addendum

You won't be surprised to know, that during Geoffrey's coma, I could hear the swishing of you-know-who's scythe drawing ever nearer. As I stood watch by Geoffrey's bedside I was grateful for the Tupfinder general's sturdy presence with his service revolver at the ready. He stood guard by the door, which is a bit ricketty at the best of times - see photo - and shouted "Begone, begone" from time to time, fired the odd shot, and brandished a blazing pitchfork full of hay and stuff. That seemed to do the trick.

B.O. becomes less of a threat, and Tuppence sends us a note

No go with Tuppence and the TTD blueprints. We managed to get a message to him via Razor Bill the postman, and we got one back quick as you like, with just the two words written on a piece of torn lavatory paper. Not surprisingly one of them was "off". It was actually quite hard to read, due to it having been written in felt pen and the paper being the posh quilted variety. But we got his drift. Quilted bog roll! Tuppence is clearly doing quite well for himself! whereas Geoffrey and I are enduring the rigours of whatever cheap "value" range we can find. Geoffrey does favour Izal, but honestly, at my age that's not on at all.
So, back to square one with the reaper. We've decided to consult the Tupfinder general about it all. He's bound to have encountered this problem before. We also need his advice about Baby Orca - Tuppence has been revelling in it all and egging him on to ever greater heights of slavering revenge - it's pathetic really. Why can't he let bygones be bygones. Anyway, apparently I was mistaken about the bounty on my head being a real bounty as in bar. However, word from the Puff Inn is that nobody's interested in capturing me and flinging me into the sea to be consumed by B.O., as it's well-known that he - Baby Orca - hasn't got any cash and wouldn't be able to pay out. His mum died broke (in more ways than one - see previous posts), and he just lives from one meal to the next. A bit like me and Geoffrey at the moment, so I've no sympathy.
Obviously, he was counting on yours truly being on the menu before too long, but although I'm "most unpopular" Hereabouts ( see previous posts) it looks like there's not enough money on the table, so nobody can be "arsed" to use one of Tuppence's favourite words, getting mixed up in it all. Specially at this time of year - the weather isn't half "parky" and nobody wants to be scuttling around kidnapping folk unless it's absolutely unavoidable. So, that's one less thing to worry about.
Tonight we've invited the Tupfinder round for madeira and crisps - Geoffrey's scouring the bins as I write - and we hope to come up with a solution re. the Reaper.

we decide to remove Death

Geoffrey and I have decided to play the grim reaper at his own game: we're going to remove him - or she, or it. How to do it? well, of course we discussed murder - a pretty radical solution, because as we all know, or most of us anyway, murder isn't pleasant, or even justifiable, usually, but there's a moral argument here, viz. an eye for an eye. Or a life for many lives, in Mr. G. "thinks he can get away with anything" Reaper's case. Better by far to kill one, and save many.
That's what we concluded after a nightlong discussion. A dilemma which hasn't been resolved quite so tidily is the use of the word "kill". It isn't, well, very nice. It's a bit kind of in your face. A bit of a bald statement. The word "murder" is little better. We hit upon "remove" as a temporary fix - but really, it won't do either, as we don't want to remove him/she/it. Remove implies removal, or shifting, to somewhere else, and we want to get rid of him/she/it altogether.
Anyway, it'll have to do meantime.
So, to the actual nuts and bolts of removal. How to "remove" the Grim Reaper? well, we've seen many a resident from Hereabouts "going over the top" (see previous posts), but we didn't think that would suffice for the Reaper. We defo. wouldn't want to to see him clambering back up over the cliff edge again, probably in a foul temper, and therefore felt that a more stringent solution would be required.
After a badly needed whiff of sal volatile at 5.15am., we had a joint brainwave, viz. capturing him/she/it, possibly in a tungsten net, and "removing" him/she/it via a revamped TTD (time travelling device - see previous posts from ages ago - Tuppence made one from old luncheon meat and korn bif cans)
The only thing is, we're not sure we can lay our hands upon the blueprints for the old TTD, so we might have to track down Tuppence and see if we can bring him on board. But he's so young that he probably isn't bothered one way or t'other about the old G.R. and his constantly whizzing scythe.

cowering in the slipstream of the grim reaper's scythe

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

whizzing towards the grave

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