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.

addendum

You won't be surprised to know, that during Geoffrey's coma, I could hear the swishing of you-know-who's scythe drawing ever nearer. As I stood watch by Geoffrey's bedside I was grateful for the Tupfinder general's sturdy presence with his service revolver at the ready. He stood guard by the door, which is a bit ricketty at the best of times - see photo - and shouted "Begone, begone" from time to time, fired the odd shot, and brandished a blazing pitchfork full of hay and stuff. That seemed to do the trick.

Geoffrey in a coma

Dreadful news - I've had a terrible week. On Monday, as I think I mentioned, Geoffrey was out scouring the bins for crisps, in preparation for the Tupfinder's visit. He happened to swoop by the Fulmar's place mid-evening, and his eye fell upon their 62 inch LCD telly - the one we watched at Christmas when we were invited round. Anyway, I was aware that Geoffrey coveted a telly like that - but I'd no idea, not the remotest, how badly it was affecting him and seizing hold of his brain. We haven't got a telly at all, of course, and have to make our own entertainment - and readers will know only too well what nightmarish scenes THAT can lead to - see previous posts if you don't believe me.
What happened is this. Geoffrey could not control himself when passing the Fulmars, and simply had to stop, alight on their decking and watch the telly through the enormous French windows. The programme which was on, was something called "Celebrity Big Brother", and it was so mind-numbingly dull, that Geoffrey fell immediately into a deep coma. And that's where he's stayed, ever since. Razor Bill the postman found him comatose and flat out early the next morning - well, eleven o'clock.
He was taken back here to the Rocky Outcrop, where I've been nursing him round the clock.
Oh! he's coming back to us! I must fetch the medical case.

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.

what an insult

It gets worse and worse. I'm starting to feel paranoid and defensive again, and not without good reason. Readers will remember that I was voted "most unpopular" in the solstice poll - though I managed to survive the resulting solstice seige unscathed - physically unscathed, that is, as it will take aeons for the mental scars to heal, if ever - well, I was only just managing to sleep nights after that debacle, when I was informed that baby orca has put a bounty on my head - as mentioned in my last post. I assumed that "bounty" meant "price" or "reward" i.e. a very large sum of money for my head on a plate. But no. Apparently he really is offering a Bounty, as in bar. I can only hope it's the full double bar, not just the half, and that it's a real Bounty, not the supermarket own brand coconut-style bar. Though if he was offering a multi-pack I might be tempted myself.
I'm now attempting to do a review of the year. It's been fairly eventful. Highlights include: time travelling to "over there"; setting sail in my old coracle; being swallowed up by a whale, and escaping by being belched out; being swallowed up again by same whale, and escaping by blowing whale up by setting light to anal emission from Highland cow; wandering as an outcast through the mist; being locked in the dungeon of the chateau d'If with the man in the iron mask; being attacked in my own home by Dr "I hate him" Wilson and my own nephew, Tuppence; seeeing my own home being blown to smithereens; being voted least popular; and now, I've got a bounty on my head.
On the up side, Geoffrey has been a staunch friend most of the time - although his loyalty was sorely tested after I ate Captain Scott's last biscuit - as has the Tupfinder general, and we have enjoyed the Fulmar's hospitality/BBQs/Xmas fare more often than we deserve, given how much we slag them off behind their backs. I also salvaged my wooly socks and non-slip soled slippers after Tuppence robbed Sanity Claws. So, I must be thankful for small mercies.
Some snowdrops are beginning to raise their little heads in the outcrop garden - what will the coming Springtime bring, and will I last that long?

Well, the weather's calmed down a bit and so have I, now that the immediate threat to my person has passed. This is because I managed to survive Solstice night. According to custom Hereabouts, if a person gets through the night without being seized, then the sentence is null and void, and life goes on as normal. Normal! how can I live a normal life, knowing that the entire community has voted me least popular person? I suppose I just have to count my blessings, and appreciate good friends like Geoffrey. Nevertheless, I shall always be wondering what is really going on behind the mask of civility.
Geoffrey and I have sent off our letters to Sanity Claws. He usually pays us a visit Christmas Eve, but he's a strange character and one can never be sure quite what to expect. He doesn't bother trying to squeeze himself down chimneys these days, and just thumps on the door shouting "I'm gagging on a madeira" or some such, then barges in and flings himself on the settee in a melodramatic fashion. I wouldn't mind, but more often than not he gets all the presents mixed up, or fails to bring anything at all - we're last on his list, Hereabouts, so we often end up receiving the oddest conglomeration of items. Sanity says the rest of the leftover stuff goes on Ebay.
Anyway, we'll see what this evening brings. Geoffrey and I will be relaxing by the fire before the rigours of the forthcoming social whirl - Fulmars tomorrow, Tupfinders on Boxing Day.

solstice seige

Help! it's the solstice, and I've been under seige! All the strange looks I've been getting, the cold-shouldering, the pervasive feeling of paranoia, the odd scratching sounds coming from round the skirting board - NOT my imagination. What happened is this. I sat up all night last night - the longest night of the year - while "others" attempted to enter my house, seize me, and then throw me "Over the Top" without so much as a by your leave. Yes, I have been voted least popular member of this community, and have been condemned to a watery grave. (see previous posts re. customs hereabouts). How have I survived? well, luckily I still have the muskets, lent me by the Tupfinder general, and I certainly put them to good use. Most of the trouble came from the rats, trying to scrabble in through the loose skirting boards, and a couple of blasts soon put them off. Faces, wearing white masks, appeared at the windows, and pale hands thumped on the glass. I could see ropes and a net - clearly meant for me. I knew I could not hold them off forever. I was beginning to panic when there came an enormous wind sweeping down from the north. The roof began to rattle and the Willesden canvas was flapping and cracking like mad. A bell began to toll, somewhere far along th cliffs. The noise was incredible.
The masked faces at the windows disappeared as they all scurried to find shelter from the worst storm I can remember.
Now that it's daylight, I think I can relax. Geoffrey's coming for lunch, so I'd better get the FF's on.
But what haunts me is this. The masks. Who - or what - were they hiding?

spockfingers enigma

"O-o-o-o-o-h holey na-a-aaa-a-aaaa-ah-h-h-ht, the stars aa-ahrr sweetleee-e shi-i-inin'..tis the na-a-a-a-a-ah-h-h-h-ht uv wur deer sayvyur's burf...."

Or something like that. Anyway Spockfingers is giving it - as they say - laldy. Again. He will be joining us for the festivities, along with his alter ego, Burnsey. Perhaps we'll finally discover the truth - are Burnsey and Mr Spockfingers one and the same?

I'd intended buying Geoffrey's stocking fillers today, but the weather is atrocious - high winds and sleety rain. I won't venture out in that, and might have to resort to making something for him from bits and pieces. I can't rely on the monkey nuts this year - he'd never forgive me. I suppose I'd better get something for the Tupfinder generals, and the Fulmars, but can't for the life of me think what. I've also still to write my own letter to Sanity Claws, and it's getting awfully late. I must say things won't be the same without Tuppence being here. No doubt he'll be celebrating in the moral cess-pool of the Infra Inn, along with the rats. I just hope that he doesn't turn up here in a bad mood...

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?

geoffrey saves my bacon, and a party is on the cards

You'll never guess - Geoffrey's back! I can barely contain my emotion - and why bother? I'm not ashamed! Geoffrey's been my closest friend for many years, and our recent falling-out distressed me terribly. I'm more than relieved that he has managed to put the episode of Captain Scott' s last biscuit well and truly behind him.
He arrived at the rocky outcrop last evening, at a very opportune moment might I add - just as the Tupfinder was getting a bit over-heated about the Meerschaum pipe, and I could practically smell the lighter fuel. Next thing he'd have been tying me to one of the kitchen chairs and dipping me in the nearest pond - not that we've got a pond hereabouts - it would need to be the sea - and I've been dipped in there more than enough, in recent weeks (see previous posts ad infinitum) - ANYWAY - just as he was fingering his lighter and casting an eye around for brushwood, there was a tippity-tap at the window, and there was Geoffrey, my old mate!
He really saved my bacon - or should that be, mutton? because he immediately explained to the Tupfinder that the person responsible for raiding the secret room (see previous posts again I'm afraid - far too complicated as usual) and removing the service revolver, the skeleton keys, AND the Meerschaum pipe, was Tuppence, not me. The Tupfinder was happy to accept this explanation and we all sat together round the fire, relieved, and enjoyed another glass or two of madeira.
Since I last saw him, Geoffrey has been in between Hereabouts and...Over there, keeping a weather eye on Tuppence. Tuppence has apparently got in with a bad lot and has been hanging about the Infra Inn, which as readers will know (if not, see previous posts and gazetteer on right) is half way between Hereabouts and... Over there. Right slap bang in the middle of the dodgy time zone, in fact. He's been indulging in the Purple Peril, a notorious beverage which is now banned from our local hostelry the Puff Inn for health and safety reasons- or so mine host Stormy Petrel maintains - mind you that kind of thing doesn't usually trouble him, and some say they just ran out of meths - ANYWAY, word about Tuppence is that he's generally going to the dogs. Which is not a good thing, for a lamb.

Our next task is to rescue Tuppence from himself. Meanwhile, we've been invited to yet another soiree at the Fulmars - it's the X factor final tonight, and we've all been invited along to watch it on their 62 inch telly - I might have to find some sunglasses not to mention earplugs, but I'm sure a glass or two of madeira will blur the edges nicely.