Whatever Boils Your Kettle - Strivers and Scroungers

"I know which one I'd rather do,"  I muttered as I thrust a "pamphlet" shrieking "ARE U A STRIVER OR A SCROUNGER?"  which some deranged nutter had rammed through our letterbox - or *hole* - on the fire, along with another screaming "DEATH TO SCROUNGERS"  and yet another yelling "GO AWAY ANYONE WHO'S NOT FROM ROUND HERE BEFORE WE KILL YOUSE ALL".
Yes, it's come to this.  Politix.  Politix has arrived, finally, on our draughty doorstep, via Mrs Tupfinder General's niece-by-marriage, Melaena Shovelbum-Steele.
Melaena is what we call an "incomer".
She's not "normal", like us.
She comes from "Overthere".
I don't think I need say more.
"I'm too old to strive," I said firmly, as she parked herself in Geoffrey's usual armchair,"And that seat's taken by the way.  Geoffrey's not here but I need it for putting my feet on."
"You're never to old to strive, Tuppy.  People - creatures like yourself, even - are living till ninety plus, thanks to the help of health boffins such as Drs Kwak and Wilson (see e-books, and paperbacks) and why on earth shouldn't you continue to contribute and do your bit for society, right up until your final breath? "He Strived Until He Dropped". Wouldn't you like to have that inscribed on your gravestone?"
"No.  Now sod off Melaena.  I've got a kettle to boil."
Melaena stood up, smoothing her Tupwatch Tartan trews over her well-toned thighs.  How did I know they were well-toned?  Because the Tupfinder General recently informed me with a heavy sigh that Melaena has installed a gym in the dungeon of Tupfinder Towers, complete with Stairmaster.
"I thought she was involved in the occult when she started banging on about The Stairmaster," he said, aghast," But no - it's worse.  She's a Parliamentary Candidate - and she's into body-pumping, and personal development - and what's worse still, she wants us ALL to do it...we've to have a fast day once a week and there's no smoking and no drinking and no bacon and no sausage rolls and we're not allowed to complain about anything because we've all to cultivate a positive mental attitude - Mrs T-G is NOT impressed...and my life is now officially HELL.  Hell Hell Hell.  And what's put the tin hat on it is, my home is a wreck - again (see e-books for details of previous debacle)"
Apparently, the gym was originally installed in the uppermost floor of the uppermost turret of Tupfinder Towers - just above the Secret Room, with the Vitrine (see e-books, and paperbacks) - however, due to the weight of the equipment, the entire room came loose from the ancient stone walls, and crashed holus bolus down through the turret and the banquet hall and the drawing-room and the kitchens and the pantry and the still-room, right into the bowels of the dungeon, where it rightly belongs.

Something Will Have To Be Done............................

A pretty bad end to a night out

Well, I'm afraid I disgraced myself on Friday night and went a bit over the top at Stormy's usual lock-in. As a rule, as readers will know, Geoffrey and I go along together. But as Geoffrey is "away", I ventured along by myself. Oh dear. After a vat-load of the Purple Peril I became loud and over-familiar with other customers, not to mention sickening everyone with repeated renditions of The Raspberries "Overnite Sensation", and had to be forcibly "ejected".
I then ended up going "over the top" in a way that regular readers will know only too well. I took a massive header over the cliffs as I staggered blindly along the path homewards towards the Rocky Outcrop. I was knocked out cold, and when I came to my senses I realised to my horror that I was in a cave, with the contents of a bucket of icy water dripping down my face in a most unpleasant manner. Above me, a dentist's-style lamp shone relentlessly into my eyes, and I became aware that all four of my legs were strapped down to a hospital-style trolley.
As I squinted into the gloom, I discerned two white-coated figures stirring a cauldron of a noxious-smelling liquid.
"Ah! he's awake!" remarked the ghastly Wilson (who else?).
"How marvellous. Now we can get started on him," replied the other. Yes, it was his partner in criminal medicine, Dr Kwak.
"Aaaargh!" I spluttered, as Kwak aproached, holding a large wad of cottonwool and an enormous glass syringe.

wilson hits the skids and is replaced by kwak

"Ring out the old, ring in the new!"
"For pity's sake, Geoffrey! We've been and done the New Year. It's the first of frigging February!" I snapped.
"Soz, Tuppy."
Soz? what the heck does THAT mean? I can probably guess, but blimey - what's the world coming to? answers on a...oh, never mind.
Regular readers will sense that there is something amiss with dear old Geoffrey. He's pretty darn far from his usual sanguine self. The T-G suspects that trying to work out how to play two-handed cribbage might have over-taxed his (soz to say it, but rather small) brain. Geoffrey received a cribbage set from Sanity Claws at Yule, and spent hours obsessively poring over the rules. I hate to even allow this thought loose, but things are so bad that he MIGHT have to (gulp) arrange a so-called consultation with our new so-called medic, Dr Kwak.
Yes, the ghastly Wilson has a rival. A quack called Kwak is in our midst, doing his worst to test and screen us for every ailment known to man, just so's he can keep himself in luxury on a six figure salary. Not that we're jealous! no! not a bit of envy here - it's way beneath folk like us, with impeccable moral fibre/hygiene. Geoffrey and I are absolutely incapable of feeling anything so crass. No, we're quite content to live in our rundown hovel with its quaint leaks and draughts, which are SO character...oh, forget it.
Anyway - re. Wilson - turns out he has a terrible morphine habit (no surprise to US Hereabouts, but "the authorities" were quite unaware, till "someone" (no, not us - again, we're FAR too morally hygienic) grassed him up. Question is - who was it? do we care? not particularly, but it does give us something to mull over while we try to figure out the cribbage thing...