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...

Hell on the Toilet

'I think I'm turning into one of these people who can't eat salad.  It just makes the next day hell on the toilet.  I just can't seem to wipe myself clean at all, even with Andrex Washlets, it just goes on and on.  And on.  You won't know about these things yet dear,  you're much too young.  You've got it all in front of you!  or should I say, behind!'  Mrs T-G grinned, and her false teeth 'bridge' fell out, revealing a solitary brown tooth to which it had been attached with a piece of chewing gum.  'Oops.   Do help yourself to a black sausage roll and here's some of my special squash.'  

Mrs T-G poured some of the plopping, steaming green liquid into a cracked ceramic mug, with 'World's Best Dad' emblazoned on the side.   The mug split open and the squash splashed onto the wooden floor, immediately burning a hole in it.

'Oh.  Well, it was a charity shop mug so no great loss.   I'll fetch you another.'  Mrs T-G clomped towards the spiral staircase.  She turned at the first step, and said,' Perhaps the squash is a bit on the strong side.  Perhaps I should add some more fluids.  Toad milk might help with the acidity.  I think I have some in the pantry.'

Alexa returned swiftly to the telescope. 'Well?' she asked, silently, as the star appeared.  'Do I help Mrs T-G with her beastly Kantian paradigm, and drink her beastly toad milk, or do I do more cleaning for Val beastly Nark?  Or should I just run away perhaps. I don't want to be a slave to money till I die. I don't think I even want to go to uni.   There has to be a better way to live, that doesn't involve entering a nunnery or some ghastly sandals and wholegrain communal living type situation.  I can't face a lifetime of wage slavery.  I just can't.'

The star twinkled sympathetically.

'I think you're the only one I can talk to and you're not even a person.  You're a star and you're so far away you might not even exist any more.  You might only be a ray of light.  Life is so lonely sometimes.'

Next time - Alexa's boyfriend Tuppence has too much to drink and declares that he was once in the SAS, but nobody believes him.  And Alexa has some major decisions to make.

Alexa consults the telescopic oracle

 Alexa peered into the eyepiece.   A bright star twinkled at her from somewhere deep in the vast Magellanic Cloud.

'Wow this is awesome.   I feel like my entire body is going to be sucked right through the telescope towards the star eyeball first but it's prob'ly only my immortal soul or whatever.   It kind of makes two weeks in Lanzarote seem very tame and pointless,' she thought.  'I wonder if I should bin my Onlyfans career...I don't like to admit it but I don't like it...wait is that star getting brighter?  Yes it is...OK so this is kind of a celestial two blinks for yes, one blink for no kind of deal, which is totally fine.  So, should I just not do Onlyfans?  I'd never admit it out loud but it doesn't feel right.  Imagine if Mr Stevens the dairy produce manager at Speedispend saw me.   Or even the Tupfinder General!  I can't bear the thought of that.  Yes  I  think I should just bin it.'

The star twinkled even more brightly and seemed to dance a little.

'But if I bin it,  I'd have to do even more hours as a cleaner.  And I don't think I could hack that.'

The star faded disapprovingly.

'Or perhaps I could...'

The star brightened a little.

'Should I...?'

CRUMP CRUMP CRUMP

The star vanished.

Someone heavy-footed was climbing the spiral staircase.  The door creaked open and Mrs Tupfinder General appeared carrying a tray of steaming black sausage rolls and a large jug of murky, bilious green liquid which plopped and bubbled and seemed to be producing some type of noxious gas.

'I thought you might like a refreshment.  Consulting the telescope can be draining.  By the way Alexa,  I happen to be looking for someone to help me with some written work I'm doing.  It's a monograph on the Kantian hermeneutic paradigm and its irruption through the symbolic order and I need someone who can work a computer and basically type the bastard out for me.  Val Nark says you're quite reliable for a young person.   Not that I pay any attention to what she says but I was wondering if you might be available?  I will pay real cash money.'

Alexa stared at the blank spot where the star had been.  'Well?' she asked, silently and in trepidation...

Next time - Alexa and Mrs T-G engage in discussions about mirrors and the authentic self - plus, why the star cannot cope with Mrs T-G, and why cheese footballs are only ever available at Christmas time except at Home Bargains.

Questionable Time at Tupfinder Towers

 

the T-G

'CRUMP CRUMP CRUMP'.

Tuppence thumped on the two feet thick, iron-studded oak door with his fists.

'CRUMP CRUMP - ugh.  I'm knackered.'

'No wonder.  You've been banging on that door for ten minutes.  Maybe if you stopped shouting CRUMP CRUMP at the same time as banging it wouldn't be so tiring though.'

'That's easy for you to say standing there eating - what is it?  It looks like wood.'

'It's one of Val's gravel flapjacks.  Want some?'

'No.'

'How will they ever hear us,' said Alexa.  'Look at the size of the place.'

Above them, vanishing into the clouds, loomed a towering ivy-covered Tower - the only remaining Tower at Tupfinder Towers.  The other three collapsed so long ago that nobody could remember when or why - not even the Tupfinder General, or Mrs Tupfinder General, with a combined age of nine hundred and forty two.  Piles of abandoned rubble indicated their previous location.

'Yes.  Stuff this.'  Tuppence whipped out his pistol and began shooting.  Bullets whistled through the air and lodged themselves into the centuries-old oak making barely a dent.  A few ricocheted off the iron studs and flew who knew where, only a few random screams indicating that they had landed 'somewhere'.

CREEEEEEEAAAAAAAKKKKKKKK

The door swung open slowly, and a shotgun barrel waved them inside.

'A bit of target practice never did anyone any harm,' roared the T-G. 'Come inside.'

They asked what had happened to the other three towers.

'Perhaps the Old Tup might have known,' mused the Tupfinder, waving an arm at a dusty oil painting depicting someone almost identical in appearance to the Tupfinder General, except with white hair, cross-eyes and a kilt.  Oh and only the one cloven hoof.  'He lived to a decent age.  Four thousand and fifty I think it was.  Anyway.  Perhaps you'd like to visit Mrs T-G's laboratory.  Where she makes her black sausage rolls.  No?  Then perhaps we can go to the observatory on the upper floor and you can have a shot of my inter-galactic supra-space-time-dimension telescope.  It's so pleasing to have young visitors for a change'.  He continued ushering Tuppence and Alexa up the vast staircase. 

'Come along,' he beckoned,  his cloven hooves clip-clopping on the wooden floor as he made his way  briskly along a narrow book-lined corridor with an even narrower spiral staircase at the far end. 

'Why do you have cloven hooves T-G,' asked Alexa. 'I'm quite envious it's a strong look.'

'Like long noses, they run in the family,' he replied. 'Here we are.'

He opened a door at the top of the spiral staircase revealing a room evidently at the top of the Tower.  A large telescope occupied much of the space.  He pressed a lever and a humming sound filled the room

The telescope began to rotate.

'This is a special telescope.  It can be used in the usual way, to look at the stars and such-like, but you can also ask it questions.  For example, you, young lady, are wondering whether now is the right time to quit your job as a cleaner, and if Onlyfans is going to provide you with a sufficient revenue stream to see you through uni and maybe have a couple of weeks in Lanzarote.'

'H-how did you know that?'  

The T-G smiled mysteriously.  'I have certain powerful listening devices set up in various locations.  It's part of my supervisory role as Tupfinder General.   Anyway - gaze into the eyepiece and focus your mind on your question...'

Next time - Alexa gazes questioningly into the eyepiece and focuses her mind on her question...Tuppence questions the legality of the Tupfinder General's questionable 'listening devices'....

Oldness

 'You know what Val Nark's so vain', said Alexa.   'I heard her talking to herself in the mirror before I smashed it.   She's totally jealous of Mrs T-G. it's so random, they're both ancient so why would they even care.'

'Dunno,' replied Tuppence. 'You never know with old people. They kind of want things both ways.  One minute my uncles are demanding comfy seats and help lifting their shopping bags and the next they're annoyed because I keep telling them they might as well go to Switzerland cos they're past it.  But age is still no excuse for them having problematic attitudes and ignoring current tech.  I'm going over to Tupfinder Towers to ask the T-G. about some other stuff now.  Want to come along?'

'Sure.  Is he sort of like an oracle?  Because I want to quit my job but I don't know if it's the right time,  I need some advice from a sage or something.  I'm not earning enough from Onlyfans and - oops!'  Alexa glanced quickly at Tuppence,  who was gritting his teeth and staring determinedly at the horizon. 

Next time - Tuppence and Alexa enter the strange world of Tupfinder Towers

Life lessons with a Gaviscon chaser

 

The gorse bushes mentioned in previous post.

'OK you two.  You're my relatives and I'm asking for - 'Tuppence choked as he struggled to form the word - 'advice.  There I've said it.  You can die happy.  And the way you pair carry on with your baccy, your opium tabloids, your salty snax and your ceaseless bevvying, it won't be long before you peg out so knock yourselves out while you can.  Have a good laugh at my expense.'

'How does he know about the opium tabloids,' murmured Geoffrey out of the side of his beak.

I shrugged and rammed some more Black Bogey into my pipe.  'What precisely is the question, nephew?'  

'I'm not sure I can say.  It's a personal matter and probably too embarrassing.   Especially when I know that you pair won't understand.'

'How do you know that?'  I asked, already knowing the answer.  'That's okay,  you don't have to say.  We're too unworldly, aren't we.  We've never been in 'physical relationships' and we don't have any experience of the internet.  We don't spend all day staring at phones looking at other people's front bottoms in order to avoid dealing with our emotions and engaging in meaningful interaction with real flesh and blood people.  We don't even HAVE phones.'

'We have a gramophone,' said Geoffrey.

'Shut up.   We understand that in your eyes we lack sophistication and brains.  But what we do have,  Tuppence,  is Life Experience.'

'Oh no,' groaned Tuppence.  'Here we go.'

'Yes!'  I continued,' Life Experience that cannot be bought, cannot be learned from Tiktok and Youtube vids.  We've been through the mill Tuppence!  We've seen it all! We've done it all!   Shipwrecks, smuggling, thieving, killer whales, giant wasps,  nettle underpants...'

'Right that's it I'm off.  I knew you'd never understand.  You pair are useless.  I'm going to try the Tupfinder General now.'  Tuppence adjusted his bandolier and headed for the hole in the wall.

'Will you be back for tea?'  

Tuppence paused on the threshold, turned slightly with narrowed eyes.  'What is it?'

'Soup.'

'Definitely not. Bye.'  

'It's not soup, is it Tuppy?'  asked Geoffrey anxiously, as our nephew disappeared into the swirling mists.

'Don't be stupid, of course it's not.  It's a full fry up including kidneys, liver, sausages, pork chops, fried bread, tattie scones and white black and fruit puddings washed down with six bottles of 80 shilling and a Gaviscon chaser.'

'Phew.  You had me going there.'

Next time - Tuppence tries the Tupfinder General.   And gets some surprising answers involving 3rd wave feminism from Mrs Tupfinder General.

Mrs T-G Prepares for Nuclear War

 'I can't believe we're talking about nuclear war.'  The T-G paused to light his pipe.  A pipe that was fashioned in the shape of a Cruise anti-tank missile. 'Or were we talking about it?  Perhaps I nodded off and had a horrible nightmare.'

'Where did you get the pipe, T-G?'  asked Geoffrey.

'Mrs T-G carved it for me from an old ham bone that she'd boiled up for soup.  Do you like it?'

The smell of ham wafted through the clouds of Black Bogey as the T-G lit up.

'Not sure T-G.  I think I prefer your usual pipe.'  

His usual pipe was fashioned in the shape of the Trans-Antarctic Mountains, with the bowl as Mount Erebus, and it was nestled in a velvet-lined case on the mantlepiece, next to the T-G's skull-shaped tobacco jar and a letter inviting the recipient to have a fourth 'booster' vaccination.

'I see Mrs T-G's getting on with the bunker T-G,'  I peered through the mullioned window and watched a sturdy tweed-skirted figure pausing to wipe the sweat from her eyes as she stood leaning on a shovel waist-deep in a large hole just beyond the ha-ha, many feet below.

'Oh I'm sure, I'm sure,' said the T-G through clouds of tobacco smoke. 'She just needs to dig another ten feet, line it with concrete and put some corrugated iron sheeting over the top.  She'll have it done in no time and then she can get it stocked up with black sausage rolls, blankets, brandy, morphia, laudanum, playing cards, Canasta and the like.  We'll be perfectly safe from any nuclear strike.' 

'Do you think she could manage to tunnel another mile or two and link up with the smuggler's tunnel in the cliffs? Then we could have quick and easy access to supplies, like korn bif and such-like, without having to risk exposure to nuclear radiation or whatever.'

'Oh I'm sure, I'm sure', soothed the T-G.  'Best to wait until later though.  I find these things are best asked in the evening, when Mrs T-G has made our Horlicks and is settled in her housecoat with her curlers in and cold cream on her face.  Just before she chops up some logs for the next day's fire and takes the bins out.'

'What about toilet facilities?' asked Geoffrey. 

'What about them?'

'Well, will there be any?'

'You mistake us for fools Geoffrey.   Naturally, we've thought this all through.  Mrs T-G is hollowing out a separate chamber within the bunker to be used as a lavatory.  Within it there will be a seated facility below which yet another chamber will be hollowed, to contain any waste.  This in turn will be dealt with whenever we can think what to do with it, or when the smell becomes intolerable, whichever happens first.'

'Fantastic T-G.'

'Thank you.   Where is your nephew Tuppence by the way?  I haven't seen him for a while.'

'I'm afraid he's gone off to Ukraine in a Bedford van, ostensibly to play charity fund-raising gigs with his band but really, to steal weapons.'  I glanced at the T-G's pipe.  'He's always wanted an anti-tank missile.'

more later

Reflections on a Monastery Table

 'I blame Eve,' said the T-G.  He shifted position in his green leather armchair as he reached for the skull-shaped tobacco jar on the gleaming oak monastery table which stretched from the door, across the fireside to the tall mullioned windows at the far end of the room.    

'That's rather striking,' said Geoffrey.

'I always think it's good to be reminded of one's own mortality,' replied the T-G. 'The wife gave it to me for my ninety fifth birthday, which wasn't yesterday.  In fact,  I believe it was thirty five years ago next Saturday.'

'What do you blame Eve for?' I asked.  I didn't really want to know - I could hazard a guess, myself.  And hazarding a guess was about as far into it as I wanted to go.  I just wanted to get whatever it was, over and done with without being overtly rude so we could all move on and get our teas without a row.  Geoffrey had made a sausage and tomato casserole with extra sausages and no tomatoes and I was starving after only having had a triple black pudding and bacon sandwich for luncheon.   I could only hope that the T-G would exercise some self-control and keep any exposition to a minimum.

'The Fall. And every disaster that's happened as a result of it.'

Oh no, I thought.  Here we go.  'Surely you don't believe we're all tainted with original sin T-G.'

'I wouldn't go that far.  But there's certainly something there that needs looking at.  Something profound Tuppy.  Even you, with your tiny cholesterol-beset brain and your preoccupation with sausages and greasy snacks must understand that.  Human beings have made such an almighty mess of everything, despite the best efforts of some.  We can't help ourselves, it seems.  Therefore I must conclude that we should never have been allowed free will.  It's like a cosmic credit card, and most people can't handle it.  Especially Mrs T-G by the way.' 

'Aren't you saying all this just because you've - how shall I put it - had a row with Mrs T-G?'

'Certainly not!  If Eve hadn't picked that apple...well, we'd all still be living in the Garden of Eden and everything would be fine and dandy.'

'T-G - I'm sorry to stop you mid-flow but there is a sausage casserole with my name on it simmering on the back ring of our kitchen stove.  It will have reached the perfect consistency in approximately ten minutes, so I'll need to get a shift on.  Can we continue this later?'

'I look forward to it.  Genesis, by the way.  Have a gander after your tea.'

Sic Transit Gloria Mundi

'Dust into dust,' murmured the T-G, who was sitting in a vast green leather armchair sipping a glass of absinthe toasting his toes in front of a roaring driftwood fire.  His bare feet rested on a brass fire dog while a pair of multi-coloured stripey toe-socks dangled from the mantlepiece.  The blunderbuss, with which he'd blasted us out of our previous situation (see previous post), was propped by the mullioned window alongside a pair of sea-boots and high-powered infra red binoculars. 

There was a loud creak as the heavy oak door was shoved open by a muscular fore-arm.  Mrs T-G bustled in carrying a plate of black sausage rolls (her specialty) and placed them on the oak monastery table which stretched across much of the room.

We were in the 'Tower Room' of Tupfinder Towers,  enjoying the hospitality of the T-Gs.  

'You'll need to sweep that chimney T-G,' reminded Mrs T-G,' We don't want it going up again like before.  And you won't be doing your chilblains any good with your feet right in front of the fire like that by the way.'

'Yes yes dear,' soothed the T-G., staring into the dancing flames.

'I'm only saying,' she sniffed as she left the room.

Mrs T-G never socialised with visitors, or indeed anyone.  In fact, she was rarely seen, even inside her own home.  She liked sitting in the large kitchen by the range, polishing copper pans and preparing the pastry and fillings for her famed black sausage rolls.  Nobody knew what she thought about while she sat there all alone ruminating with her tin of Brasso and her yellow dusters.   And I'm sorry to say it,  but nobody cared.  

'She's always been like that,' the T-G would say when badgered by Val Nark, who was convinced Mrs T-G was menopausal and would benefit from an ear-candling session.  'She's a lone wolf.  She doesn't want friends, or indeed ear-candling.'

'Dust into dust,' he murmured again, topping up his glass from the decanter at his elbow.

'What do you mean, T-G?'  I asked.  Geoffrey fluffed his feathers and leaned in closer.

'The human race is over.  Grieve for it now, while you can.  The great days, the great battles, the great days of wisdom are fading into the dark.  The ancient yew by the chapel has watched the rise and fall of Man over many centuries.  And it will watch its End.  Humanity, despite the best efforts of a few, is finished.'    

'Does this mean that Evil has finally won?' asked Geoffrey. 'Is that what you're saying, T-G?'

'Are we the few?' I wondered silently,' And is it worth struggling on?  Is there ANY hope?'

The pale light of the rising Moon shone through the mullioned window and reflected on the polished oak monastery table as the T-G topped up his glass of absinthe.

more later

 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)

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

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.

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

https://www.amazon.co.uk/Seapenguin-2-Three-Tales-Woe/dp/1521884234/ref=sr_1_2?ie=UTF8&qid=1507466188&sr=8-2&keywords=seapenguin

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

Mrs T-G Attempts a Croquembouche

Last evening Geoffrey and I huddled by the stone urn on the Fulmars' patio, watching the final of the Great British Bake-off on their 93 inch curved flat screen 3D TV, via their French windows.   It's lucky for us that they never close their curtains - aping people in the movies I suppose.  Take Sean Connery in The Untouchables for example.  Why, for pity's sake, if you knew that the henchmen of Al Capone were after you, would you.....

'Tuppy!!'

Geoffrey shook me awake and handed me a steaming cup of T-G Tips.

'Insufficient today Geoffrey.  It'll have to be the adrenalin shot to the heart.'
'Okey-doke.  I'll just give the syringe a flush through under the tap.  I was using it to baste the...'
'No you weren't.  Just get on with it.'

50cc of industrial-strenf 'aortic adrenalin' and three mugs of T-G Tips and four bacon sandwiches and five slices of toast and Val Nark's 'hedgerow marmalade' later....

'What did you make of that then?'
'I thought it was awful.  Anyone can bake a cake.'
'Can you bake a cake?'
'No.  But did you see the state of them?''
'That's not nice.'
'I'm only being honest.'
'All right.  What about the croquembouches'?'
'Excuse me?'
'Precisely.  Mrs T-G is making one At This Very Moment.'
'How do you know that?'
'I can sense it.  Not only that, I can smell it.'
'You can't.'
'That's right,  I can't.  But I've got a fair idea.  And it's the type of fair idea that makes me Very Afraid and Keeps Me Awake at Night.  Remember the black sausage rolls?'
'Oooh yes.  I do.   Everyone got...'
'Quite.   I'll raise you those and give you the Croquembouche.   Croquembouche translates as 'break in mouth'.  Need I say more, in this context?  Probably not, but I will anyway.  She's erecting a vast choux tower covered with toffee hard enough to crack your eye teeth on, right at this very minute, and she's seeking ways of insisting that we eat it, fuelled by rage and resentment relating to her Paris persona.  She's beaten that choux mixture and spun that sugar until it can take no more, and she's brooding until she's scared she bursts with the power of sheer hatred.  I'll even bet that she thinks she's bilingual because she can say 'Croquembouche' with a cigarette in her mouth and an air of 1950s Gallic aplomb.'
'Well! If she IS bilingual I dare say that's her own business; the T-G hasn't mentioned that before.  I suppose her Paris days must have broadened her horizons....'
'You're being disingenuous again.  Stop it, and start focusing on what really matters.'
'All right.  What does really matter, when all's said and done though Tuppy?  I've always wondered about that, but I've thought perhaps it's best to not know.  A little knowledge is a dangerous thing Tuppy.'
'What do you mean?'
'I don't know what I mean.  Let's talk about Mrs T-G again.  It stops my head from spinning.'
'Well, one French word and she thinks she's Jean Paul Sartre.  Next she'll be contributing a weekly philosophy column to the Bugle.'
'Oh yes - the Bugle.  Our new local free at the point of delivery newspaper. But shouldn't she be thinking she's Simone de Beauvoir rather than Jean Paul Sartre?'
'She's bilingual, remember, silly?'
'Oh of course.....I'd forgotten already..........'

More on the Bugle later.  More on Mrs T-G's Croquembouche later.  More on the rights and wrongs of calling people 'silly', later.....

Find more Tuppy & Geoffrey tales on Amazon http://www.amazon.co.uk/Sea-Penguin-Part-Five-Selections-ebook/dp/B00FW19E0Y/ref=pd_rhf_gw_p_img_1

The Underpants that Can't be Destroyed

Geoffrey's 'special ornament'

We had a visit from the Tupfinder General last night.  He had a terrible case of the jitters. He was twitching so much that at one point he accidentally fired off a round from his sawn-off shotgun and smashed Geoffrey's 'special ornament' - a ceramic boot which he brought back as a keep-sake from a holiday in Kyle of Lochalsh in 1974, and which has been gathering dust on the mantlepiece ever since.
'I'm sure it will mend as good as new Geoffrey,'  I soothed. 'Fetch the superglue. I'm sure we've still got some left in the Box of Useful Stuff under the sink, from when we managed to fix the lavatory seat.  I was keeping it specially for emergencies in case I had to glue someone's mouth shut.  But your 'special ornament' takes precedence, and we can always get more.  By someone, I don't mean you, of course.'
'Why are you being so kind to me Tuppy?  It isn't like you.'
'I don't know.'  It was true.  I didn't know, and it wasn't like me.  In fact, it was quite alarming.  But I'd think about that later.  In the meantime, we had the raving Tupfinder General to deal with.
Apparently,  Mrs T-G started writing a 'novel' yesterday morning, and is refusing to do any of her usual 'household activities' until she's written it.
'I'm going demented Tuppy!' he raved, 'She's locked herself in the upper room and she won't come out till it's done, and mark my words it'll take sodding YEARS for her to finish it. She can't even write a shopping list without consulting a thesaurus at least fifteen times.  I'm even having to make my own tea!  And I can't find my best socks. The stripey ones with no holes in. I've no clean underpants left and I don't know how to work the washing machine, and we've run out of biscuits and that blue stuff that she puts down the toilet.  What am I going to do?'
'Oh I wouldn't worry about your underpants T-G,' I began.
'We wear ours till they go crusty don't we Tuppy?' interrupted Geoffrey. 'And then we turn them inside out.  After that, they disintegrate.  In fact, we're rather needing new underpants ourselves, aren't we Tuppy? Would you like one of our biscuits, T-G? We've got loads.'
The T-G sighed and sat down on the squashiest part of the settee.
Just then, Razor Bill arrived with the post.  'Can't stop lads,' he said,'I'm doing a leaflet drop for the Narks. Val's giving me a week's supply of flapjacks if I get it done before lunch.'
I picked up the leaflet. 'Hmm.  Look, T-G.  This just might solve your problem...'
'What is it, Tuppy?' asked Geoffrey, peering over my shoulder.
'Val Nark's started a new line in her shop.  She's selling indestructible underpants.  She's making them herself and weaving them out of nettle fibres and thistles.  Apparently, they're indestructible due to their - and I quote - 'PRETERNATURAL PREHENSILE STRENGTH'. Good grief.'
'They sound like just the very dab!' said the T-G, leaping to his feet (or foot). 'I'm off up to the Narks to get a pair.'

Later - Geoffrey admits that he believes a 'thesaurus' is a type of prehistoric dinosaur-style monster, and the T-G models his new underpants...and encounters a not-entirely-unpredictable problem......

Find more of my Tuppy and Geoffrey tales here http://www.amazon.co.uk/Kate-Smart/e/B008MFK3NE/ref=ntt_athr_dp_pel_pop_1

One of Them

"Oh, Geoffrey.  What's the point? One travels only to arrive, and when one arrives, one simply wants to be off again.  Isn't it best for one simply to remain where one is, and wait for Death?"

I dropped my end of the coracle and sat down heavily on a sea-weed-covered rock.

"Pull yourself together Tuppy.  We're not on a pointless mission.  We're after a hoard of Spanish treasure, remember?  Look - I've painted FANCY on the bowsprit, so that we can truly say that we're going where Fancy takes us!"

I smiled weakly. "Thanks for making the effort,  Geoffrey."

Geoffrey blinked rapidly and preened himself.  "I knew you'd like it.  Perhaps as well as the treasure we'll get some of that orange wool off the indigenous sheep and get Mrs T-G to knit us jumpers when we get back.  She's got a new Acme Knit-o-matic knitting machine and is knitting loads of stuff, all the time.  Did you know that, Tuppy?  Did you know about her new Acme Knit-o-matic knitting machine, and that she's knitting loads of stuff, all the time?"

"No I didn't.  Stop babbling.  Now think.  Did you pack the blunderbuss?  Because honestly I'm not going one step further if not.   These orange sheep are cannibals, and in case you hadn't noticed, I'm One of Them.  I don't want to end up simmering in a pot at Gas Mark 3, with a Knorr stock cube, a glass of red wine, a bay leaf, a sprig of thyme, two onions, a carrot and a third cousin twice removed."

"I think it's in the carpet bag under the extra gelignite.  But more than likely you won't need it.  I'm sure you'll be welcomed with open arms Tuppy.  Come on now - the moon's up.  Let's catch the tide."

The World of ePigg &c.

"What's that awful smell?"
"It's Mrs Tupfinder General's latest recipe.  Black Pudding Mousse.  Home-made."
"It doesn't smell like black pudding.  It smells like...like...well I hate to say it, but blood."
"Well of course it does.    She's been slaughtering pigs all week so she can collect enough blood for the puddings."
"Slaughtering pigs? All by herself?"
"Yes.  You know what she's like. Rubber apron and a big knife."
"Good grief.  Where did she get them?"
"The apron and the knife?  Probably found them in the outhouses or something.  They've got everything up at Tupfinder Towers."
"I meant the PIGS.  Where did she get the pigs?"
"She ordered them online, apparently.  From a website called ePiggandsonsdotcom.  Run by a Eddie Pigg and his daughter, also called Eddie.  They couldn't call the site ePigganddaughterdotcom as someone was already using that name.  They provide everything pertaining to the world of pig - so long as it's a live pig that you want and nothing else."
"You're awfully well-informed.  Why have I not been privy to this information?"
"You're always staring out windows or smoking your pipe, or finishing a bacon sandwich.  I don't like to disturb you when you're busy.  She's started an alligator farm as well.  Selling steaks and making handbags from the skins."
"And I thought all she could do was knit baggy jumpers and make black sausage rolls! (see previous posts for more on black sausage rolls)  What does the T-G make of all this?"
"Oh he doesn't care, as long as he gets his dinner on time.  He's absorbed in some new artefact that he's nursing in his vitrine. (see e-books for more on the T-G's vitrine.)"
"I expect...oh!"
*crump crump crump*
"It's him! It's the T-G!"
"Hallo chaps.  Would you mind closing the windows?  I can't stomach the smell of blood for a moment longer.  Have you any sal volatile?  I could do with a whiff to clear my head."
"Of course. Geoffrey - open the medical chest please. And chuck me an opium tabloid while you're in there.  I'm feeling a bit nauseous with the smell.  It's terrible, isn't it T-G?"
"You think this is bad?  Wait till you smell the mousse."

The Dark Thing in my Bag

"I need you to unleash the Twirly Wirly thing, and I need you to do it now T-G." I had managed to scramble up the ivy, after glimpsing the Dark Thing in my bag and remembering, despite the lingering haze of mutant wasp venom, why I was there, three hundred feet up a wall, in the first frigging place.
"Yes get a move on Uncle Tuppy.  Do stop making like a woolly spider and get into the secret room before we all die of boredom."
I could scarcely believe it!  My nephew Tuppence was already there, leaning out of the mullioned window alongside the Tupfinder General!
I decided to leave the whys and what fors till I was safely off the ivy with both hands free and a clear head;  I had a distinct feeling that I might need to have my wits about me.  I grabbed hold of the end of the shepherd's crook which the Tupfinder was helpfully pointing in my direction, and heaved myself up and over the window ledge.
Unfortunately my hoof caught on a strand of ivy, and as I kicked it free, I knocked out one of the leaded panes of glass in the T-G's mullioned windows.
"Ooops!  Sorry T-G," I gasped, as the shards tinkled and clattered to the ground.
"Tuppy!  Have a care, for pity's sake!  That glass is original 12th century Venetian, lifted from the Doge's Palace by my ancestor Mad Finlay.  Besides, it's draughty enough in here.  Mrs T-G will have a fit - especially when she finds out it's you that did it.  She's still fuming about the French Diary episode (see previous posts)"
"Sorry T-G.  I can plug the hole with my old hanky.  That'll stop the draught at any rate."  As I stuffed my large pocket handkerchief (embroidered with the letter "T") into the broken pane, I glanced downwards and saw the ghastly Kiltie Twins staring up at me and pointing.  Another figure, bulky, and wearing a rough Harris tweed two-piece, was heading towards them,  carrying what looked like a shotgun slung across her ample shoulders, and a  tray of black sausage rolls.
It was Mrs T-G.

more later