When I finally emerged from the kitchen, I was confronted by an awful sight.
Tuppence, Peter Edant, the T-G and Geoffrey had all been turned to stone. Their faces were fixed in a collective ghastly rictus grin, and their eyes were bulging and starting from their sockets.
Suddenly I heard a strange humming, chugging engine-style sound, and then a horrible metallic grinding and scraping. I spun round and saw the Ghastly Wilson laughing his head off as he gleefully turned the crank handle on the T-G's soul extracting device.
"What on earth are you doing with THAT?" I snapped. "Turn it off immediately. And DON'T point it in my direction - !!"
Quick as lightning I seized the tartan knee rug (Tupwatch tartan of course - contact seapenguin for full details of colour ways and items available such as kilts, bum bags, toorie hats, pants etc.) which was still lying across Geoffrey's fossilised knees and flung it over the soul extractor's lens. At once, the machine started to overheat and toxic fumes belched from its rear end.
Or perhaps that was me.
"Turn it off, Wilson, for goodness sake, before we choke to death."
I fetched a bucket of water from the kitchen and threw it over the machine.
"What are you playing at, Wilson? You've extracted the souls of my two best friends, and Tuppence as well."
To be continued...
Showing posts with label tupwatch tartan. Show all posts
Showing posts with label tupwatch tartan. Show all posts
Saturday 28 August 2010
Friday 23 October 2009
I plan to rescue geoffrey from the old asylum
Well, things have gone from bad to worse over the past week, and who's responsible? Wilson. Yes, the ghastly Wilson has been indulging in a bit of medical control freakery AGAIN.
This time, he's gone too far. Geoffrey was detained, don't ask me why, because I haven't time to explain at the moment, by said ghastly Wilson, under the Mental Health (Scotland) Act, 1960, section 31, without so much as a by your leave. Well, it did require my signature on the papers...but honestly, my eyesight isn't what it was and I simply didn't know what it was that I was signing. I assumed that I was receiving something pleasant like a parcel via Razor Bill (postman) when Wilson thrust the paper under my nose. Little did I know that I was sending Geoffrey to the padded cell, major tranquillisers and a straitjacket.
Wilson said that Geoffrey was suffering from prolonged and repeated bouts of melancholia, not to mention incipient psychosis, and declared him completely and irrevocably insane. And all because Geoffrey insists on having some "down time" once in a while! My usual "treatment" is to leave him be, wrapped in his favourite tartan knee rug and nursing a large mug of hot madeira. If he doesn't seem to be snapping out of it after a bit, I open a packet of Chili Heatwave Doritos and waft it under his nose - that usually does the trick. If not, I take my socks off - but that's a last resort as the fumes affect my sinuses really badly.
But none of these tried and tested home remedies washed with Wilson, who barged into the Outcrop waving a syringe and insisting that Geoffrey required to be taken away from his familiar home environment and locked up in an out of the way cell in a rundown building that could be perfect as a set for a Hammer horror film with total strangers and force fed massive doses of major tranquillisers, for his own good.
Once Geoffrey was whisked away in the horse drawn white van (at first light might I add), I rushed over to Tupfinder Towers to seek counsel from the T-G. I was in a terrible state.
"Help! help!" was all I could manage, waving the carbon copy of Geoffrey's detention certificate.
"Don't worry, Tuppy. I've already seen the van. And I'll think you'll find that Wilson has acted quite illegally. He's living in the past." The Tupfinder General, sporting zip up slippers and a snazzy woollen dressing gown of Tupwatch Tartan, calmly sipped a mug of tea as he spoke, and brushed some toast crumbs from his lap.
"What do you mean?"
"Well, for one thing he's used the wrong Mental Health Act. 1960? It no longer applies."
"So we'll have him out of there - wherever "there" is - in no time?"
"Yes, of course we will. Now sit down and have some breakfast before we set off."
A large plateful of bacon, eggs, kidneys, fried bread, sausages, black pudding, mushrooms and tomato appeared as if by magic via "dumb waiter", and I tucked in. I'd need a decent lining on my stomach if I was off to rescue Geoffrey...
This time, he's gone too far. Geoffrey was detained, don't ask me why, because I haven't time to explain at the moment, by said ghastly Wilson, under the Mental Health (Scotland) Act, 1960, section 31, without so much as a by your leave. Well, it did require my signature on the papers...but honestly, my eyesight isn't what it was and I simply didn't know what it was that I was signing. I assumed that I was receiving something pleasant like a parcel via Razor Bill (postman) when Wilson thrust the paper under my nose. Little did I know that I was sending Geoffrey to the padded cell, major tranquillisers and a straitjacket.
Wilson said that Geoffrey was suffering from prolonged and repeated bouts of melancholia, not to mention incipient psychosis, and declared him completely and irrevocably insane. And all because Geoffrey insists on having some "down time" once in a while! My usual "treatment" is to leave him be, wrapped in his favourite tartan knee rug and nursing a large mug of hot madeira. If he doesn't seem to be snapping out of it after a bit, I open a packet of Chili Heatwave Doritos and waft it under his nose - that usually does the trick. If not, I take my socks off - but that's a last resort as the fumes affect my sinuses really badly.
But none of these tried and tested home remedies washed with Wilson, who barged into the Outcrop waving a syringe and insisting that Geoffrey required to be taken away from his familiar home environment and locked up in an out of the way cell in a rundown building that could be perfect as a set for a Hammer horror film with total strangers and force fed massive doses of major tranquillisers, for his own good.
Once Geoffrey was whisked away in the horse drawn white van (at first light might I add), I rushed over to Tupfinder Towers to seek counsel from the T-G. I was in a terrible state.
"Help! help!" was all I could manage, waving the carbon copy of Geoffrey's detention certificate.
"Don't worry, Tuppy. I've already seen the van. And I'll think you'll find that Wilson has acted quite illegally. He's living in the past." The Tupfinder General, sporting zip up slippers and a snazzy woollen dressing gown of Tupwatch Tartan, calmly sipped a mug of tea as he spoke, and brushed some toast crumbs from his lap.
"What do you mean?"
"Well, for one thing he's used the wrong Mental Health Act. 1960? It no longer applies."
"So we'll have him out of there - wherever "there" is - in no time?"
"Yes, of course we will. Now sit down and have some breakfast before we set off."
A large plateful of bacon, eggs, kidneys, fried bread, sausages, black pudding, mushrooms and tomato appeared as if by magic via "dumb waiter", and I tucked in. I'd need a decent lining on my stomach if I was off to rescue Geoffrey...
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