered Wilson. Yes - the Ghastly Doctor Wilson (who would win Gold every time if Boring People to Death with your Opinions was an Olympic sport) had arrived just as Geoffrey was going spectacularly bonkers (if going Bonkers was an Olympic sport...etc.)

"I'll just take your blood pressures while I'm here," bustled Wilson officiously. "Where's my sphyg?"

"Several inches up your rectum like it should be, I hope," I sneered. I don't like sneering, but sometimes I can't help myself.

"Found it! it was round my neck all the bleedin' time...did you see what I did there? James Robertson Justice. He's my role model."

"I'd say you were more of a Kilmore myself. With your best mate being the Grim Reaper and all. It's like having our very own Burke and Hare."

"I'll take that as a compliment. We're all doomed you know. Doomed!"

"John Laurie. Yes, we know. We're all speeding willy nilly down the steep steep hill to hell in a ricketty handcart. Might as well enjoy some simple pleasures before we hurtle face first into the fiery lake. I mean it Geoffrey - crack open another crate of meths. I could really use a stiff one with a decent head on it. And you could do with getting some colour in your cheeks and all matey."

Once we had thrown some boiling fat over Wilson's clammy, sphyg-clutching fingers as they groped their evil way towards our upper arms, we sat down in our usual armchairs and sipped our meths as the screams died away and he slipped into unconsciousness.

"Nice with a slice of lemon and an olive, isn't it Tuppy."

"No. I hate froot. It makes me vom like a bastard. You aren't really going to paint with your own shit, are you Geoffrey? It smells pretty bad in here as it is."

"Nah. Changed my mind. I'm going to be a performance artist instead. Going to enact a murder - a real one mind - and film it in black and white "slo-mo". It'll look dead classy."

"Sounds like a plan Geoffrey. I like a snuff movie myself but it HAS to be in full technicolour. I wish you all the best with it. Who's the victim going to be, by the way? AAAaarrgghhh!!!!!!!!"

Geoffrey goes insane

"I want to paint with my own shit," raved Geoffrey. He was still in his "art" phase. "I want to be primal. No boundaries. No staid, dull old conventions..."



"No consideration for other people," I muttered tetchily, wondering vaguely if Tuppence had managed to loot a strait jacket this time. He was due back from his ram raid any minute. "Who do you think you are, Geoffrey? R.D. frigging Laing?"



"His theories about family and society have been completely discredited," said a smug voice from just outside the window, which was permanently stuck open two inches at the bottom due to an ill-fitting sash. "Pills are the answer nowadays."



"You and your pills can do one, Wilson," said Geoffrey loftily. "We're on a different level here. We're entering a whole new plane."



"Oh yes. Has your old one lost a wing or something? Holes along the fusillage perhaps? Or just metal fatigue? " sniggered Wilson. Yes - the Ghastly Doctor Wilson (who would win Gold every time if Boring People to Death with your Opinions was an Olympic sport) had arrived just as Geoffrey was going spectacularly bonkers (if going Bonkers was an Olympic sport...etc.)

"I'll just take your blood pressures while I'm here," bustled Wilson officiously. "Where's my sphyg?"

"Several inches up your rectum like it should be, I hope," I sneered. I don't like sneering, but sometimes I can't help myself.

"Found it! it was round my neck all the bleedin' time...did you see what I did there? James Robertson Justice. He's my role model."

"I'd say you were more of a Kilmore myself. With your best mate being the Grim Reaper and all. It's like having our very own Burke and Hare."

"I'll take that as a compliment. We're all doomed you know. Doomed!"

"John Laurie. Yes, we know. We're all speeding willy nilly down the steep steep hill to hell in a ricketty handcart. Might as well enjoy some simple pleasures before we hurtle face first into the fiery lake. I mean it Geoffrey - crack open another crate of meths. I could really use a stiff one with a decent head on it. And you could do with getting some colour in your cheeks and all matey."

Once we had thrown some boiling fat over Wilson's clammy, sphyg-clutching fingers as they groped their evil way towards our upper arms, we sat down in our usual armchairs and sipped our meths as the screams died away and he slipped into unconsciousness.

"Nice with a slice of lemon and an olive, isn't it Tuppy."

"No. I hate froot. It makes me vom like a bastard. You aren't really going to paint with your own shit, are you Geoffrey? It smells pretty bad in here as it is."

"Nah. Changed my mind. I'm going to be a performance artist instead. Going to enact a murder - a real one mind - and film it in black and white "slo-mo". It'll look dead classy."

"Sounds like a plan Geoffrey. I like a snuff movie myself but it HAS to be in full technicolour. I wish you all the best with it. Who's the victim going to be, by the way? AAAaarrgghhh!!!!!!!!"

Free at last

Well that's me safe and well back at the Outcrop. I'm sitting in my favourite chair by a roaring driftwood fire and I'm settling down with my fifth mug of madeira and a multi pack of salty snax.
Geoffrey's got sausage rolls in for our dinners so all's right with the world.
How did I escape? well - the smell of frying fruit pudding wafting under my nostrils made me desperate so I breathed in as hard as I could, expanding my chest and stretching the gaffer tape to snapping point - when suddenly -
"What the frigging heck's going on here then?" a familiar voice boomed. "I'll be having some of that. ALL of it actually. IF you don't mind."
It was none other than Mr Spockfingers. He seized the frying pan from the Grim Reaper and wolfed the lot in a oner.
"Hey! what about me?" I cried. "I'm starving!"
"All in good time," said Spockfingers. "I'm just waiting for..."
"Never mind him. What about ME?" crooned the Reaper, brandishing his scythe.
"AND me!" whined Wilson in the nasty whingey voice he uses when he's not in full control.
"...nature to take its course," continued Spockfingers.
"Oh NO!" we all screamed, as Spockfingers let rip with one of his "specials". And if you want to know about the damage THAT can do - please have a search through previous posts.
At any rate it's an ill wind as they say - the Reaper and the Ghastly Wilson fled for their lives, and I managed to place some Vick's under my nose and high-tail it back to the Outcrop.
And here I am. Later on Geoffrey and I will be heading off to the Puff Inn for the usual Friday lock-in. I can only hope that Tuppence isn't doing another of his "gigs".

More horror

(Well at least it's not green - yet.)

"You'll have to eat it juiced," smirked the Ghastly Wilson, poking me with a stick.

"Not - ch-ch-chipped, or made into crisps - mashed, even?" I quavered.

"Juiced. Along with a couple of onions, some garlic and a handful of alfalfa sprouts. If you won't take it through the normal channels we'll have to put the tube down again."

How on earth had I come to this sorry pass? Strapped in a chair (with a hole sawed in the seat for my "convenience" in case you're wondering) with the Ghastly Wilson force feeding me vegetables.

"You couldn't bung a sausage in it, could you? I'll pay."

"Ha-ha-ha!" laughed the Ghastly Wilson, throwing his head back and revealing some rather poor dental work, if I'm honest. "But you haven't got any munny! besides - munny's worth nothing Hereabouts."

"You're not even doing this for my benefit. You're doing it for your own sadistic pleasure."

"So what if I am? I don't get much fun out of life. You can't begrudge me this."

And he switched on the juicing machine full blast. "Come on boys - I need more voltage - pedal for grim death!" he shouted at the rats (who were powering up the generator via pedal power - please see previous posts if you don't believe me)

"Not so fast, Wilson," said a suave voice. A claw-like hand reached out and yanked the plug from the socket. There was an overpowering smell of mothballs and half a dozen spiders scurried out from beneath his long black robes.

"Oh for f - "

The flaming Reaper again.

"We don't want him to live, Wilson. We want him to DIE!! I need to keep my quota up, remember? you did agree to help. And now I find you going behind my back and feeding people vegetables to make them healthy. Now stop all that nonsense and fire these under the grill quick-style."

And he produced a family sized BBQ pack of mock chops, Chinese-style ribs, Cumberland-style sausages, fruit pudding, black pudding, smoked sausage, and lard-burgers.

"Hope you've got soem brown sauce," I said eagerly.

Death - is it avoidable?

(I know - I've done this before. A few times. But hey. Always worth another visit.)

Geoffrey and I were sitting by the fire discussing the ways of the world, while the rain battered the tiny windows of the Outcrop.
"Another madeira, Tuppy?" asked Geoffrey, rising to his feet.
"Why not," I replied, proffering my mug. "Another pint or two should keep out the chill on this fine July morning. And fire on the lorne - I'm gasping on my breakfast."
"Are you sure that's wise?" asked Geoffrey, raising a quizzical eyebrow. "After all..."
"Not you as well!" I spluttered. This was too much.
"Well, diet and exercise, Tuppy. Very important if you want to keep your health."
"You've been brainwashed, Geoffrey. You've gone over to the dark side. I thought you had more fortitude. Well, let me tell you this. If the Grim Reaper wants to meet up with me, mano a mano, for a square go anytime - bring it on."
"Square sausage more like."
"Are you implying that I couldn't take on Death?"
"Yes. I'm not being rude or anything, Tuppy, but you couldn't blow the skin off a rice pudding in your current condition."
"Alright. If you want to be like that, fair dos. All I'll say is this - bring me that rice pudding, and watch me blow its skin off. Just watch me do it. And now I'm going in a massive huff."

The Bacon Torture (contnd.)

"Put that frying pan down!" commanded the T-G.
"Yes," I added eagerly, "And get that bread buttered while you're at it. I'm gasping on a bacon sandwich. Any brown sauce?"
"Red for me," said Geoffrey.
"Ha-ha-ha-ha!" laughed the Reaper. "Your puny weapons are quite useless against me - I'm dead as a doornail."
"And besides - bacon's for CLOSERS!" chortled the Ghastly Wilson, just as a bullet whistled past his ear.

The Bacon Torture

Before we knew where we were, we found ourselves "huckled" towards some ghastly-looking machinery and strapped on.
"Turn the switch!" commanded the Reaper.
We assumed that he meant our exercise machines and braced ourselves accordingly - but no - Wilson was busily stuffing vegetables into three blenders, all going at top speed.
"That's enough!" said the Reaper. "We don't want to lose all the fibre. Now get the tubes in."
As Wilson approached us carrying several lengths of rubber tubing, the Reaper continued.
"You are about to have a healthy mixture of berries, wheatgerm, leafy green vegetables and alfalfa sprouts poured down your throats, whether you like it or not. Meanwhile, I will start frying up a bacon sandwich, nice and crispy, which I will then waft under your noses just out of reach. I might even bung on a sausage as well. The resulting mental and physical torture should finish you all off nicely, and I shall make my quota no bother. Goodbye!"
And with that, he turned his back and proceeded to light a gas ring and open a packet of Co-op smoked back.
"I'll just wait till the pan's nice and hot," we heard him murmur to himself as Wilson began pointing the end of the rubber tubing at my throat.
"Just hold it right there!" bellowed the T-G. Somehow, he had managed to twist free of the burly henchmen and had whipped a pair of pistols out of his belt.

A Nasty Encounter in the Tunnels

...none other than the Ghastly Wilson, all togged out in Lycra for pity's sake. And looking very full of himself.
"He's looking very full of himself," whispered Geoffrey.
"And well he might," I muttered. "Look who he's got riding shotgun. In a manner of speaking."
"Blimey!"
Striding around impatiently at the back of the podium was none other than the Grim Reaper himself.
"Come on, come on, get on with it," he hissed, swirling his cape around and creating a terrible draught. "I haven't got all day! I need to make my quota before midnite. Get them on the machines, toot sweet."
"Yes, master," grovelled Wilson. "And I'll start feeding them the health foods, as well. Just to send their systems into shock."

By the Way

In case you're wondering - Tuppence swam back to shore. He's still on his health and fitness drive, and was determined to show off his prowess.
"For pity's sake," we shouted, as he prepared to jump overboard just as the "Hebridean Princess" bore down upon the coracle, "Don't be foolish, Tuppence. Nobody could care less about your prowess."
But our words were drowned out by the ear-splitting honking of the boat's fog horn, and the horrified screams of the passengers as the coracle was sucked into the wake and chopped into a million pieces by the whirling propellors.
He returned late last night, none the worse and unbearably full of himself. And amazingly, his wool was bone dry.
"See, uncle Tuppy? I'm in terrific shape. A quick five mile swim in the icy waters of the Minch is just the ticket. Dr Wilson..." (at this point, Geoffrey and I sighed loudly, and spat into the fire)"...Dr Wilson has started up compulsory body pumping classes, followed by a glass of black carrot juice, colonic irrigation and a ten mile hi-energy jog along the cliffs. I'm all for it. Besides, he sez anyone who doesn't take part, will..."
At this juncture, a familiar face, or rather, hooded head, appeared at the open window. It was the freakin' Reaper - again.
"Why bother with all that rubbish? You might as well relax, put your feet up and eat chips. After all, you're all going to die anyway!" and he laughed his horrible, hollow, echoing laugh as he glided off.
"I think a quick snifter's in order," I murmured, reaching for the madeira. "By the way, Tuppence - why isn't your wool soaking wet, after your five mile swim? it's not acrylic, by any chance?" I sniggered in an unpleasant, snide kind of way.
"Don't snigger like that," scolded Geoffrey. "You're lowering yourself to his standards. There's absolutely no need. Besides, you're right. It IS acrylic. Look!"
Tuppence was unzipping his "wool" which, it turns out, is actually an acrylic fleece-style zip-up jacket. Beneath that, he was wearing a "dry suit" and a jet-propelled life jacket.
"You didn't think I'd go out in that holey old coracle unprepared, did you, uncle Tuppy?"

Hours of Fun

Geoffrey and I have had a great time today. We decided to try out our new hooded black cloaks, and so we got up early and went for a walk along the cliffs. It was a blowy day, with a storm brewing "Over there", and looking very much as if it was feeling like heading "Hereabouts".
As we neared the Old Coastguard Hut (see gazetteer)the sky turned an odd pewter-like colour, which put me in mind of my own dear pewter-style mug, which I use for supping madeira.
"Perhaps we should head home to the fireside, Geoffrey, and have a stiffener. After all, it's gone half ten."
Before he could reply, a crowd of rats emerged willy nilly from the tunnel entrance/exit, which readers will recall is located within the Old Coastguard Hut. When they caught sight of us, they ran back in, screaming at the top of their lungs.
"It's the Reaper! And he's got back up!"
Geoffrey and I exchanged glances. "Let's take the long way home, and scare some more people!" I suggested excitedly, enjoying the feeling of power. "I wonder if we can pick up a couple of scythes from somewhere. Let's have a look in the T-G's skip!"
"Don't be selfish Tuppy. Think of the elderly, and the sick. You could tip them over the edge..."

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."

I swap a knee rug for my immortal soul

Last evening, Geoffrey and I were enjoying our usual glass of madeira in front of a roaring driftwood fire. We sat in companionable silence for an hour or so, puffing away on pipefuls of Black Bogey and toasting our feet. Then...
"What's that awful smell?" said Geoffrey.
"Burning rubber, " I replied. The sole of my slipper had started to melt. Not for the first time.
Once we'd removed the slipper and set it at the front door to re-solidify, we sat down again and began to discuss our fave topic, viz. "Is Death Avoidable?" Regular readers will know that this involves a reflection on the point or otherwise of reducing dietary fat intake and increasing regular exercise. Usually we decide that there's no point in doing either - why make life more unpleasant that it needs to be?
As we did so, a shadow passed back and forth outside our window - the Grim Reaper himself, complete with scythe - the miserable old so and so.
"Get lost!" we shouted. "You're much too early. The winter hasn't even set in."
"Why isn't he down at the bay?" muttered Geoffrey. "After all, there's plenty work for him there, what with the new trip wire and all."
"Yes," a ghastly voice intoned (the Reaper), "but the tourist season's nearly over. I'm all out of cyclists and kayakers. I'm having to spread my net a bit wider. Can I come in? It's a bit nippy out here."
"No! go and spread your net somewhere else, why don't you?" I snapped. "What about Tuppence's wrecking light? aren't there any doomed seafarers you can pick on?"
"Good idea. Forgot about that. But I'm still awfully chilly."
"Tuppy - give him your tartan knee rug. And what about your zip up slippers? the sole's gone on one anyway."
With a sigh, I opened the door a crack and handed the Reaper said knee rug and slippers.
And off he went. For now...
"I want the rug back mind," I called. The Reaper replied with a nonchalant wave as he shuffled off down the hillside.
"Tuppy!" hissed Geoffrey. "You fool! You've given him a reason to return. Let him keep the thing. It's a small exchange for your immortal soul, after all."
"Ooops! I didn't think of that!"

we rescue geoffrey

Matters came to a head with Geoffrey and we had to intervene before he killed himself. The Grim Reaper was hovering in the background with a horrible leering grin as we - me, the Tupfinder, Apsley and Cherry - approached. What we did was this. Geoffrey was cycling at a terrific pace, and it would have proved impossible if not dangerous just to seize him in mid-flow, so the Tupfinder found a pole, and shoved it between the spokes of the front wheel - this halted the bike immediately, and Geoffrey was thrown headfirst over the handlebars - we caught him in a blanket and no harm done.
Since then we've been nursing him round the clock. As well as suffering from shock and severe dehydration his breathing is erratic and he's running a high fever. For a ghastly moment or two I feared the worst - i.e. that I'd have to consult Dr Wilson re. Geoffrey's condition - however, the Tupfinder thinks he'll recover in time, so no need for that.
Tuppence is probably attempting to plug his moog into the Fulmar's generator again, but if the silence is anything to go by, he hasn't yet managed it. Hopefully we'll all manage to enjoy a brief respite from the bleeding from our ears.
I know that crisps are probably not the best thing for Geoffrey's health at the moment, but I'm certain that even the sound of a rustling packet will cheer him up, so I'm off to scour the bins at the tourist car park. Embarrassing, but it will be worth it just to see the look on Geoffrey's face.

the return of the purple peril

I've had a bit of a head for the past few days, hence no correspondence. Geoffrey's been the same - in fact, he almost lapsed into a coma again. Since Sunday, the two of us have been crouched trembling by the fireside, with tartan knee rugs over our heads, sipping hot madeira. It's all we can cope with.
What happened is this.
We decided to venture over to the Puff Inn, Sunday lunchtime. We were pretty sure Tuppence's gig was off, for reasons described in last two posts, so assumed it would be a case of sitting quietly in the snug with a bottle or two of Stormy's finest madeira and a large bowl of some delicious salty snack mixture. HOWEVER - the ever-resourceful Tuppence, aided by Stormy, who was acting as "road manager" - had managed to rig up a "sound system" and power up the moog at the same time. It worked like this.
Some of the rats, overfond of Stormy's wares, had run up a massive bar tab, and there was no indication that they intended to pay it off anytime soon. Stormy had been worrying about this for some time, but had no means of forcing them to pay up, as they seemed quite oblivious to ordinary threats and coercion. HOWEVER - he noticed that they began to shrink back into the shadows whenever the Reaper appeared. Ergo, Stormy deduced, here was a weapon. Like the rest of us mortals, they too fear the Reaper.
Stormy threatened to use his influence - meaning, that if the Reaper was going to be paid for a gig at the Puff Inn, then technically, Stormy was his employer, and could call himself such - to get the Reaper to move the rats up to the top of his "list", unless they agreed to co-operate with his plan.
Which was as follows. The rats were to obtain a number of exercise cycles, bring them to the Puff Inn, wire them up to the moog, and start cycling for grim death - literally.
And that's exactly what they did. It took a while for them to crank the power up to a usable level, but my goodness, when they did, the sound was amazing - deafening actually. Tuppence began with ELP's Fanfare for the Common Man - he played it with one hoof, and managed to hit all the right notes "but not necessarily in the right order" as someone once said - not my cup of tea, but the rats loved it and it spurred them on to even faster cycling. Someone had to throw cups of water over the wheels to stop them catching fire and the resulting clouds of steam only added to the atmosphere.
Stormy had resurrected the Purple Peril koktale to mark the occasion ( see previous posts for info. re. this lethal meths 'n' madeira concoction) I'm afraid Geoffrey and I succumbed to tempation, hence our current semi-comatose condition.
I don't remember much of what happened next. Obviously we staggered back to the rocky outcrop somehow. Geoffrey put his back out at some stage in the proceedings, we don't know how.
Word from Razor Bill this morning tells me that Spockfingers turned up halfway through Tuppence's act, determined to give his rendition of Sweet Child in Time. There was a terrible shrieking towards the end and all the windows blew in. Then Wilson stormed in, covered in seaweed (see previous posts) in a furious temper, screaming something about them all being utter philistines and that they were besmirching the name of prog. He ripped the electric cable from the exercise bikes and brought the act to a sudden end. Spockfingers offered to crank things up again using his incredible wind power, but it was thought too risky.
Anyway, back to normal now.

gig off

Great news! Razor Bill (postman) stopped by on his rounds for a drop of madeira this morning - never too early - as someone once said "It's five o'clock somewhere" - and gave us the latest from the Puff Inn. Rehearsals for Tuppence's band's Sunday lunchtime gig have not been going too well. There have been horrible scenes. Dr Wilson insisted on playing "pure prog" (no surprise there - he's such a pedant) but Tuppence and the Reaper wanted to play more heavy rock, egged on by Mr Spockfingers, who wanted to start the set with Deep Purple's Sweet Child in Time, so he could showcase his vocal range. Wilson stormed out in a terrible huff, which left them without anyone to squeak the glass. And without electrics, that means they only have the biscuit tin lids left.
Anyway it's all gone "tits up" as they say.
And Geoffrey and I couldn't be more pleased. We don't like music. We like Val Doonican.

grim reaper reveals a musical side

I'd been wondering what had happened to the old grim reaper (see previous posts - quite recent for a change actually) - it seemed a bit unlikely that someone who'd been dispatching people since the dawn of time would be scared off for good by the Tupfinder waving a pitchfork and shouting "Begone, begone."
And unlikely it is. Word from the Puff Inn tells me that he's gone nowhere - he's been lurking around in the shadows like the proverbial bad smell, leaning on his scythe and looking grim without so much as a by your leave. "Waiting..." as he puts it.
What's on his mind? well, apart from the usual, music for one thing. If you can call it that - I wouldn't, but for obvious reasons won't be sharing my views with the Reaper. Anyway, Tuppence has formed a band - supposedly prog rock - and Stormy Petrel has agreed to give them a gig this Sunday lunchtime at the Puff Inn. He isn't taking much of a risk, as it's usually dead in there at that time - will be even deader this Sunday, what with the Reaper playing musical scythe in Tuppence's band. Line up - provisional - seems to be as follows: Tuppence - Moog synthesizer and lead vocals; Mr Spockfingers - backing vocals (??!); Grim Reaper - musical scythe; Dr "I hate him" Wilson - the glass (rubbing a wet finger round the rim to make a humming/squeaking noise); a rat - biscuit tin lids (percussion).
Only problem is, the Moog will need to be plugged in, and as readers will know, the only folk with leccy Hereabouts are Apsley and Cherry Fulmar - and we all know what trouble Geoffrey and I caused when we accidentally cut through their generator cable. (see previous posts - if you can be bothered - it was ages ago)
Anyway, Stormy's working on it.