nasty accident in the bay

Goodness, what a weekend we've had. Geoffrey and I battled our way along to the Puff Inn - and through a Force 9 gale might I add. No joke when you've got a nine hundred foot drop on your lee side and a list to port. (or something like that anyway).
Of course we were supposed to be having a meeting to discuss the "stranger in our midst", but we all overindulged in the Purple Peril and after a while it didn't seem to matter quite as much that some narcissistic nutter had taken it upon himself to treat us like some sort of experiment for nothing short of his own unhealthy edification.
"Let him film us!" I remember shouting, standing on a table and brandishing a brimming pewter mugful of Stormy's finest. "What do we care? We've nothing to hide!"
Everyone applauded loudly and showed their approval by blowing up empty crisp bags and bursting them.
Naturally Stormy had his usual Friday lock-in and everything's pretty much a blank after that.
Next day, we were wending our way back along the cliffs after a "heart starter", and looking forward to a slap up breakfast, when we spotted what looked like a bundle of brightly coloured lycra rags, drifting in the bay below.
"Oh dear. How dreadfully, dreadfully sad," we said insincerely. "Looks like the "stranger" came a cropper in the gale last night. Dearie, dearie me."
Was he blown off the cliffs in the gale? Possibly - after all, it was a bad one. OR, was he "assisted" on his watery way, by "someone" setting an electrified trip wire in front of his tent? we'll never know for sure, and I couldn't possibly comment.
HOWEVER- sighted swimming round and round the bay in a very smug manner and looking rather full up, was baby orca. Coincidence? hardly. Let's just say, strictly between ourselves, that after a lengthy feud (see previous posts as to why I had to blast my way out of his mother's belly - twice - thus leading to aforesaid lengthy feud) baby orca and I have reached an "arrangement" viz. I keep him "fed", and he leaves me alone.
No, it isn't nice, I know. But needs must. Obviously Geoffrey and the T-G know nothing of this. They'd never permit such appalling behaviour. I feel dreadful about keeping secrets from dear old Geoffrey, but I want the nightmares to stop - it was awful closing my eyes at night and seeing him there, those enormous teeth, the huge dorsal fin, the snapping jaws, the beady little eye seeking, always seeking his prey - ME!!! I know it's wrong of me to even contemplate throwing living beings over the top in order to save myself, but honestly I can't think what on earth else to do. Oh well.
Besides, I probably won't have to contribute to his diet for the foreseeable, because something tells me he won't be going short of food for quite some while. Tuppence has been spotted setting up a wrecking light along the cliffs. He's up to his old tricks again, back in the tunnels, with the rats. No good can come of this, at all....

red alert - outdoor fanatic spotted

Newsflash - everything on hold - there's a stranger in our midst, viz. some outdoor fanatic wearing camouflage gear and living in a tent. He's carrying some sort of portable camera, and films himself, constantly, and even attempts to film US!! he - apparently - thinks he's living "rough" in "the wilderness", and plans to broadcast his "experiences" on telly! which we won't even be able to watch, since Apsley and Cherry Fulmar's place burned down (see recent posts) along with their 62" LCD TV.
Obviously this won't do at all. Something will have to be done. Personally, I'd chuck him "over the top" immediately, no question, (see Gazetteer and previous posts for details of this practice), but the T-G, Geoffrey, Razor Bill, Stormy et al prefer to have a top level meeting to decide on the proper, morally-correct-style course of action. So, tomorrow night a formal meeting of Everyone Hereabouts wil be convened at the Puff Inn, 8.30 sharp. Purple Perils and salty/hi fat snax to be provided by Stormy for a small remuneration.
Weather forecast is for gales and torrential rain - I only hope we make it...

nippy grimshaw

Razor Bill told me this morning that a new person has moved in - someone called Nippy Grimshaw, and he's living in the flat above the Puff Inn. (no, Stormy doesn't live there - he lives in the old broch). A lot of people seem to be coming and going at the moment. The Narks are still at the North Pole, and obviously we're hoping they decide to stay there.
Spockfingers has gone to London for the finals of Britain's Got Talent. The Swallows are around, but we don't see them much as they're very busy due to impending arrival of youngsters. The Tupfinder general is recovering from a touch of swine flu, so has obviously been staying in. The only person we've seen this week is Razor Bill when he delivers the post.
I suppose we did have quite a weekend of it though, so can't complain.
Wilson's still working on a "cure" for swine flu, and as the dead pig behind our oven had rotted sufficiently to allow it to be unwedged, we managed to heave it over the cliffs, where it landed just above the tide line, and Wilson is presently performing a dissection.
We hope to make Nippy's acquaintance later at the Puff Inn.

spockfingers goes for bgt

What a weekend we've had. We all made a bit of a night of it on Friday, down at the Puff Inn. Stormy had a lock in, broke open some doritos and made up a vat of Purple Peril in honour of the return of Chic and Phemie Swallow - all courtesy of their second home allowance of course. The revelry continued until well into Saturday, when we all went round to Apsley and Cherry Fulmar's to watch the Eurovision Song Contest on their 62 inch LCD telly. As readers will know, and despite what Dave and Valerie Nark might think, the Fulmars are the only folks Hereabouts who have leccy and a telly - however, Chic and Phemie are now planning to claim for an £8000 home cinema system, again courtesy of their seemingly very elastic second home expenses. They plan to generate the leccy for it by paying (or threatening) the rats to get on their bikes again and power it up - as they did for Tuppence when he went through his prog rock phase (see previous posts) and performed a gig with his moog at the Puff Inn.
Anyway - I conked out soon after the start of Eurovision (thankful for small mercies) but woke up for the voting. Geoffrey was glued throughout - his fave was Ukraine (something to do with the outfits, I gather), followed by Malta. Manners prevented him from commenting on the UK entry, or the winner, so I'm none the wiser.
More news - mr spockfingers has entered Britain's Got Talent, but is unsure which talent to display to the public. Readers will know he's got two. His singing voice is certainly unmistakeable, but a little voice in my head and a flutter of apprehension in my bowels tends to make me think that he will lean towards the appalling anal emissions department - he watched the chap who was on last week giving a very feeble account of himself and declared that he could do MUCH better - as if we didn't already know that. Oh dear - it's all terribly vulgar - mind you, if he makes it to the final, Geoffrey and I will be loyally feeding him cabbage and cheering him on, and if the Swallows get the home cinema system installed in time, I will personally offer to get on a bike and cycle like "Billy-be-jiggered" in order to power it up. (er...maybe not that last part...)

smell a rat

Geoff and I have been sleeping off the effects of a "lock in" at the Puff Inn - Stormy decided to push the boat out in honour of my and Geoffrey's return last evening, and he fetched an extra couple of barrels of madeira from the cellar - not to mention a few rounds of Purple Peril. I don't remember much after 8pm (we'd been there since lunch) - I know we staggered home eventually around dawn, as I can just recall the dawn chorus being in full cry just as I was dropping off.
I'm not sure if this really happened or if I dreamt it - but I think Granny Sooker made a rare appearance, carrying a basket of plants for sale - absinthe - which she's been growing in her "garden" or rather, outside laboratory. Geoff and me must have purchased a few stems - anyway there's something green, fibrous and slimy soaking in an old zinc bath at the back door - we'll leave it to macerate for a while longer, then distill it down once we've got all the goodness out of it. Might be nice at Christmas - if we can wait that long!
We awoke this morning to an increasingly terrible "pong". At first we attributed it to our own breath, both of our mouths not being in tip top shape after last night's bacchanalia - but after cleaning our teeth and checking our extremities I'm afraid to say the smell was still very much in evidence. We realise we're going to have to track it down - okay, we can often open windows at this time of year, but the weather isn't always this clement - this will undoubtedly mean doing some pulling out of furniture, lifting of lids etc.
Can't face it today - but will have to see if we can find the strength tomorrow. Goodness knows what we will find.

we decide to resurrect the TTD

Geoffrey and I have decided we can't live without Fisher and Donaldson pies and cakes. Obviously Cherry Fulmar feels the same way - and by the look of Apsley's waistline, he does too.
So, as we sipped a glass of madeira while watching the sunset last evening, puffing steadily on our pipes and listening to the reassuring crackling of the fire, an idea popped into our heads - mine and Geoffrey's, that is. Viz., we think that if we can manage to resurrect the time travelling device - or TTD - it could prove most convenient for travelling back in time, just a week or two to when Fisher and Donaldson were still open Hereabouts. We could then pick up fudge doughnuts and steak pies whenever we felt like it. Another advantage popped into MY head - we could probably get away with not paying for them as well. But I kept that to myself - meantime.
Readers will remember that last summer Tuppence made the original TTD out old korn bif tins. It got powered up by sunlight reflecting on to the panels and causing a combustive reaction with the poofoo valves. We were then able to effect a rescue of all the sheep and other animals stranded on the hulks half way between Hereabouts and Over there. After that, we had to invent a milking device...but readers will have to go back and consult previous posts for use thereof, diagrams etc.etc.
ANYWAY - word from the Puff Inn tells me that there's an abandoned camper van up in the tourist car park - quite an eyesore and it needs to be removed anyway - Geoff and I reckon we could fix it up into a new and improved TTD. We wouldn't even need the poofoo valves - we could power it up using the Fulmar's generator.
That's if we can be bothered of course!!

minstrel not in the gallery

Well, no joy at the bins. I was forgetting myself - I got carried away with it being so mild for a day or two, but really it's a bit early in the season for visitors and the camper vans haven't arrived as yet. Rich pickings when they do - they seem to chuck all sorts of things away. Not that we want their old bras and "snuff movies " - even if someone was glad of them last year and auctioned them off on "an internet auction site" with great success. Goodness only knows what kind of customer feedback rating they got for that lot but I suppose it takes all sorts. Manners prevent me saying who it was who sold them but they live just along the cliffs, wear matching fleece robes, and are upwardly mobile - how do you imagine they pay for all these home improvements? latest acquisition - purchased from said auction site, presumably - is a set of industrial power tools - the chain saw is going like the clappers night and day just now and my head is splitting - mind you, it does drown out Tuppence's moog. But more of that later.
Despite the cold snap Spring is in the air and word from the Puff Inn tells me that Cherry Fulmar is expecting. Apsley has been busy refurbishing the Old Rectory AGAIN - hence chainsaw racket problem - what he's doing to it I really don't know, after all they've got every possible mod con, stone cladding, decking, gas fired BBQ, summer house, mini-greenhouse (empty - just for show), water butt, faux rose arbour, not to mention the security lights - but I suppose they're redecorating a spare room as a nursery or something.
re. Tuppence's on-going moog drama - word from the Puff Inn tells me that he isn't actually playing it in person - he's set up a loop tape or some modern equivalent, which plays incessantly while he's off enjoying himself somewhere else. We were wondering when he'd wear his fingers out playing the keyboard solo from Tull's Minstrel in the Gallery. It should be a fairly simple matter to disconnect the moog from the Fulmar's generator - all we have to do is find the right cable...

kill two birds with one stone

Kill two birds with one stone, somebody once said. Well, I don't know about two, but I think I can be fairly certain that ONE bird is sailing pretty close to the wind.
Geoffrey's obsessive anxiety about his waistline has driven him clean out of his mind - well, that's just my opinion, going by his behaviour.
What happened is this. We had a meeting - me, Geoffrey, the Tupfinder general, and the Fulmars - to discuss what to do about Tuppence's persistent draining of the Fulmar's electric system. Not to mention the racket. We decided after some heated argey bargey that flooding the tunnels with raw sewage was not a great idea. For one thing, Wilson still inhabits a cave in the cliffs, and he would be none too pleased if any of the effluent contaminated his living quarters - which it would - especially if I was directing the flow. ( see previous posts re. my hatred of Wilson)
During the discussion I'd noticed that Geoffrey was becoming increasingly agitated and I was amazed when he refused a top up of madeira. He was clearly very out of sorts. Eventually he sprang to his feet and declared "I will kill two birds with one stone" and flew out of the window immediately.
Apsley and Cherry were alarmed, thinking that he was referring to them, but nevertheless flew after him, and reported later that they'd seen him fly into the tunnel entrance at the old coastguard hut - Tuppence's hideout - word later reached us that in what seems to be a desperate attempt to lose weight he's since been cycling hell for leather on one of the rats exercise bikes (previously used to power up the moog at the lunchtime gig at the Puff Inn some weeks ago) and Tuppence has taken advantage and connected it up to the moog. This means that the Fulmars are no longer having their electrics drained, so obviates the raw sewage option, but we are still left with the problem of the racket.
Not to mention Geoffrey's mental and physical health - he's been cycling without a break for days, and the sweat is lashing off him - we're very concerned indeed.

the return of the purple peril

I've had a bit of a head for the past few days, hence no correspondence. Geoffrey's been the same - in fact, he almost lapsed into a coma again. Since Sunday, the two of us have been crouched trembling by the fireside, with tartan knee rugs over our heads, sipping hot madeira. It's all we can cope with.
What happened is this.
We decided to venture over to the Puff Inn, Sunday lunchtime. We were pretty sure Tuppence's gig was off, for reasons described in last two posts, so assumed it would be a case of sitting quietly in the snug with a bottle or two of Stormy's finest madeira and a large bowl of some delicious salty snack mixture. HOWEVER - the ever-resourceful Tuppence, aided by Stormy, who was acting as "road manager" - had managed to rig up a "sound system" and power up the moog at the same time. It worked like this.
Some of the rats, overfond of Stormy's wares, had run up a massive bar tab, and there was no indication that they intended to pay it off anytime soon. Stormy had been worrying about this for some time, but had no means of forcing them to pay up, as they seemed quite oblivious to ordinary threats and coercion. HOWEVER - he noticed that they began to shrink back into the shadows whenever the Reaper appeared. Ergo, Stormy deduced, here was a weapon. Like the rest of us mortals, they too fear the Reaper.
Stormy threatened to use his influence - meaning, that if the Reaper was going to be paid for a gig at the Puff Inn, then technically, Stormy was his employer, and could call himself such - to get the Reaper to move the rats up to the top of his "list", unless they agreed to co-operate with his plan.
Which was as follows. The rats were to obtain a number of exercise cycles, bring them to the Puff Inn, wire them up to the moog, and start cycling for grim death - literally.
And that's exactly what they did. It took a while for them to crank the power up to a usable level, but my goodness, when they did, the sound was amazing - deafening actually. Tuppence began with ELP's Fanfare for the Common Man - he played it with one hoof, and managed to hit all the right notes "but not necessarily in the right order" as someone once said - not my cup of tea, but the rats loved it and it spurred them on to even faster cycling. Someone had to throw cups of water over the wheels to stop them catching fire and the resulting clouds of steam only added to the atmosphere.
Stormy had resurrected the Purple Peril koktale to mark the occasion ( see previous posts for info. re. this lethal meths 'n' madeira concoction) I'm afraid Geoffrey and I succumbed to tempation, hence our current semi-comatose condition.
I don't remember much of what happened next. Obviously we staggered back to the rocky outcrop somehow. Geoffrey put his back out at some stage in the proceedings, we don't know how.
Word from Razor Bill this morning tells me that Spockfingers turned up halfway through Tuppence's act, determined to give his rendition of Sweet Child in Time. There was a terrible shrieking towards the end and all the windows blew in. Then Wilson stormed in, covered in seaweed (see previous posts) in a furious temper, screaming something about them all being utter philistines and that they were besmirching the name of prog. He ripped the electric cable from the exercise bikes and brought the act to a sudden end. Spockfingers offered to crank things up again using his incredible wind power, but it was thought too risky.
Anyway, back to normal now.

gig off

Great news! Razor Bill (postman) stopped by on his rounds for a drop of madeira this morning - never too early - as someone once said "It's five o'clock somewhere" - and gave us the latest from the Puff Inn. Rehearsals for Tuppence's band's Sunday lunchtime gig have not been going too well. There have been horrible scenes. Dr Wilson insisted on playing "pure prog" (no surprise there - he's such a pedant) but Tuppence and the Reaper wanted to play more heavy rock, egged on by Mr Spockfingers, who wanted to start the set with Deep Purple's Sweet Child in Time, so he could showcase his vocal range. Wilson stormed out in a terrible huff, which left them without anyone to squeak the glass. And without electrics, that means they only have the biscuit tin lids left.
Anyway it's all gone "tits up" as they say.
And Geoffrey and I couldn't be more pleased. We don't like music. We like Val Doonican.

grim reaper reveals a musical side

I'd been wondering what had happened to the old grim reaper (see previous posts - quite recent for a change actually) - it seemed a bit unlikely that someone who'd been dispatching people since the dawn of time would be scared off for good by the Tupfinder waving a pitchfork and shouting "Begone, begone."
And unlikely it is. Word from the Puff Inn tells me that he's gone nowhere - he's been lurking around in the shadows like the proverbial bad smell, leaning on his scythe and looking grim without so much as a by your leave. "Waiting..." as he puts it.
What's on his mind? well, apart from the usual, music for one thing. If you can call it that - I wouldn't, but for obvious reasons won't be sharing my views with the Reaper. Anyway, Tuppence has formed a band - supposedly prog rock - and Stormy Petrel has agreed to give them a gig this Sunday lunchtime at the Puff Inn. He isn't taking much of a risk, as it's usually dead in there at that time - will be even deader this Sunday, what with the Reaper playing musical scythe in Tuppence's band. Line up - provisional - seems to be as follows: Tuppence - Moog synthesizer and lead vocals; Mr Spockfingers - backing vocals (??!); Grim Reaper - musical scythe; Dr "I hate him" Wilson - the glass (rubbing a wet finger round the rim to make a humming/squeaking noise); a rat - biscuit tin lids (percussion).
Only problem is, the Moog will need to be plugged in, and as readers will know, the only folk with leccy Hereabouts are Apsley and Cherry Fulmar - and we all know what trouble Geoffrey and I caused when we accidentally cut through their generator cable. (see previous posts - if you can be bothered - it was ages ago)
Anyway, Stormy's working on it.

newsflash

A bit of good news - B.O. has left the bay, thus relieving me of the dreadful worry of having to go about with a bounty on my head. According to the latest newsflash from the Puff Inn, Tuppence played "The Tull"'s Aqualung album at full volume, down one of the tunnels (see gazetteer). He was merely attempting to maximise the rather tinny sound of his antiquated stereo system, but the rather fortuitous side effect was that as said tunnel ended in one of the massive caves in the cliffs, causing an ear-shattering echo/reverb effect, the Baby Orca was driven from the bay by the appalling din.

tuppence develops a taste for prog rock

Geoffrey's still recovering from his coma. He insists it was genuine - brought on in part by watching Celebrity Big Brother for more than five consecutive seconds, which we already knew; what we didn't know that was it was also partly brought on by shock, caused by catching a glimpse of Apsley Fulmar's unmentionables.
We managed to find this out by employing a form of regression therapy - which didn't work - the Tupfinder general then produced a vial of truth serum, which he proceeded to inject into poor Geoffrey's brachial artery, despite my protestions.
"Hold him down Tuppy!" he ordered, and cravenly I complied. I'm petrified that Geoffrey will never forgive me, but I'm more petrified of the Tupfinder, and as he says" Better out than in." Though I'm certain that can't be said of Apsley's unmentionables. Or can it? I'm not one to judge.
At any rate, once well and truly under, Geoffrey blurted out the truth - Apsley and Cherry had been watching Celebrity Big Brother whilst lounging on their faux leather recliner settee, attired in their customary matching fleece robes. Apsley had got up from the recliner in rather an ungainly fashion, causing his robe to gape open - that was when Geoffrey saw...well, a rather dreadful sight. As he stood aghast, Apsley went to their kitchen - openplan, faux oak fittings, an Aga, walk-in fridge - and fetched a large bowlful of crisps which he and Cherry proceeded to demolish. That was too much for Geoffrey (see previous posts re. Geoffrey's crisp addiction). He remained transfixed, and that is where Razor Bill found him the following morning - frozen in time, eyes glazed, standing on one leg, beak agape.
Anyway he's much better now.
News from the Puff Inn tells me that Tuppence is having problems - he's currently living high on the hog in the tunnels with the rats, pistol in his belt etc. - likes to think he's their leader (see previous posts) however, he's deluding himself. There's a rebellion afoot. The rats are sick and tired of Tuppence and his arrogant ways and they want him out. More fuel was added to the fire by Tuppence's recent obsession with prog rock - apparently he found an old copy of Rick Wakeman's Six Wives of Henry VIII and has been playing it nonstop on an old stereo system he rigged up.

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

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

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?

sa-a-a-aa-yah-ah-lint na-a-a-aht, ho-o-o-o-ley na-aa-a-ht

"slee-ee-e-e-e-e-ee-e-e--epin' in he-ee-vvinleeeeee-e-ee-e- pe-e-e-ee-e-e-YEEEECE...sle-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-pin' in hevvinleee peeeeeeeeece.."
So sings Mr Spockfingers, unfortunately. He's as tuneless as ever. How did I cope, when we were trapped in the belly of the whale together, for a fortnight? I can only imagine that it's because I'm such a tolerant and resourceful person - easy going, and modest with it...but oh dear! what am I saying? Geoffrey insists I've not to boast. I must say however that Spockfingers' wind problem has settled down a bit - so I'm thankful for small mercies. Mind you, he did create my escape route from belly of said whale - albeit unwittingly....(see previous posts - sorry about this).. by letting rip an almighty - but I'm forgetting myself again.
We had a "lovely" evening at the Fulmars last night, watching the X factor final. Spockfingers got very emotional. He went through two rolls of Apsley and Cherry's "Bounty" thirst pockets kitchen roll. Geoffrey kindly contributed several packets of doritos he'd picked up at the tourist car park - not too soft, either, although most had been opened. The Tupfinder brought some sausage rolls, charcoal flavour, baked by Mrs T-G - Mrs T-G never leaves Tupfinder Towers, so obviously did not accompany him, and we appreciated her gesture. I brought a cherry madeira - well, what was left of it.
We thought we would be spared a BarBQ due to time of year - but no, Apsley had a massive gas burning stove all set up on the decking outside the conservatory right next to an enormous Christmas tree - see photo - so once again we had to endure the korn bif and pineapple kebabs with a salad cream coulis.
After the show was over we all headed for the Puff Inn. Stormy had a new batch of madeira just delivered. Apparently, the tunnels are back in use. Word is, that Tuppence is now head honcho of the Other End of the smuggling operation - he's taken over from the rats. The Tupfinder is worried about what he might get up to next.
"Smuggling madeira is one thing, Tuppy, " he confided," but cold blooded murder...that's quite another!"
I gulped. Murder? Whatever next?