A reader asks...

A reader asks...what's the photo of the door all about? well, as I didn't have a photo of a skip to hand, I posted a photo of the Tupfinder General's back door. The skip is in front of the front door, but I couldn't get a decent angle. I'm doing my best here, K?

Quote of the week

Geoffrey and I found this in a skip outside the T-G's residence, yesterday afternoon. I'd like to say that our eyes just happened to fall upon it, willy nilly, as we were passing, but no - I'm afraid we were short of readies (not that we use "normal munny") and we were running low on crisps. Usually, in such circs., we would nick some from the Puff Inn cellars, or Geoffrey might rake the bins at the tourist car park. However, on this occasion, we decided to check out the T-G's skip. Reason? we'd heard via Razor Bill that Mrs T-G had been to a "Bums 'n' Tums" evening last Wednesday night, and had been so horrified at the state/size of her "Bum 'n' Tum" compared to the others there, that she rushed home in a right old state to Tupfinder Towers, and immediately emptied all fatty foods 'n' snax from all of her cupboards. There was so much, that the lid of their wheelie bin wouldn't close and the T-G had to arrange a skip.

Cue me and Geoffrey. We couldn't care less about our bums 'n' tums.

"But it was only recently that you got stuck in the crack, " queried Geoffrey, as we stuffed a bin liner with crisps and packets of pies. "Shouldn't you..well...be cutting down a bit?"

"I'm not even going to dignify that with a reply," I sniffed. How dare he betray me like that?

"I'm only thinking of your health," he ventured, noticing my hardening expression.

"Well don't flaming bother," I snapped. "Else you'll have to start thinking about your...here, what's this?"

And I picked up the book pictured above - Elizabeth Goudge's The Middle Window.

It fell open at page 54. "People talked a lot about the death of the body and the life of the spirit but what did they know about it? What did anyone know? Men laughed and talked and ate and drank inside a little lighted house of life and outside was a great windy darkness that stretched they knew not where and held they knew not what," I read.

"Indeed," boomed a familiar voice. "Couldn't have put it better myself."

"For pity's sake. can't you give us a break for five minutes? And don't you ever wear anything other than that ghastly black hooded cloak?"

It was the frigging Grim frigging Reaper, lurking about in his usual cheery manner.

"I find it covers up the "Bum 'n' Tum" very nicely if I'm having a fat day," he growled, twirling his scythe. "Plus, I never need to concern myself with "bad hair" days, either. Job done. Maybe YOU should get yourself one, Tuppy."

the Tupfinder General reveals a new invention

"But why is the face twisted in that horrible, repulsive way?" whispered Geoffrey. "And is it REALLY the ghastly Wilson?"
"Yes!" boomed the T-G, as he opened the vast oaken, iron-clad door, releasing a cloud of smoke from his pipe and the wonderful aroma of a freshly opened packet of sausage rolls. "Yes!" he continued. "It IS Wilson. Captured in stone. Just shows you what can happen when the wind changes."
"But it's not really him, surely? after all, we only saw him the other day. Surely it's just his...er...likeness? not his real head?" quavered Geoffrey.
"It's his soul, Goeffrey," replied the T-G, proudly. " An exact likeness, as you put it, of his inner essence. I've got a machine that does it. I call it the soul extractor. Made it myself out of bits and pieces. Come on in and I'll give you a shot on it before we get down to business."
"Great!" we chorused. I heard two muffled "clicks" as Tuppence removed the safety catch on his pistols.

we have our stomachs turned on the way to the wind farm meeting

We all made our way along to Tupfinder Towers, as arranged, on Wednesday at the witching hour. Some people didn't know when that was, or were too scared to go out at that time, but at any rate Geoffrey and I were not deterred and bolstered by a flask of madeira and the prospect of Mrs T-G's sausage rolls we staggered up the ivy-covered steps, past the rows of grotesque, leering gargoyles, and hammered on the iron-clad door with a convenient rock.
"What on earth is THAT supposed to be?" gasped Geoffrey, staring in horror at one of the gargoyles.
"Don't you mean WHO?" piped a familiar voice. It was none other than Tuppence. We haven't seen him in AGES. He had crept up behind us in a pair of rubber-soled shoes, and was armed to the teeth, as usual, with a hunting knife stuck in his belt, knuckle dusters, and sporting his customary brace of pistols.
"Well, WHO, then? and for goodness sake keep those pistols pointing the other way. The OTHER way, if you please! the OTHER...oh for HEAVEN'S sake!"
"Look closely, uncle Tuppy and uncle Geoffrey."
"Blimey! it's enough to turn your stomach."
"Yes. That's the whole point, I think.

embattled

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

attack of the vapours

Good heavens - what a morning it's been and it's only eleven o'clock. I was awakened at some ungodly hour by Razor Bill hammering on the door with the post and whistling horribly through his teeth - the few he has left, anyway. Normally this doesn't occur until mid-afternoon, by which time I'm more compos mentis. Anyway I staggered to my feet in my nightcap, tartan dressing gown and zip up slippers, gripping my favourite Meerschaum pipe between my teeth - the few I have left, anyway - and clutching a glass containing some dregs of last night's final bottle of madeira, and flung open the door.
"What ho, Tuppy!" he bellowed.
"What ho? what on earth do you mean by that? And why are you shouting?"
"He's still got his earplugs in, Tuppy. Look," said Geoffrey, from the kitchen, where he had his pinny on, preparing our usual breakfast of square sausage, fried egg, fried bread, fried tomato, bacon (grilled), fried mushroooooooms, followed by buttered toast and marmalade and washed down by gallons of tea.
I did indeed look, and sure enough I detected two pink wax thingies protruding from either ear. After extracting them and flinging them into the fire (they were revolting) we all sat down to enjoy our meal.
"Have you plugged in the defibrillator, Tuppy?" asked Geoffrey, anxiously, as he helped himself to another slice of fried bread.
"Of course. Now to more important subjects. Any news of Tupfinder Towers, and the Fulmars?"
"They're still there," said Bill, "But only because they refuse to leave. It's..."
"May I come in?" a voice called weakly from the door. It was the T-G himself, worn to an almost unrecognisable frazzle by his houseguests (the Fulmars - see previous posts).
"Oh - by the way - before I forget - you have a letter," Bill added, handing it to me ( see previous post for "letter" i.e. comment from reader!).
I was so shocked by this unusual event that I had an attack of the vapours and fainted dead away. Swiftly revived, of course, by a whiff of sal volatile and a few thousand volts from the defibrillator...

oh dear oh dear

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

enjoy it while it lasts

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