The Solstice Strangers...........

"GAUDETE GAUDETE KRISTOOS IST NAH-TOOS...."

As we approached the blazing inferno that was Tupfnder Towers, we could see a circle of people dressed in white, wearing crowns of mistletoe and ivy, all swinging their arms and singing at the tops of their voices.

"Tuppy, who ARE these people?" said Geoffrey anxiously, fumbling in his new khaki, combat-style bumbag (an early Yuletide gift from his distant aunt Jemima) for his brass telescope.

"They're Strangers Geoffrey."

"Yes they are Tuppy," said Geoffrey, screwing up one eye and peering through his telescope, "They look like they're from Overthere.  I remember the fat one with the ring in her nose from the check-out when we were Overthere three years ago (see e-books for MUCH more  detail), on our epic search for the oracle in the coracle.  And I'm sure that one with the pink hair and the tattoo on her neck is the nurse from the compulsory health screening centre."
"That's called body art," I corrected absently, "A completely different thing to the tattoos of whales and sailing ships and "MOTHER" to which we're accustomed.  I read about it in Bad Trip Advisor."  I was appalled.  We don't like Strangers round here, with their fancy different ways.  We're inbred, and we like to keep it that way.

"Will we have to - " Geoffrey hesitated.

"I'm afraid so, Geoffrey," I said shortly, "We've little option.  We'll have to send them Over the Top, just like we did the last lot.  Come on.   Let's get back to the Outcrop and think of a plan."

Meanwhile, as the jets of water from the Bay did their work, clouds of steam rose high above the dully-glowing embers of Tupfinder Towers,  and the muffled voices of helpers running to and fro with buckets of this and that faded behind us in the mid-winter twilight.

"Shouldn't we stay and help, Tuppy?  It seems wrong not to. After all, the T-G and Mrs T-G are our dearest friends."
"No Geoffrey. Lots of things seem wrong, but they aren't really when you sit down and think about it.  It's all under control now.  No point in wasting our energies."
And I hastened along the homeward track, trying to blot out the mental image of the contents of my pipe smouldering away in the waste paper basket in the library of Tupfinnder Towers....

AMAZON PAGE

More sing-a-longs in the sea

We've only spent the entire night in an open frigging life raft.

"Come on chaps. We must keep our spirits up," urged the T-G, rubbing his hands together.

"Oh I'd love to keep my frigging spirits up. I'd kill for a brandy."

"No need for that kind of attitude Tuppy. We have to work with what we've got. We're all intelligent creatures - well, kind of. Think of Captain Scott."

"He died of starvation."

"And possibly of the cold, and scurvy as well. But that's NOT going to happen to us," he replied firmly. "Look at Spockfingers. He's an example to us all."

Yes, Spockfingers was still there, swimming around the boat.

"Ah'm running oot o' fuel lads," he gasped. "Youz'll huff tae let me intae the boat. Ah cannae stay afloat. Ah cannae tak' much more o' this."

And he plonked his front hooves on the edge of the life raft, making it dip alarmingly.

"No Spockfingers! You'll sink us!" we shouted.

"Poke him with an oar T-G," I begged. "Get rid of him. Shoot him if you have to. He'll take us all down with him."

Spockfingers glared at me balefully. "Duly noted ye yeller wee get. Duly noted. Ah'll get ma revenge yoo mark ma wurds. Noo let me suggest an alternative. Let's all hae anuther wee sing-sang an' ah'll gulp doon lotsa air while ah'm daein' that, and try tae manyoufaktyure sum mare wind. Mebbes ah'll manyoufaktyure enuff tae power us hame. Noo whatsit tae be?"

"How about Row Row Row your Boat," suggested Geoffrey.

"NO!" we all replied. "That's far too twee. Let's go for Sweet Child in Time by Deep Purple."

"Okay doke," said Spockfingers, wriggling his shoulders. "Ah jist gang mare or less strait intae the climax."

"SWEET CHAHLD IN TAH-AH-M
YOO'LL SEE THE LAH-AH-T

WOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO..."

His falsetto echoed ear-splittingly round the Bay.

"For heaven's sake, " said the T-G as we all exchanged worried glances. "He's going to do us a damage screaming like that. We'd better try something tamer and hope that he joins in. Anybody got any ideas?"

"I rather like Daughter of Darkness by Tom Jones," suggested Geoffrey shyly. "I'll start it off."

"AH'LL start it aff," Spockfingers interrupted. "Heer we ging."

#" Dodder of dah-ahrkniss

Stay oot o' mah life mah life

You nicked ma chips an' you et the flamin' lot

Yoo dodder of dah-ah-rkniss..."

"Oh that's not right," scoffed the T-G. "It goes like THIS. #Woman, I can remember a woman... warm were her...#"

"Is that Mrs T-G you're singing about T-G," Geoffrey butted in eagerly. "Is she a woman? can I meet her? I've not met one before you see, and I'd love to."

"Geoffrey!" I frowned."I've warned you about this type of thing before. You can't have truck with women."

"Why can't I have truck with women Tuppy?"

"I explained all that already."

"No you didn't. I don't understand, at all."

"You're getting uppitty now Geoffrey."

"Oh I don't know why I'm even sitting here freezing my nuts off and being bossed around and sneered at! After all, I'm a gull, and I've got wings. BYEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!"

And with that, Geoffrey flew high into the lowering grey sky, and headed who knows where.

Meanwhile, back on the boat...

"Ye've goat room fur wan mare noo ah see."

Frigging hell.

The Bacon Torture (contnd. - again...)

"Get your laughing gear round THAT," said a muffled voice. It was Mrs T-G, talking from a crouched position in the dumb waiter. (as regular readers will know, Mrs T-G is rarely if ever seen in the flesh - and possibly just as well).
Yes, we managed to escape from the tunnels, thanks to the T-G's pistols, and we're now sitting round the fire in the study at Tupfinder Towers, about to tuck into bacon rolls. At flaming last. We've no idea what happened to Tuppence by the way - but we'll be having top level discussions later on, over steaming mugfuls of madeira...

Processed Meat Slice of the Week - Corned Beef

This week's Processed Meat of the Week is The Co-operative Corned Beef (5 slice pack).

This is probably our fave meat, though normally, Geoffrey and I prefer the tinned version. However, we take our pleasures where we can and if that's all they've got it's all they've got. Plus, we got it cheap as it's reached its sell-by.

Corned Beef - or "korn bif" as we know it - is a versatile and tasty meat. We eat it cold on its own with some red sauce or "yellow sauce" (salad cream). The T-G tells us that Mrs T-G makes it into something called "korn bif Alaska", which consists of a slab/tin of korn bif, covered in red sauce then covered again in mashed potato and grated cheese, and baked in the oven. Naturally Geoffrey and I can't be bothered with all that faff.

Readers might recall that Cherry Fulmar often prepares something called "korn bif kebabs" when she's having a BBQ. These consist of chunks of korn bif, skewered on sticks alongside chunks of tinned pineapple, BBQd, and served with a "yellow sauce coulis". Again, Geoffrey and I can well live without the pineapple chunks ("froot" - yuck) but we'll eat anything if it's free.

The Fulmars haven't had a BBQ this year due to inclement weather, so fingers crossed they might be planning one soon.

Processed Meat Slice of the Week - Corned Beef

This week's Processed Meat of the Week is The Co-operative Corned Beef (5 slice pack).

This is probably our fave meat, though normally, Geoffrey and I prefer the tinned version. However, we take our pleasures where we can and if that's all they've got it's all they've got. Plus, we got it cheap as it's reached its sell-by.

Corned Beef - or "korn bif" as we know it - is a versatile and tasty meat. We eat it cold on its own with some red sauce or "yellow sauce" (salad cream). The T-G tells us that Mrs T-G makes it into something called "korn bif Alaska", which consists of a slab/tin of korn bif, covered in red sauce then covered again in mashed potato and grated cheese, and baked in the oven. Naturally Geoffrey and I can't be bothered with all that faff.

Readers might recall that Cherry Fulmar often prepares something called "korn bif kebabs" when she's having a BBQ. These consist of chunks of korn bif, skewered on sticks alongside chunks of tinned pineapple, BBQd, and served with a "yellow sauce coulis". Again, Geoffrey and I can well live without the pineapple chunks ("froot" - yuck) but we'll eat anything if it's free.

The Fulmars haven't had a BBQ this year due to inclement weather, so fingers crossed they might be planning one soon.

We Receive a Gift

Mrs T-G's been busy over the weekend. As they still happened to have the skip handy outside Tupfinder Towers (the one they'd hired for the fatty snax), Mrs T-G took the opportunity to clear out the attics, and found some old black-out material. She has kindly used it to run us up matching "Reaper-style" black cloaks, so we can cover up our "Bums 'n' Tums".

The T-G brought them round for us to try on, yesterday.

"Very flattering," he said admiringly as Geoffrey and I paraded round the Outcrop. "Work that look. You'd never guess what was hidden under there."

"Probably just as well," shrilled Tuppence, who had turned up out of the blue.

I threw off my cloak in defiance. "I'm not ashamed of my Bum 'n' Tum," I cried. "I'm expecting a complementary delivery of Holland's Pies very shortly. I WAS going to share them out, but I won't now. I'm going to scoff the lot, so there." And I huffed off with my cloak tucked under my arm.

Then I had an idea...

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."

Friday lock-in continues

Oh dear. I'm afraid the poultice landed foursquare on the bonce of Mrs T-G. Regular readers will remember (or they might not) that Mrs T-G (Tupfinder general) is rarely seen in public. In fact, never.
When he stopped by for a snifter last week, the T-G had hinted that "Elizabeth" as he calls her, had put on a bit of weight lately, and had been advised by the ghastly Wilson to "lose some of the beef" - or else. Wilson mimed a cutting motion at his throat, as he said "or else". So, I can only assume that the unfortunate woman was in fear for her life and had set out on a desperate "health and fitness" walk, furtively creeping along the cliffs under cover of darkness. That'll teach her to pay attention to Wilson and his ilk.
Anyway, one side effect is that the poultice had retained sufficient heat to leach some of the fat cells out of her body ("Why did it not do the same for me? I asked Geoffrey, plaintively. "It would take more than a bread poultice to make a dent in YOUR waistline, Tuppy!" he replied, jokingly. At least, I THINK he was joking...)
ANYWAY - this latest atrocity from Wilson has strengthened our resolve and we are "making plans" as I write. In fact, I'm writing this in the Puff Inn - the Friday lock-in continues...

slaughterhouse fifty five

Party party party! those were the words which greeted us as we arrived at the newly refurbished Old Rectory last weekend. No, not that weekend just gone past - the one BEFORE.
Yes, it's taken us that long to recover. Apsley and Cherry had really gone to town with a BBQ, patio heaters, outdoor jacuzzi, Dansette record player plugged in to an extension cable, mirror ball and flashing disco lights. Ranald and Sandy (Wand'ring Albatrosse) were guests of honour, as they redesigned the place of course. They've gone for a "retro" 70s look, very rustic, with dried flowers and gourds everywhere, and really uncomfortable orange moquette furniture. The wallpaper was the same as Jack Regan's in The Sweeney - sort of large, intersecting greenish and cream squares, specially chosen to clash horribly with the orange moquette.
The drinks (purple peril, natch) were served in olde style pint mugs, the ones you don't get any more in pubs (except in the Puff Inn, of course).
The food was to die for (more of that later!) Cherry had excelled herself as usual. Not only did we have our fave korn bif and pineapple chunk kebabs, there were weird things on sticks, jammed into upside down oranges covered with foil, such as sausages (my fave!!) cheese kubes (Hmmm....) pickled onions (better) and maraschino cherries (take them or leave them, personally).
And the guests!! first, the more savoury ones. Me and Geoffrey, of course, The Tupfinder General (Mrs T-G did not appear, as per), Stormy (appeared after closing time with a welcome couple of crates of meths), Razor Bill, and of course Ranald and Sandy. We all wore fancy dress by the way - the theme was 70s, to match the decor. Ranald and Sandy rather boringly wore denims and long wigs, and came as "The Sutherland Brothers" - very disappointing and out of character. Razor Bill wore moon boots (goodness knows where he dug them up from - but more of that later!) and came as David Cassidy - Stormy came as Robert Plant, which we thought doesn't really count as apart from wrinkles he looks pretty much the same regardless of decade - the T-G came as Sherlock Holmes, and nobody had the nerve to tell him he'd got it badly wrong (he thought theme was the 1870s).
I got my wool tightly permed and dyed black, wore blue satin flares, platform soles and a sequinned jacket and came as Billy Ocean. Geoffrey was mortified and almost refused to go to the party at all. In the end, he wore a long white cape and a blond wig, and went as Rick Wakeman.
Now for the UNsavoury guests. True to form, Tuppence arrived mob-handed with his gang of rats, and proceeded to "diss" the entire party, saying the music was "crap" (Apsley's Top of the Pops album 1972 with not the right singers on it, was playing at the time, so maybe he had a point...)and the food inedible (well, I suppose he had a point there too - some of it definitely was...and coming from me, that's saying a lot...) He then plugged in his moog, to Apsley and Cherry's generator, shouting "I'LL give you 70s" and started blasting out the opening bit from Deep Purple's Sweet Child in Time.
As the song progressed, and Tuppence's screeching and screaming reached a ghastly crescendo, the generator began to overheat and smoke began to pour from the electric socket.
Before we knew it, a raging fire had started - AGAIN!!!!
more later....

embattled

My goodness, we're really getting them "Hereabouts". Fanatics, extreme sports enthusiasts, or "strangers" as we like to refer to them. They're either whizzing down the hillside on bikes, or kayaking across the bay clad in startlingly coloured lycra - which I have to say, does nobody any favours.
As readers will know, we prefer to keep ourselves to ourselves "Hereabouts", and don't particularly welcome visitors with their demands for mod cons and muesli-style breakfast cereals.
We had an emergency top level meeting at Tupfinder Towers, in which we discussed a strategy, viz., setting up a lengthy trip wire to run along the hillside, parallel with the cliffs, and similar in style and effect to the one which so effectively despatched the "stranger in our midst" just a few days ago. If we can manage to connect it up to the old generator over at the Old Rectory, and electrify it, better still. (by the way - renovations at the Old Rectory are continuing apace and it should be ready for habitation very soon. Apsley and Cherry have been forced to move out of Tupfinder Towers due to Mrs T-G having "one of her turns" and brandishing a carving knife at them over the dinner table, while screaming "are you NEVER going to leave?", and are living in a caravan next to the Old Rectory)
Not that we mean any harm to anyone, of course. Once they've tumbled off their bikes it's hardly our fault if they end up in the bay, a thousand feet below. And hardly our fault if they can't swim fast enough to avoid the snapping jaws of Baby Orca. Mind you, he's quite likely to be full up after bingeing on kayakers.
So, we feel satisfied with our plan to keep Ourselves to Ourselves and fight off the encroachment of the modern world. So far, so good.

oh dear oh dear

Oh dear oh dear. I'm afraid we've had a bit of a week. On Monday last, Ranald and Sandy took a break from their labours trying to rebuild the Old Rectory, and went for a stretch of the wings. They headed north west, where Baby Orca (BO) was spotted patrolling the outer reaches of The Minch. He seemed to be building himself up into a frenzy, swimming round in tighter and tighter circles, while moving south east, i.e. towards US.
Bad enough - but directly in his path, they spotted Tuppence, sculling away for dear life.
Fortunately, the two of them managed to heave the coracle into the air, Tuppence safely on board but screaming the most foul abuse imaginable.
He likes to think he can handle any situation, hence his wrath. Hurt pride, plain and simple. But Ranald and Sandy were having none of it.
"Out you go, ungrateful brat!" they said, and tipped the coracle over. Tuppence hurtled to the ground - well, sea - where he had to swim like billy be jiggered while the orca powered his way towards him with a very determined look on his face. He made it to land, give him his due, but we're not sure where he is at the moment. Possibly hiding out in one of the tunnels, plotting his next exploit...
Meanwhile, the Fulmars are getting short shrift at Tupfinder Towers. Mrs T-G says they are eating her out of house and home, and using up all the hot water. The Tupfinder general is spending all his spare time here at the Outcrop, puffing away on his pipe in a very agitated manner and drinking all our madeira, saying he's desperate for some peace and quiet...
The sooner Ranald and Sandy get the Old Rectory up and running, the better.

enjoy it while it lasts

This morning over breakfast - lorne sandwiches, washed down by lashings of tea, which we ate outside in the warm July sunshine, serenaded by the deep and mournful tolling of a bell, or "death knell", which was rung by the ghastly Wilson, who was sporting a black hood and carrying a scythe, still banging on about us not wearing sunscreen and bellowing "we're all doomed!" - Geoffrey kindly reminded me, in his cheery way, that as we are all to be dead of pig flu by end of August, there is little point in going to the bother of discussing death from other causes, and its avoidability or otherwise, with the Tupfinder. (Little point in wearing sunscreen, either, then). But, we'll just pop up to Tupfinder Towers anyway, and probably have a game of whist or something. The Tupfinder does love a round or two of Russian Roulette, but luckily Tuppence stole his service revolver (see previous posts) some time ago, and as I don't think his muskets and other antique weaponry would be suitable, I think we can safely assume that anything unduly alarming is off the cards. Mrs T.G. doesn't participate in Russian roulette, or indeed in anything much, but does provide the sandwiches, and on past occasions we've heard high pitched girlish-style giggling from behind an arras-style wall hanging type thing, and we deduced that she enjoys company albeit from a distance.
By the way we also suggested to Razor Bill that he return his faulty toilet roll to Somerfield - however, he informed us rather curtly that he "couldn't be arsed".

tupfinder general livid - calls in bonkers mcgee to save the day

Well, we tried to tunnel out as best we could but we only made it as far as the deadfall (which we had prepared a few days ago in case Tuppence arrived to collect the dead pig from behind our oven. The pig's still there by the way, but we've kind of got used to the smell - strange to say, it seems almost pleasant now... that can't be normal, can it?) Geoffrey managed to fly out of course, being a gull, and he managed to drop a length of rope down for me to shin up. I got out eventually sans dignity but it was far from easy - never mind - at least it was a tad less traumatic than being blasted out of the belly of the beast by one of Spockfingers' anal emissions (see previous posts, if you're curious).
We spent the evening at the Tupfinders' - Mrs T-G had made some cucumber sandwiches - NOT my favourite, as regular readers will know, but managed to polish them off anyway - with the aim of hatching a plan to get rid of the Narks. But the Tupfinder already had it all in hand! he was absolutely livid.
"We can't have this kind of carry on round here. Leaflets thrust through letterboxes willy nilly. Quarantined without a by your leave. Cavity wall insulations if you please. Pipe lagging experts springing up like a bad rash. Ghastly lectures about living without cars and LCD tellys - we don't HAVE cars and tellys Hereabouts...never mind cavity walls...most of us don't even have leccy...but they don't care about that..."
The Tupfinder was in full flow. "It simply won't do. I've contacted the Heavy Mob."
"Not Bonkers McGee?" Geoffrey and I were aghast.
"We've no option. Serious times need serious people. And there's no-one more serious than Bonkers McGee."
"But..who's going to control him?"
"Who said anything about controlling him? I intend to let him rip...as far as I'm concerned he can do his worst."
Bonkers arrives on Monday, and is sure to be tooled up. We've all battened down our hatches. Bonkers' worst is sure to wreak absolute havoc Hereabouts...

the T-G's war wound plays up

"Why did Mertz and Mawson eat the husky livers if they knew they were poisonous?" I had to ask. It had been troubling me all night.
The T-G sighed heavily. "They DIDN'T know, in those days. It all happened before the Great War. You know. Before I got shot in the Balkans."
I winced. The T-G tends to get tetchy when his old war wound plays up. And that's never a good thing. He's terribly butch, and had a piece of shrapnel, from said war wound, mounted in silver and fitted on the nub of his sword stick, with the words"Ready for Action" engraved along the business end.
"They didn't have vitamins in those days?" I queried. Mind you, I thought, I have precious little of them myself.
"They didn't NEED vitamins. They were a different breed. Tough. Men were men, in those days." The Tupfinder was gazing into the middle distance with a wistful expression. I didn't like to remind him about the vitamin A poisoning, and daren't even breath the word "scurvy". I defo. didn't want to cross the Tupfinder, in his present mood. I imagined he was remembering his first meeting with Mrs T-G, in the field hospital at Scutari.
"That reminds me - I've been wonderin' - what the dickens happened to the other items from my vitrine? the Meerschaum pipe for example? not to mention Scott's last biscuit." (see previous posts)
I coughed nervously, as one does in such situations, and tried to change the subject.
"Another smidgeon of madeira, T-G? Terrible weather we're having."
Just as he reached towards me, glass in hand, Geoffrey sprang up from his pillows and shrieked"Eccles! he's in the canal!" and collapsed, insensible once more.
The T-G eyed him sceptically. "I wonder..." he mused, and lit a small cigar. When the tip was glowing brightly, he held it to Geoffrey's left ear. Before it touched the feathers, Geoffrey was up like a shot, and flying round the ceiling in a panic.
The T-G sat back smugly. "Thought so!"
Geoffrey? feigning illness? whatever next! but why?

solstice slump

Geoffrey and I are feeling under the weather at the moment. We think it's probably the annual "solstice slump", so are administering the usual remedies to each other i.e. Fisher and Donaldson steak pies and regular ingestion of Duke of Clarence-style madeira, industrial strength.
The Tupfinder generals are having open house on Boxing Day, so goodness knows who might turn up. Geoffrey and I are going of course - wouldn't miss out on free grub, despite Mrs T-G's sausage rolls leaving a lot to be desired. I think I'll take the muskets the Tupfinder lent me, just in case Tuppence arrives mob-handed. Always best to prepare for the worst.
On Christmas Day we've been invited to a slap up lunch/BBQ at the Fulmars. Again, we won't turn down free food, but we do have doubts as to how our digestions will cope, and are stocking up on bisodal. Menu is to include deep fried turkey and chipolatas with BBQ sos, and Xmas pud. flambeed in meths.
On Christmas Eve, Geoffrey and I plan to have the evening entirely to ourselves, sitting in our customary and beloved shabby armchairs at either side of the fire, at the rocky outcrop. We'll be preparing stockings for each other. Last year, Geoffrey was disgusted with me because I'd bulked out his stocking with some stale monkey nuts and a dried up satsuma - I did get him a Cliff Richard CD as well, and a pair of bed socks - but the monkey nuts and satsuma have rankled and he's not properly forgiven me. So, I have to think of something better this year. It's easy for him - my stocking is for some reason, half the size of his. So, a packet of wotsits and a handful of Quality Street and it's practically full up.
But before then, there is the main event of the year, which is the winter solstice, at which time fires are lit all along the cliffs and everyone makes merry. It's also the time when, traditionally Hereabouts, we throw people we don't like "over the top" (see previous posts). It goes like this. There is a secret ballot, and everyone votes for the person they like least. The Tupfinder general collates the votes. No-one knows who the most disliked person Hereabouts is - sometimes Stormy Petrel opens a book on it, and last year, Dr Wilson was favourite to go, and go he did, though not quite as or when expected - (see previous posts) ANYWAY - the Tupfinder hog-ties whoever the unfortunate person is, and does the deed - i.e. chucks them over the cliffs.
I'm not sure if that is going to happen this year. No-one has mentioned it - at least, not in my presence...I tried to discuss the subject when we were at the Puff Inn recently, but everyone avoided my eye and began talking about something else...what can it mean?