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."

Oh dear oh dear - I haven't got a soul

When I finally emerged from the kitchen, I was confronted by an awful sight.

Tuppence, Peter Edant, the T-G and Geoffrey had all been turned to stone. Their faces were fixed in a collective ghastly rictus grin, and their eyes were bulging and starting from their sockets.

Suddenly I heard a strange humming, chugging engine-style sound, and then a horrible metallic grinding and scraping. I spun round and saw the Ghastly Wilson laughing his head off as he gleefully turned the crank handle on the T-G's soul extracting device.

"What on earth are you doing with THAT?" I snapped. "Turn it off immediately. And DON'T point it in my direction - !!"

Quick as lightning I seized the tartan knee rug (Tupwatch tartan of course - contact seapenguin for full details of colour ways and items available such as kilts, bum bags, toorie hats, pants etc.) which was still lying across Geoffrey's fossilised knees and flung it over the soul extractor's lens. At once, the machine started to overheat and toxic fumes belched from its rear end.

Or perhaps that was me.

"Turn it off, Wilson, for goodness sake, before we choke to death."

I fetched a bucket of water from the kitchen and threw it over the machine.

"What are you playing at, Wilson? You've extracted the souls of my two best friends, and Tuppence as well."

To be continued...

Geoffrey's back to normal

Geoffrey's back to normal. The partial soul extraction "wore off" - although I'm tending to the view that it may well not have happened in the first place. A soul extractor? what a load of codswallop...oops - the Tupfinder General has just tapped on the door so better throw the old tartan knee rug over this lot for a sec. till I see what he wants.
Three hours later...the T-G was all apologetic about the "accident" with the soul extractor, saying that his sleeve must have caught on a handle, or something, and he brought a plateful of sausage rolls to make up for it. Fine by me. I'd swap my immortal soul for a fresh Tower Bakery sausage roll, any day.
He's still wittering on about the trench.
"We could get Titus and Spockfingers to do the heavy labouring, Tuppy."
"Oh yes. Asked them about it, have you?"
"Er, no."
"Hmmph. I shouldn't waste your breath. They aren't into manual labour. especially Spockfingers."
"It might help them shift a few pounds. Heaven knows they could do with it."
"Are you saying I'm fat? or are my ears needing cleaned out?" Spockfingers' dulcet tones bellowed through the half-opened window. (well, it IS spring-time)
"Probably both," replied the T-G rather acidly.
"How dare you! I'm big-boned! Just you wait there one minute..." and there was a loud splintering sound as Spockfingers attempted to heave himself through the window-frame.
"See what I mean," I whispered as the T-G put on his cape ready for a quick exit.

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!"