Tupfinder Towers opens to the public

 

We had forgotten entirely that the T-G intended opening Tupfinder Towers to the public.  And fortunately for us,  he opened it - charging sixpence, to include a nice cup of tea, one of Mrs T-G's black sausage rolls, a pickled worm and entry to the castle and grounds - the day after we leapt into the oubliette in a hail of buckshot.

The first visitor was our friend Dave, fresh from his sojourn on the moors and a period of reflection in the sweat cottage - more of which later.  And were we glad to see him, when he peered over the edge of the oubliette.  He even had a 'pamper package' with Val's 'fun size' nettle hand cream, hogweed facemask and deadly nightshade shower gel, all done up in a basket woven from nettle fibres.   (The T-G had a small gift shop set out in the old stable block alongside the tearoom, stocked with Val's own-made health products and Mrs T-G's own-made range of pickles.  Dave felt obliged to purchase, given he didn't want to risk angering Val if she found out he hadn't.  Regular readers will know why.)  

The tide was rushing in through the hole in the wall and we were freezing.  We knew it was high springs and we had to get out of there before we perished from pneumonia.  Dave thought on his feet and rapidly unwove the nettle fibre basket and threw it down to us, with the bottle of deadly nightshade shower gel tied to the end as ballast.   The rope was flimsy but nettle fibres are tough and we were sure it would hold - it had to.  We managed to fashion it into a makeshift abseiling device and up we went as fast as we could manage.

Soon we were all sitting on the edge of the oubliette, soaking wet and freezing, with grazed knuckles from bumping against the medieval stonework, but alive. 

'Gosh thanks Dave.  I can't wait to get home for a mug of hot Madeira and a bacon sandwich.  Now all we have to do was escape from Tupfinder Towers without the T-G shooting us.'

Too late.

'AND HERE WE HAVE THE DUNGEON,' boomed a familiar voice, 'I'M SURE YOU'LL AGREE IT'S A FASCINATING IF GRUESOME FEATURE, AND THE HIGHLIGHT OF THE - .'  The T-G stopped at the 16th century oak door and stared at us.  Behind him peered half a dozen goggle-eyed schoolchildren and a bemused teacher.

Next time - does the T-G have the nerve to mow us down in front of paying visitors? moreover does he really want to do this, given we were all best friends till we stole - or borrowed, depending on your point of view - the map?

We Set off to Retrieve the Map

A Map - but not THE Map

Last night Tuppence came round for his tea.  

'It's your favourite.  Mince and tatties!'  I waved the potato masher as he climbed through the hole in the wall.  

'Oh no.  That's much too bland.'

'What?  But you've always liked mince.'

'That was then.  This is now and I only like mince when it tastes of something.'

'I'm putting plenty Bisto in it, and there's brown sauce as well.  What more do you want?'

'Cajun seasoning and tortilla chips.  Refried beans.  Maybe some hot salsa, sour cream and guacamole on the side.'

'Guaca what?'

'Mole,' repeated Tuppence.  'And I need to know that the mince was grass fed.  If it's not I won't eat it,  I want plant-based.'

We had plain old mince and tatties and he managed two helpings.   With four slices of fruit loaf and raspberry jam for afters.

After tea, we discussed The Map.  Upshot being that we decided to make a midnight raid on Tupfinder Towers that very evening.  The T-G had made vague plans to install burglar alarms and motion sensitive floodlights and although we were prepared to bet that he would never get round to it we thought we'd better get a shift on just in case.  We briefly talked about asking the T-G if we could take or even borrow the Map, but we decided that if he said no, which was fairly likely, we'd be the obvious suspects if it then got nicked. 

I retrieved our full face balaclavas, night vision goggles and our black polo-necks.  With a grappling hook, the remains of the fruit loaf, a flask of hot Madeira, glass cutters and a rope ladder we were all set.

Soon Tuppence and I were shinning up the rope ladder.  A waxing Moon shone on the ivy-clad facade of Tupfinder Towers and the vast mullioned window that led into the upper drawing room and the Aubusson.  Geoffrey had flown on ahead and was already up on the window ledge securing the grappling hook.  

Could we get access to the room without breaking the window?  Was it locked?  Would we need to employ the glass cutter?  That was our main concern as we rustled upwards, disturbing vast numbers of moths and spiders.

Next time - we gain access to the room - but how?

And  Dave reveals that he encountered a vision of Alan Watts in the sweat cottage.  Alan advised him that the current was much too strong for the wire.  At which point the sweat cottage went on fire after all the fuses blew and Dave was fortunate to escape with his life.

Plain old mince and tatties

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...

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

The Vaxing Yurt

 

Fortified by large helpings of sausage and tomato casserole with extra sausages and no tomatoes we sat uncomfortably on the Morocco ottoman by the mullioned window and awaited further thoughts from the T-G.  

'Would you look at the nick of that roaster with the cattle prod in the hi viz jacket - who is it Geoffrey - I can't tell what with the mask, the safety goggles and the balaclava helmet.'  I rubbed at a diamond-shaped pane of glass with a corner of my plaid scarf and peered at the grassy knoll far below, where a tall, rangy figure stood waving his arms and gesturing with a cattle prod towards a newly-erected yurt.

'Of course you can.  It's Dave Nark.  Who else would it be?  He's rounding up stragglers who won't take the vax.  People won't go into the yurt now because they're saying they've seen others go in and never come out.  That's why he's using the cattle prod.'

'Cripes.  Can't we nobble him?'

'I'm sure that's not beyond our wit and skill Tuppy.  But we'll need to be careful.  Oh - settle down.  The T-G's on the starting blocks again.'

We moved towards the roaring fire and sat gingerly on the fender seat.  The T-G sat on his customary leather armchair beside us with his long sea-booted legs stretched before him, a Meerschaum pipe gripped between his teeth.

'Is there at the core of Man such a limitless darkness that can never be apprehended by the human mind?' he began.

'You know Val Nark's selling heat logs made from compressed sawdust,' said Geoffrey, sotto voce.  'They're meant to burn quite well and are much more eco-friendly than normal logs.  Perhaps the T-G...'

'Don't be stupid Geoffrey.  They wouldn't do on a fire this size.  You need proper logs three feet long to fill this fireplace, not Chad Valley rubbish.'

'Well I was only saying.'

'Fine, but don't bother next time.  Did you bring the hip flask?'

'N-nooo,  I left it on the - '

'Oh for pity's sake.'  I needed that hip flask, and I needed it badly.

'We are the void.  We are blackness.  We are the manifestation of the type of evil that results from sheer ignorance - our actions driven by wilful blindness to our own faults and a vainglorious belief in our superiority as a species.  At best, we are egregiously foolish, at worst, deliberately wicked.  Or is it the other way round.  I'm not sure.  Anyway,  in short, we should never be allowed out on our own.  None of us!'  The silverware on the oak monastery table rattled as the T-G thumped his sword stick on the floor.

Many floors below there was an unearthly scream as Dave Nark cattle-prodded another quivering victim into the vaxing yurt.

'We're going to have to do something aren't we Tuppy.  How I hate it when things get to this stage.'

'Afraid so Geoffrey,'  I said, stifling a sausagey belch.  'Fetch the blunderbuss and limber up.'

more later

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

'I hate you lot.  You're old stupid fascists with no idea about anything and I'm going to cancel you all.'

 'Why are your ideas, needs and wishes more important than ours, Tuppence?' 

'They aren't,' said the T-G.  'He just doesn't understand the need for compromise.  Or that older, more experienced minds generally know best.'

'I understand that you lot have lived longer than I have,' said Tuppence, ' but that doesn't mean that you know any better.  Look at the state of you!'

'What do you mean?'  I paused as I reached for the baccy jar.

'You live in a tumbledown shack with a hole in the wall for a door.  You survive on stolen food, not to mention drink. You've not got a brass ha'penny to your name.  You've never travelled beyond your immediate environment. And I'm not even going to mention your toilet habits.  You've never even been to uni, for god's sake!'

'We went 'Overthere', remember?  About ten years ago? (see books for details of the trip) And we went to Flannan Isle. You were there too Tuppence.  Don't say we never took you anywhere.'

'You never took me anywhere.  I went places in order to rescue you.  You lot couldn't handle yourselves!  It was me who learned how to shoot a pistol, and use a crossbow.  Not to mention, captain a submarine and fly a plane.'(again, please see books for details of these exploits)

'I've been to 'uni',' said Geoffrey quietly.

'Oh what.  The 'university of life' I suppose? All that means is, you're old and too thick to have gone to proper uni! You lot are pathetic right wing fascist nutjobs who don't even know what privilege means, you're so thick and uneducated.  Read some books!  and I don't mean the Beano annual because THAT'S fascist too.'

'I really HAVE been to uni,' said the T-G. 'I attended the university of Holstein Carlsberg Saxe-coburg Gotha in 1846, and after finishing my degree, I did a further research degree on the lethality of curare poison when applied to small wooden darts and fired through multiple bamboo pipes and its possible use in wiping out the world's excess population.'

'Cripes!  You really ARE a fascist T-G!' shrieked Tuppence, spilling his Vimto.

'I don't subscribe to any political creed,' T-G replied, packing his pipe with Black Bogey. 'I think it was Nietzsche who said, I am not my book.  In my case, I am not my research paper.'

to be continued

'

'It escaped from a lab in Wuhan Uncle Tuppy,' Tuppence raved as he paced the room with a loaded pistol in one hand and a empty packet of hot 'n' spicy Niknaks in the other.
'What did?'
'For pity's sake, Tuppy,' yawned the T-G (for he had returned), 'Whatever else does anyone talk about these days but that tiresome virus.'
'It's not a virus though,' continued Tuppence, his eyes glittering feverishly, 'It's a bioweapon.'
'That doesn't preclude it being a virus Tuppence.  It could be a weaponised virus.'
'What about the bats?'  I asked.  'I thought it originated in bats. Someone in China et one and it jumped species.  Didn't they?'
'I thought pangolins,' said Geoffrey from the kitchen, raising his voice over the sound of sizzling bacon.
'I'll tell you precisely where it originated,' said the T-G, filling his pipe. 'It originated in darkest South America, in a Nazi colony that's been thriving since the fall of Hitler and waiting its chance for world domination.  Do you remember when you got stung by the giant South American wasp, Tuppy?'
'I do.  I'm still troubled by occasional hallucinations about being pursued by that massive egg.'
'That was just the start Tuppy.  They were only warming up at that point.  You, yes you - were the guinea pig.'
'You mean, the wasp that stung me had escaped from a laboratory run by Nazis?'
'Yes.  Or was it released? You see Tuppy, those Nazis are determined to return, using hi-tech bioweapons delivered by wasps that will wipe out half the population of the earth with minimum effort.  The concentrated venom of the giant South American wasp makes the effects of Covid-19 look like a five year old's birthday party.  They intensified its toxicity through years of careful inbreeding.  Just one droplet is now enough to wipe out a city the size of Inverness.'
'I thought that the wasp had escaped from your vitrine - the one in the topmost tower of Tupfinder Towers, late of this parish.'
'It did. A contact of mine had managed to capture it and sent me it via Yodel in a cast iron strongbox, bolted and padlocked but sadly with no key, so that I could study it. I was out when it arrived but they left it in the coal bunker and put a note through the letterbox.  When I eventually crow-barred open the box and got the creature under a hi-powered microscope with a pair of two foot long fire tongs I was appalled!  So appalled that I let go of the tongs and the wasp escaped and - well, you know the rest.  Yet that wasp was only an outrider Tuppy!  The wasps they've got now make that one look like a Mayfly.  They're super-intelligent, but also completely insane due to the inbreeding.  And their venom - dear Lord.'
The T-G shuddered and I signalled to Geoffrey to fetch the sal volatile.
'What can we do to protect ourselves?  Stay indoors and save lives?  Wash our hands for twenty seconds in hot soapy water?'
'That won't do any good.  We need a plan.  I suggest that firstly we must construct individual hazmat suits, so that we can safely go out-doors.  Then, we should all meet up in the Puff Inn.  Stormy's re-opening while maintaining social distancing - though, how he's going to manage that with a pub the size of your average bathroom, beats me.  But we need to support local businesses so -'
'But his staff have been furloughed T-G', Tuppence interrupted, ' and why should they return to work when the virus is still on the loose?'
'Stormy hasn't got any staff, he does it all himself,' I replied. 'He uses rats when he needs casual labour.  Fetch the sewing machine and the tarpaulin Geoffrey.  We'd better get those hazmat suits made up.  I could murder a pint of Purple Peril.'

next time - battling our terror we venture down to the Puff Inn in our newly-fashioned hazmat suits to find that Stormy has devised a foolproof method of keeping himself and his customers safe - six foot long drinking straws, leading from external seating to the bar, and a six foot long 'money chute' for 'contactless' payment.  Also, Tuppence releases a charity single to raise funds for the NHS, featuring a 100 year old care home resident playing the theremin with his false teeth.

I woke up with the familiar sound of the incoming tide washing relentlessly against the rocks and the smell of musty potatoes in my nostrils.  I struggled to free my hands which were secured behind me but it was no use.  I kicked my legs but could barely move them an inch as they too were tied.  My back was against a wall of rock and I could feel a length of chain digging into my spine.
'Help!'  I quavered.  'I'm hog-tied in the tunnels with a potato sack over my head and the tide's coming in!'
'So am I!' cried Geoffrey.
'Never fear Tuppy.'  Suddenly a bright gap appeared, and a pair of nail scissors flashed in the evening sun.  The potato sack fell to my shoulders and I breathed clean, must-free air for the first time in - well, I wasn't sure how long because I couldn't remember anything after receiving the 'thud' on the back of my neck.
I blinked a few times and looked around me.  Someone wearing a yellow 'hi-viz' jacket was sawing away at the potato sack next to me with the nail scissors.  For a panic-stricken moment I thought it was Tuppence in his yellow oilskin, or heaven forfend, Alexa, but no - from the cloven feet and the sword-stick I could tell it was the Tupfinder General.
'Just as well I had Mrs T-G's nail scissors on me,' he said as he freed Geoffrey. 'I'd forgotten they were in my waistcoat pocket.  I must have popped them in there after I trimmed my eyebrows this morning.  If I hadn't had them I'd have had to use the business end of the sword stick and it's blunt.  I'd have been sawing away for ages.  We'd better get out of here before they get back.'
'They?'
'Tuppence and Alexa of course.  They want all us oldies out of the way.  It isn't only you two, and it isn't only them.  Can you both walk?'
'I can fly,' said Geoffrey.
'Of course.  All right - you fly over to the next tunnel and see if it's empty.  We'll follow along.  Fly back and let us know if anyone's there and if so we'll try Plan B.'
'What's Plan B?  and why must we go to the next tunnel along?  why can't you take us to Tupfinder Towers?'
'For goodness sake Tuppy.  Don't you know anything?  Don't you follow The News?  Don't you read the People's Bugle?'
'No.  I don't like News.  Unless it concerns me directly, and hardly anything ever does, thank goodness.'
'Well, I'll -'
'The next tunnels full of huge boxes T-G,' gasped Geoffrey, who had just flown back in. 'I couldn't read the labels in the dim light so I don't know what's in them.'
'I do,' said the T-G grimly,' It's stockpiled medication and probably other stuff as well. We must be right next to Dr Wilson's cached supplies.  Were there any - creatures in there?  anything - living?'
'I didn't see anything.  But I couldn't be sure. Because of all the boxes I couldn't see right to the back and it was awfully dark.  I was frightened T-G. I don't mind telling you.  It just didn't feel right and there was a funny smell, sort of like -'
'Like marzipan?' said the T-G.
'Yes!'
'Hmm.  Well, I think it'd better be Plan B after all.  Just in case.'  The Tupfinder General threw me a yellow 'hi viz' jacket and a length of stout rope.  'Put that on and tie the rope to your waist Tuppy.  We're going to have to climb.  I'll tell you all about The News when we get there.'
'Where's there?'
'Just shut up and do as I say.'
'Charmed I'm sure!  What do you make of that Geoffrey?  he's telling me to shut up!  did you ever hear the like!'
'He's right Tuppy,' said Geoffrey, struggling into his own little yellow jacket, 'Have you forgotten that we were bumped on the head by your own awful nephew just last night and hogtied with potato sacks over our heads?   Get a move on and tie that rope round.  We've got to get out of here before they come back.'

more later
  

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.

Whatever Boils Your Kettle - Strivers and Scroungers

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

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

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

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

The Phantom phag nicker

"Oh come on. Give me my phags back. I'm gasping."
That's what we heard in the small hours as we gazed up at the toweriest tower of Tupfinder Towers.
Suddenly a plume of smoke and a fountain of orangey red sparks lit up the moonless sky. A lone figure stood leaning over the edge of the tower, silhouetted against the inferno. We heard him cry,"You rotten swine. Have a heart. Twenty Rothman's and a disposable lighter, and make it snappy. Or I won't be answerable."
A second figure caught our eye as it scurried down the ivy-clad walls.
"Hee hee hee!" it sniggered evilly.
What was going on? well, the T-G's had a guest staying in one of his upper rooms. The ones with the bars on the windows and the reinforced doors. Apparently, he's been there for quite some time. Like, his entire life. It's a cousin of Mrs T-G, who happens to have rather unfortunate maniacal tendencies. Seemingly, if he's let loose, he creates mayhem with an axe.
The only thing that keeps him sane is his phag habit - and now, someone has nicked his supply.
"I daren't go near him," quavered the T-G. "Not while he's in this state."
Geoffrey and I exchanged glances. This was most out of character. the T-G is usually someone we can turn to in a crisis.
"We'll have to administer a tranquilliser. We'll need to use the blow-pipe of course."
Of course.
"I've got one..."
"In the vitrine. Yes. But that means..."
"Going into the tower itself..."
"Yes, but surely..."
"He'll be safely locked in the upper room? I wouldn't be so sure..."
"Can we not just chuck him some phags?"
"I'm afraid it's gone beyond that now. The thing is, he's already reached such a stage of withdrawal that the strength of phag required would be beyond our wildest imaginings. It's simply not something that would be obtainable, in the normal way."
"Nothing's beyond OUR wildest imaginings. Maybe we could make him a special phag. A giant, superstrength one? Home-made?"
"Maybe..."

Breaking news - fish finger battle over

Well, it's over.
The Tupfinder General found some old grenades in his vitrine in the upper room - the one in the ivy-covered tower, where I found Scott's last biscuit (and ate it - oops! - see old posts if you want the full, shameful account). We sent a warning message to St John via the heliograph, and were all set to launch them from the catapult on the roof, when a reply flashed across from the Hillock.
"OKAY OKAY," it read. "NO KEECH ON FINGERS. BBQ SAUCE. PLEEZE NO FIRE GRENADES."
Well it LOOKED like keech, and it sure smelled like it. But, apparently, it's been Barbeque sauce all along. We don't know which brand as yet (not planning on getting any in the foreseeable).
So that's plan one out of the way. Now all we have to do, is work on plan two - how to prevent Tuppence murdering Baby Orca and turning him into "fish" fingers. I think I'll start by pointing out that a killer whale isn't a fish. But, I don't think that will stop him...
Large snifters all round.

The Fish-finger battle, contnd...

"This is ridiculous," said Razor Bill, ducking. "I'm only trying to deliver the post, and I'm being pelted with frozen fish fingers, covered mark you, in a noxious substance. It's hardly fair. I've got dogs and all sorts to contend with. I can do without THIS, as well."
He was quite right, of course. Steps needed to be taken. So, last night, Geoffrey and I headed round to Tupfinder Towers for a top level meeting with the Tupfinder General. After all, due to the pong, we were going to become persona non grata (even more so than normal) before too long.
"Here," said the T-G as we arrived. "Take this, for pity's sake." And he handed us a can of Febreze before quickly rushing indoors.
Obediently, we sprayed ourselves with Febreze "Caribbean Sunset" and waited for it to work.
"That's worse!" said the T-G through the letterbox. "Oh, never mind. Come in anyway. I'll just put a peg on my nose. The old ways are usually best. Mrs T-G can give the place a mop down with Zoflora once you're gone."
Once indoors, we sat round a blazing log fire, sipping glasses of brandy, mulling over the fish finger situation.
"Why bother?" said Geoffrey. "Surely the whole thing is self-limiting. After all, he's bound to run out of fingers before long."
"That's not the point," snapped the T-G. "You can't let St John get away with this. He's a newcomer to the area, and already he's throwing his weight about like he owns the place. It's completely unacceptable."
"It's not his weight I'm worried about," I said.
"I'm not surprised," said the T-G, getting up from his chair and pacing around the room. "Because let's face it - he MIGHT run out of fingers. But he's hardly going to run out of the other."
He crossed over to an oak door next to the ivy-framed leaded window. (Ivy which I shinned up, last summer - but that's another story...)
"Let's have a look in the Tower," he said, unbolting the door. "I MIGHT have something helpful in the vitrine..."

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...