How Come We Aren't Dead?

'We've been in this cave for nigh on a year,' sighed the T-G,' with nothing to eat but a packet of ginger crunch creams and nothing to drink but random drops of condensation dripping randomly from the roof.'
'We should be dead,' said Geoffrey. 'How come we aren't?  How come we aren't T-G?  Tuppy?  How come we aren't?   TUPPY!  TUPPY!  Stay with me man!  We're losing him T-G - we're losing him!  He's slipping into unconsciousness again!  TUPPY!  Stay with me!  Look at me Tuppy!  Look at me!' and he slapped me round the face with the shredded plastic remnants of the ginger crunch creams wrapper.
'Oh who cares,' I replied, opening one eye.  Everything felt warm and fuzzy.  Outside, the sea washed gently against the rocks below. I settled deeper into my yellow hi-viz jacket and did up the Velcro neck flap in preparation for yet another comfortable afternoon's torpor.
'YOU LOT ARE DEAD,' a scornful voice bellowed over the ear-splitting roar of a powerful outboard motor. As it circled rapidly past the cave entrance and hove to we were drenched by a spray of icy sea water, and I spluttered into unwanted wakefulness.   'BRAIN DEAD! A-HAHAHAHA!'
It was Tuppence of course.
He wheeled the boat cave-side and deftly threw the painter over a jutting rock.  Peering through narrowed eyes I could just decipher the name of the boat in the gleam of the low afternoon sun - 'The Young Brexiteer'.
'Crikey Tuppence - you haven't changed your mind about Brexit have you?'
'No Uncle Tuppy I haven't. You unspeakable old fool.  How could you have even imagined in your wildest, most Madeira-addled, most senile and gammon-like imaginings and that, that I - I - of all people - would change my mind about Brexit?'
'Then - '
'This isn't my boat.  It belongs to Apsley and Cherry Fulmar.  They rent it out to supplement Apsley's pension and get spends. Cherry's a WASPI you see so she doesn't get anything till she's sixty six. They've got a camper van they rent out as well and they're Airbnbing their shed. A lady from Bulgaria does the cleaning and change-overs on a zero hour contract.  They let her stay in the shed when they've not got guests and they take the money off her wages. Obviously they don't let her use the actual beds or the cooker and hot water or that. When they do have guests she gets a bit of tarpaulin and hunkers down in the woods.  Apsley says she likes it, she's only seventy one and enjoys the fresh air.'
'So they've got quite the business going on,' mused the T-G. 'We've missed it all what with being stuck in here for a year.'
'You've no idea.  Loads has happened.  The Narks' yurt burnt down.  Val was doing an ear-candling session and the candle fell out while she was at the toilet because it was faulty. The candle that is. That's what they're telling everyone anyway.  Dave's building a new yurt from coppiced willow wands and hand-loomed jute and that while they wait for the insurance claim to be processed.'
'We can get the gossip later,' I said,  'Have you come to rescue us or what?  After all it was you who abandoned us here and left us for dead in potato sacks.  What's the story now Tuppence? Why the change of heart?  And where's Alexa?'
'In the boat.'
'No she isn't,' I said, peering.  'There's nothing in there but a brace of pistols, a bandolier, a length of rope, a portable toilet, a mysterious square package wrapped in oilcloth, a Genesis CD and an empty Pringles tube.  What have you done with her, Tuppence?'
'Nothing I tell you!  Nothing! anyway aren't you going to ask about Mrs T-G, T-G?  After all she is your wife.'
'No Tuppence.  As you know only too well she threw me out of Tupfinder Towers when I told her I'd voted Brexit, and chased me off the premises with a blazing pitchfork.  I don't expect I'll ever see her again.  Or taste her black sausage rolls.  And stop changing the subject - a very poor attempt at deflection, by the way.  What have you done with your so-called girlfriend?'
'Like I said last year, Alexa isn't my so-called 'girl'friend.  Alexa's like me - she doesn't believe in boring, old-fashioned binary distinctions and she likes her politics like she likes her music- relentlessly progressive.  No, she's not in the boat T-G. But she was.  She's got a zero hours contract Overthere at Speedispend Hypermarket and Compulsory Screening Centre, stacking shelves for whatever the under-25's minimum wage is. I dropped her off for her shift just before I came here.  She's hoping the money'll help her through her next term at uni. cos she doesn't have parents, you see. No bank of mum and dad for her.  At least I've got you three for support.  In theory, anyway. '
'That sounds awful.  I almost feel sorry for her.'
'You lot are so privileged. You don't know what sorry even means.  You've never worked a day in your lives. You've never had to think about uni fees and generation rent. You just hide away from reality in your strange little world, smoking your pipes and swigging Madeira thinking nothing's ever going to happen to rattle your cages.'
'Rattle our cages?  We've only been stranded in this cave for a year thanks to you!  I've nearly run out of baccy and I'm gasping on a pint of Madeira and a fish-finger sandwich.'
'Fools!  Have you learned nothing from your isolation?'

Next time - we return to the Rocky Outcrop only to find the entire place in lock-down following the outbreak of a horrendous 'pandemic'.  We're forced to return to the smugglers' Tunnels under cover of darkness to steal korned bif and toilet paper.    You couldn't make it up!

Am I invisible or am I a vampire?

Why is Tuppence averse to work?  Why are you, you might well ask, and who are you to criticise, since you never do a hand's turn.  Well, I can answer that one.  It's different for me, because I'm Older, and life was different Back Then. I never had to work.  In fact, we took a pride in not working, back then.  We diddled along, as best we could, living on supplies stolen from the Tunnels and stuff Geoffrey found in the bins at the tourist car park.  We asked for nothing and we took nothing, except what we needed plus a bit extra just in case.  Of course as you know,  the tourist car park has in recent years been transformed by Val and Dave Nark into an eco-friendly holiday park with yurts and 'pods' all ready with welcome packs filled with Val's hedgerow jams, nettle gin and the like. Forty pounds per person per night and that's in low season, thank you very much. I wouldn't pay that for a rat-infested glorified tent with a 'green' toilet, but lycra-clad, wet-suited, kayaking, paddle-boarding fools with a penchant for quinoa do.  The bins are now lidded and labelled for recycling by the way.  Any spare food goes for composting.  Not that there is anything - nothing that appeals to us, at any rate.  Nothing worth nicking.
No, what we need is a good old Wallace Arnold bus tour.  Overfed pensioners who can't finish their crisps and chuck half-empty packets out the window, along with cheese and pickle sandwiches, cocktail sausages, Chelsea Buns and Empire biscuits.  Discarded Chelsea buns would enable us to make an attempt at a five a day,  not that we care about such things, with their half-dozen raisins and the glace cherry on top.
Anyway - why is Tuppence averse to work?  Answer - he isn't, not in my book.  Tuppence works very hard at the things he likes to do, for example playing in his band and firing his pistols at random strangers. What's wrong with that?  Leaving aside the exploitation aspect, why should he have to clean toilets for three pounds fifty an hour, when he doesn't like it?
I challenged Val Nark about this the other day but she just barged past me as if I didn't exist. Perhaps I don't.  I'm actually starting to wonder.  They do say you become invisible when you reach a certain age.  At least that's what Mrs Tupfinder-general wrote in a letter to Polly, the 'Bugle' problem page agony aunt last week.  Am I invisible or am I a vampire, she asked. Because I can't see myself in the mirror.  Is it me, Polly - am I yet another victim of 'male gaze syndrome'?

more on this later.

Next time - 'Polly' turns out to be none other than Bert Vickers, moonlighting taxi driver and part-time journo, who learned writing in prison.

Team Building - The Dorty Bizzums

As well as doing thievery and general evilness instead of modern apprenticeship toilet cleaning, Tuppence has decided to start up a band again.  Anyone who began reading these tales back in 2008 (I know - that's nobody) might remember that Tuppence used to be very into Prog, and enjoyed dressing up as Rick Wakeman and playing his Moog down at the Puff Inn.
He now feels he'd like to be in a band rather than working solo.  Personally, I think this is a terrible idea because he's such a control freak he won't be able to cope.  He's just not a team player, despite the mandatory so-called 'team-building workshop' he attended last month as a modern-style apprentice.  It didn't help, of course, that he and Val Nark were the only people attending.  Dave had a tummy upset on the day, and couldn't manage -  or so he said.
'I learned the principles,' he said afterwards, 'At least that's what Val says. She's going to monitor how I apply theory to practice, and I think starting a band is a great way of doing it.  Not that I care what she thinks or anything.'
'I see.  Who are you going to ask to be in your band?' I asked, thinking to myself that options would be limited given Tuppence's complete lack of friends.
'You and Uncle Geoffrey first of course.  Geoffrey can play triangle and you can be on theremin.  And Val Nark will play drums and sing lead.  I'm on electric piano.'
'Have you asked her yet?'
'No.'
'Do you know if she can play the drums, at all?'
'No.  But it's not that hard, and anyone can sing.  It doesn't matter much anyway.  Prog's about how you feel and think, rather than what you actually play in terms of actual notes and actual keeping in tune or time to a beat or rhythm and that.  It's about vision Uncle Tuppy.  Bleak winter fields and silence and stuff.  It's about philosophy. '
 'I see.  What about your Moog?'
'It blew up several years ago, how on earth could you forget THAT?  Exploded due to excess zeal on my part, during an outdoor performance of ELP's Pictures at an Exhibition. '
'What's Dave saying about all this?'  I asked nervously.
'Dave says he's looking forward to being a valued member of the team, and he might play violin.  We're doing an Auld Year's Nicht concert down at the Puff Inn, Stormy's chuffed to the gutties. He's got triple stocks in of everything - pork scratchings, Scampi Fries, Madeira, Sweetheart Stout, meths, lager even.  Dave says he won't feel right about coming out or anything till his tax return is in. Hopefully he'll manage it, cos we really need the extra depth and texture you only get from the likes of a violin.  And Dave's got loads of experience - he used to be in a folk-rock combo in the late 60s, down in Norfolk.  He even knew someone who auditioned for Fairport.'
The thought of Dave screeching and scraping away on his violin providing 'depth and texture' and capering about the stage in his threadbare home-made 'loon pants' made me feel a bit faint.  I reached for the medicine chest.  'This is madness Tuppence,' I said, rapidly unscrewing a vial of sal volatile and taking a deep sniff, 'Utter madness.  You've arranged a gig at the Puff Inn, and not just any night but TONIGHT  - Auld Year's Nicht, which is New Year's Eve in normal parlance and one of the biggest party nights of the year, if not THE biggest, and one of your band members might not be there, and the other one doesn't know she's supposed to be in the band?  Not to mention me and Geoffrey. We don't even have any instruments.'
'That's right.  What you don't know can't hurt you - that's what you always say isn't it Uncle Tuppy?'
'I do, but - '
'Well then. Fashion a triangle from a couple of coathangers and consider yourself a member of The Dorty Bizzums.  And if Dave doesn't finish his tax return, Geoffrey will be doubling up on violin.'

more later

Edge-y

'Today I'm gonna kill the bear!' shrilled Tuppence.
'Say it again,' yelled Val Nark.
'TODAY I'M GONNA KILL THE BEAR!' he shrieked.
'And again,' commanded Val, who was sitting cross-legged on a pile of rag rugs she'd brought back from a wildlife slash hiking holiday in Kerala.
'TODAY I'M GONNA KILL THE BEAR!!!'
'Excellent work Tuppence.  Now - at home, unpaid, in your own time mind, because this is training - '
'Is it optional, then?' asked Tuppence.
'No, no, it's mandatory.'
'Then surely - '
'No. Stop interrupting or you'll lose your job.  As I was saying - at home, in your own time, file the end of that plunger into a sharp point.  Weaponise it.  Hone it the way you've been honing your toilet cleaning skills.  You're sending yourself a vital message, remember,  and it could propel you on to a whole different level. YOU ARE IN CONTROL.  YOU CAN DO ANYTHING.  You could even win modern apprentice of the month, Tuppence, as well as being allowed to clean out the Portaloos at the building site all on your own.'
'Wot?' murmured Tuppence.
'Yes!' Val continued blithely, 'Imagine that!   Yes, as well as our thriving (-ish) yurt business, Dave and I now have the cleaning contract for the building site Portaloos.  This will be announced in our newsletter but I'm telling you first because you're the one who'll be doing the cleaning. We'll need a picture of you, of course, a lovely smiley one of you outside the Portaloos clutching your plunger.  You'll be doing one hour extra a week, Fridays, hosing them down.  Dave and I managed to undercut everybody else to win the contract, because we have YOU working for us for £3.50 an hour. You'll have to find a hose yourself mind. And because this is over and above your contracted hours you won't get paid. But remember - '

Later - down in the tunnels.  Tuppence is on his own, sitting on a barrel of Madeira, deep in thought, absently whittling at the end of his plunger with a pen-knife.
'If I got enough of these I could make a deadfall,' he murmured. 'Might come in handy one day...Weaponise, is it. Honed, is it. Finding a hose, is it.  Val clearly doesn't know about my brace of pistols and my bandolier of ammunition, and my habit of writing my initials on walls with uncanny accuracy in a hail of bullets. Neither does she know about my past history of arch-criminal activity and my facility for devising nefarious plans*.  I'm not going to be a modern apprentice toilet cleaner for £3.50 an hour, minus training time, for a moment longer.  No!  I thought I could stick it out till Christmas in order to glean more info. for my own evil purposes, but no, I can figure out other ways to do that.  Enough's enough.'

Next time - Tuppence begins to enact his nefarious plans - and Val Nark rues the day she hired him.

*please see e-books and paperbacks for details

'

Hard graft for peanuts

'I explained to Val Nark that I didn't like being a modern apprentice toilet cleaner for £3.50 an hour.  What more can I learn, I said, once I know how to bleach and clean the U-bend?'
'I don't know,' I replied, unable to suppress a hint of pride. 'I've never cleaned a toilet in my life.'
'Val says there's all sorts to know about toilets though,' continued Tuppence. 'Starting with Thomas Crapper and moving right through'Shanks' to Dave Nark's chemical-free portaloo.'
'Oh yeah.'
'Yes.  The 'Nark' is basically an old-fashioned metal incinerator filled with straw or crumpled newspaper, with a seated compartment fitted inside.  Once the straw has reached maximum soil slash urine-saturation-point, or when the smell gets too bad, whichever  happens first, you set fire to it.  And then the whole cycle can start again.  One hundred per cent hygienic, no nasty 'compost pits' to dig, and no cleaning or harsh chemicals involved at any point.'
'Hey flaming presto.'
'Exactly Uncle Tuppy.  Isn't it wonderful?'
'Who knew.  You sound quite keen on the modern apprentice toilet cleaning and I've got to admit I'm disappointed in you, Tuppence.  In fact, I'm not just disappointed, I'm shocked, and I'll have to have a wee lie down.  Nobody in this family has ever, ever done hard graft for peanuts (or indeed anything) and I really think you're letting the side down.'  I folded my arms and glared at him sternly. 'We don't do cleaning and we don't do work.  I told you not to accept Val's modern apprenticeship offer, but would you listen? No you would not, and look where it's got you.  Thinking everything's rosy in the toilet world and accepting a pittance of £3.50 an hour.  Where's your pride Tuppence?  It's not like you've got a mortgage to pay.  You've got a roof over your head haven't you?  Food in your belly? I don't understand why you're even bothering.  You've gone right off piste Tuppence and I don't want to be controlling your life or anything but I don't like it and I have to tell you, it's unlikely to end well.'
'I've got plans Uncle Tuppy. Never fear.' Tuppence winked and tapped the side of his nose. 'And you know that when I do plans, I do 'em big.  There's more than £3.50 an hour and a roll of Andrex to be found in toilets, you mark my words.'
Whatever could he mean?

next time - Tuppence starts his own mobile lavatory cleaning business with a Raleigh pushbike, a plunger, a bottle of bleach (and is denied Universal Credit due to not reaching the low earnings threshold).  All is not what it seems, however.


'

This Morning's Conversation - Do Animals Have Souls?

'Discuss.'
'Not till I've had my second cup of tea.  How many TIMES?'
'Ooh testy.'

Tuppence is out of the sweat lodge (please see previous posts for details*) and is recuperating** on the sofa by the fire in our 'house'.
Well, I call it a house but that's a very loose term really.  It doesn't conjure up its ramshackle walls, the hole in the wall that we use as a door, or indeed the 'tarp' roof.
But regular readers will know that.
'Bear Grylls and that other outdoorsy fat chap off the telly would love it here,'  enthused one of Val's yurt guests recently, as they peered through the hole in the wall while wandering past on one of her 'guided wildlife excursions'. 'It's perfect. Not a single mod con in sight.  Mind you I couldn't cope without underfloor heating and a rainforest shower.  I couldn't actually LIVE here.'
'You're so right!' cooed Val obsequiously, 'It's a pastoral idyll, perfect for de-stressing and taking a break from the pressures of city life.  At least that's what I've said on my website.  Mind your step on the sheep muck Demelza. You don't want to get that on your Crocs.'
'Ray Mears?' sneered Tuppence, throwing a used hankie at them, 'He's not outdoorsy.  He uses stock cubes for Christ's sake!'
'Oh my god - is that a talking sheep?' gasped the yurt guest. 'I thought it was a rug.'
'Yes.  And here's another one for you - bigger and ten times uglier,' I snarled, 'Now sod off and let us have our breakfast in peace.'
'Any minute now...' said Tuppence, struggling to his feet and dusting the biscuit crumbs off his britches.
I knew just what he was about to do.   He was about to...
'Fetch the shotgun Tuppy!' cried Geoffrey, flying in. 'Fetch it now, and blast them to smithereens!'
'Where's smithereens?' said the yurt guest. 'Val - where's....'
But Val had fled.  She knew us of old.
'Oh no.  My Crocs...'
Tuppence leapt through the hole in the wall and seized the yurt guest by the 'bingo wing'***.
'You're our guest now...' he smiled as he deftly roped her into the wooden rocking chair by the fireplace. 'Now,where were we Uncle Tuppy?  Something about animals having souls, wasn't it?'
'Oh yes.  But that can wait.  Let's have a bacon sandwich.  I've not reached full cogitation strength yet.'

*there aren't any
**eating biscuits
***the bit that really hurts when you grab it

I've five e-books all featuring the same characters doing various things - find 'em on Amazon here.

Tuppence attempts to contact Uncle Funkle using the power of his own mind...

...while in the sweat lodge.

'One tap for yes, two for no...' droned Tuppence. 'Are you there Uncle Funkle....will you talk to me? Can you bring me some sweets? Not Werther's Originals or Pan Drops.'
'We've got to get him out of there Val, ' I said. 'I know you said the longer the better but it's been weeks and weeks.  It's affecting his brain.'
'Nonsense,' snapped Val,' It's the fever itself that's affecting his brain.  Nothing to do with the sweat lodge and being on his own all the time and surviving on a diet of goji berry tea and nettle and dandelion ermmmmmm......nettle and dandelion......ummmmmmm.......'
'Stew?' I suggested.
'No.  Definitely not that. It's much too...basic a name.  Besides, it's raw.'
'Salad then.'
'No. Too blunt.  Too ordinary.  Too suburban.  Smacks of clumsily-cut under-ripe tomatoes, limp lettuce, and own-brand salad cream out of a bottle.  If my online customers thought I was selling 'salad' they'd desert me in droves - and they'd be right.  The bastards.'
'What if you used Kraft thousand island and added some bacon sprinkles?'
'Don't be disingenuous.  You know perfectly well what type of stuff I sell. It's all high-end organic health foods aimed at the discerning and eco-conscious middle-earner.'
'Oh well.  Who cares what you call it.  It's basically weeds, and he needs more than that to keep body and soul together.  He needs a square meal Val.  He needs sausage and chips and some bakewell tart and custard.  Followed by a pot of tea and some banana cake, and then an egg and bacon sandwich for supper.'   And so do I, I thought.  My stomach was beginning to rumble.  It was over an hour since breakfast and I'd only had mushrooms on toast, three rashers of smoked back, two rounds of black pudding and a pickled egg.  Preceded by a large bowl of Ricicles and followed by five oatcakes thickly-spread with butter and three fruit marmalade.
'Tuppy, he's got Brain Fever.  You can't let him out mid-cure, and you can't start feeding him sausages.  It could be fatal.  Look at him Tuppy.  He's raving.'
We both bent down and stared through the flap.
'Uncle Funkle....are you there, Uncle Funkle....' Tuppence continued, leaning back in his chair with half-closed eyes. 'Help me Uncle Funkle...I need to escape...even if it is only to somewhere else inside my Own Head...'
Is he raving?  I wondered.  Or is he just bored out of his mind?  It was impossible to tell without talking to him directly, and I wasn't going to risk that in case he really did have Brain Fever.   Either way I had to Do Something before matters took a turn for the worse.
Or did I?  Why should I act?  Why was Tuppence MY responsibility?  Why couldn't someone else do the difficult bits for me?
Perhaps I should just turn my back, and leave him to Val and her weeds health foods.
But I knew I couldn't abandon him.  I'd have to have a sit down, and a think, and make a decision.  I'd have to let him out, basically.  But how would he react?  He was unpredictable at the best of times.
And who on earth was Uncle Funkle?  and why did he circumnavigate the Wintry Isles?  I was about to find out.

more later

*Paperback edition of similar stories now available on Amazon.*

'

Fart fart fart &c.., oh - and higher selves...

'FART FART FART OWF DE AUTOBAN.  FART FART FART OWF DE AUTOBAN. FART FART FART OWF.....'
'No, he's not cured yet.  Put him back in, and give him an extra knee rug,'  I shouted to Geoffrey, through the hole in the wall.  I shouted because I was on the settee, with my feet up, picking my nose and reading the letters page of the 'Daily Bugle', and Geoffrey was Outside, by the Ersatz Sweat Lodge, which we'd built by the Old Midden, from a kit we'd bought from Val Nark's eco-health-shop.
'Right-oh.'
'And turn the dial up to 'red'.'
'Okey-doke.'
'And make sure you close the door properly this time.  We don't want any heat to leak out, like it did before.'  Not to mention his tiresome singing, I thought to myself.  But I didn't say it out loud. Which is unusual for me.
'Like it did before, when it was YOUR turn to close it by the way.  Anything else?'
'Pick up a barrel of best brandy, three pounds of baccy, some tea-bags and a bag of jellybabies when you're passing the tunnels.  Oh, and a pint of milk.  Make that two.  And a tin of Campbell's meatballs - I feel like having something different for tea.  I'm going to curry them.'
Anyway.  As you'll have gathered, if you've been following things recently,  Tuppence has been suffering from an intractable fever and pickled onion flavr Monster Munch addiction after his stay in gaol; on the advice of Val Nark we built an Ersatz sweat lodge for him to stay in till he's cured.
So far there's been no change in his condition, except that he keeps singing any Kraftwerk song which includes the word FAHRT,  phonetically, in a heavy and terrible German accent.
We're not sure how long the cure is supposed to take - there was nothing in the instructions and Val was a bit vague time-scale-wise. 'Just till he's better, for God's sake!" she barked.  "Now go away and use your common sense.  I WOULD say consult your 'higher selves' using hazel rod divining twigs, but I know you've not got those.   Higher selves, that is, not the twigs.   The twigs are available to buy in my shop, prices starting from £10.99 per individual twig.  You two idiots, with your persistently oafish refusal to address your vile processed meat, alcohol, salty snax and baccy predilections will probably remain on the basest, crudest and most repulsive level for the rest of your unnatural lives.  Anyway I've sixty pallets of flapjacks to ship to North America and I need to focus.'
'Level?  Level of what?'
'Spiritual development, of course. An ability to commune with your higher selves.  Me and Dave do that all the time, of course, what with us being vegan and having an eco-business and living in yurts and all.  But you two never, ever will.  Be able to, that is.  Now sod off and let me get on.'
Oh dear.  Higher selves though?  I was intrigued...
'Just get me the Monster Munches and I'll be right as rain,'  a thin voice wailed as Geoffrey secured the flaps and thumped the pegs into the ground with a mallet. 'I'm bored in here.  I know it's meant to be hot and dark and sweaty and it's all for my own good but I'm fed up now - please let me out.  And if you don't let me out, rest assured that I'll wreak a horrible revenge...you know I will....'

Next time....Tuppence finally gets out of the sweat lodge, and Geoffrey and I run away from him and his wrath, on the pretext of setting off to find our higher selves.....

The Ersatz Sweat Lodge

Tuppence's fever is still raging and we haven't found any Monster Munch.

In desperation, we turned to Val Nark in the hope that she might give us some of her 'own-made'.  Of course, given her plans for stocking her farm shop freezer with choice 'Spring lamb' (see recent posts),  we knew that she might give us advice that would finish him off.  But we were prepared to run that risk.

'Tuppence is diseased Tuppy,' said Geoffrey, flapping from mantlepiece to window to arm of settee, and back again, as he always does when he's anxious, 'And what's more he's pumped full of Lem-sip.  He's not organic any more.   Val won't want him in her freezer.  I'm sure of it.'

'All right.  Let's bite the bullet and go up to the tourist car park.  She'll probably be in the post office yurt today.  I think it's her day for posting out orders from her Ebay wholefoods shop.'

'Try creating an ersatz sweat lodge of course,'  snapped Val, when we turned up, shame-faced and nervous. 'And ply him with Junior Aspirin.  The Monster Munch carry-on is simply the ravings of a spoilt and horribly precocious child, and must be ignored at all costs. Don't you two have ANY common sense? Not that I need to ask. You're as thick as two short planks. Three, probably.  If not four.  Or indeed five.'

'I've already given him my tartan knee rug.  And we've got him on a Lem-sip drip,' I replied,  dander up.

'Yes the laudanum didn't work,' added Geoffrey, 'We thought perhaps an opium tabloid and some senna tea...well perhaps not the senna tea...'  I gave him a look, and he fell silent.

Val gripped a piece of string between her teeth and glared at us as she ripped the last piece of brown packing tape from its cardboard roll.

'Oh stop being pathetic and get on with it. I've six boxes of goji berry flapjacks to send out to valued customers in the next post and I don't want any bad feedback. Some of us DO have a life you know!'

And she padded barefoot across the multi-coloured rag rug flooring to the back of the yurt, and an untidy pile of books which Dave sells - or tries to - online.  'Here.  You owe me five pounds and think yourselves lucky I'm not charging you postage.  I know you haven't got the money on you and I know you think you'll get away with not paying me.  But you're completely wrong.  I will hound you until I get my money and I am not put off by extortionate Small Claims Court charges.  It's the principle that matters to me.  I expect to be paid tomorrow morning at first light.  Now go away.'  She threw us a slim, tattered, paperback volume entitled 'How to Cure Everything with an Ersatz Sweat Lodge',  by Mrs Stanley Wrench, dated 1933.

More on what we did next,  later...........

or find more Tales in my e-books, on Amazon, here...http://www.amazon.co.uk/Sea-Penguin-Part-Five-Selections-ebook/dp/B00FW19E0Y/ref=pd_rhf_gw_p_img_2?ie=UTF8&refRID=1HAYA6ZJ8R7A2B0XRWNX

Monster Munch, and the Lack thereof

Tuppence's fever reached a crisis last night.  It seemed to occur after an argument we had about who was really responsible for getting him out of gaol.  Geoffrey and I brought the gelignite,  and set the charge...
'But I sawed through my shackles Uncle Tuppy!' shrilled Tuppence. 'If I hadn't done that you'd have had to do it and you simply wouldn't have coped with the bending over!  Not with your dicky back that you're always going on about.'
And with that he fell back on his pillows, exhausted.
We'll have to find some more Monster Munch (pickled onion flavour) and find them fast.  But where?  Over in her health shop yurt Val Nark sells an 'own-made' version, adapted from a Betty Crocker recipe,  alongside her flapjacks and her sesame snaps, but that won't do, obviously.  What we need is the 'real deal' - a Walkers multi-pack, crammed with salt, sugar and chemicals.  Hopefully then my nephew will get the Roses back in his woolly little cheeks.
Yes - Roses chocolates.  He's partial to them too. Only the soft centres though.  He doesn't like caramels or anything with nuts.

More updates from the sick-bay later.

Find plenty more Tuppy and Tuppence tales here http://www.amazon.co.uk/Kate-Smart/e/B008MFK3NE/ref=sr_ntt_srch_lnk_1?qid=1422011440&sr=8-1

The Monster Munch Crisis

Tuppence has been ill with a mysterious fever ever since we busted him out of gaol.  The symptoms include 'ennui', extreme 'lethargy' and an inability to eat anything other than ham sandwiches with the crusts cut off, and huge amounts of pickled onion flavour Monster Munch.  He's been tucked up with four hot water bottles and a Lem-sip drip, and bundles of spiral-bound notebooks containing his Gaol Diaries.  He's been entertaining himself and fighting off the 'ennui' by reading them to us as we sit solicitously by his sick-bed.

'Here I am, stuck in gaol.  Or what passes for gaol in this godforsaken place. It's a cave, right at the bottom of the cliffs, with an iron grille across the entrance to prevent my 'egress'.  As if! They obviously don't know me.
Only half an hour ago I was chained to the wall - all four legs, shackled and padlocked together by a gang of sniggering rats.  The very same gang of rats who used to pedal bikes to power up my moog synthesiser during gigs at the Puff Inn, and who cheered me along during numerous nefarious-style adventures (see e-books for details).
Fortunately they're so dense that they failed to guess that I happened to have a miniature Swiss Army knife hidden between my teeth and my cheek.  As soon as they left I manoeuvered its saw attachment to the front of my mouth and in a trice I was free.  The rusty iron crumbled under the fine Swiss-made steel of the saw, and...'

'Oh DO hurry up and get to the bit where we burst through the iron grille with a carefully-calculated charge of gelignite!' Geoffrey interrupted.

'No.  Not until you fetch me some more Monster Munch.  There's only one bag left and if I don't get a constant supply I'm likely to relapse.'

Geoffrey and I exchanged glances.  We had obtained our Monster Munches from Stormy Petrel along at the Puff Inn.  'That's your lot chaps,'  he'd said.  'All I've got left are some dry roasted nuts and some scampi fries.'
'Till when?'  we'd asked,  aghast.
'Till the next lot comes in to the tunnels of course.  You two know where I get my supplies.'

Of course we knew.  We knew only too well....smuggling,  and shipwrecks....and...

'Tuppence might have to make do with Val Nark's sesame snaps and yogurt 'n' goji berry flapjacks till the next high Springs,' gasped Geoffrey,  'And I don't think he'll like it.'

'Who would?'




More on this later...

Tuppence has two 'Diaries' written.  One is his 'When I was Away Having Adventures All on my Own by Myself' diary, and the other is his 'Gaol - and How I Busted Out' diary.
As a matter of fact it was me and Geoffrey who 'busted him out', but I don't like to nitpick so I won't mention that again.  Except when I get around to telling you all about it.

In other news,  Val Nark has written a recipe book, aimed at the 'gourmet vegan' market.  Oddly enough it doesn't mention anything about 'Spring lamb',  multiple bird roasts or any of the other so-called 'free range' meat-related products secreted away at the bottom of the Farm Shop freezer.
Expect to see it for sale on Amazon very soon.

More later.

The Dark and the Deep (part one)

'The dark days Tuppy....why can't we dig ourselves out?'
'Because we're getting older, Geoffrey, and as you get older it becomes more and more difficult.  And besides - sometimes, you go too deep......'
'Have we gone too deep, Tuppy?'
'I don't know.  Remember when we went to the centre of the earth, and right through to Australia, and waved to Doug McClure on the way back (please see Sea Penguin Part Four for details, if you're interested)? That was deep.  About as deep as deep can be. And we came back.  But that was a few years ago. I'm not sure if we could do it now.'
'Do you think that if we went on a health and fitness regime, that might help improve our energy levels?'
'No.  That kind of thing never helps.'
'We could ask Val Nark for some detox tips.'
'No we forking couldn't Geoffrey. Aren't you forgetting that she's gone over to the dark side?  What about the multiple bird roasts and the Spring lamb carry-on? (see yesterday's post for details, if you're interested).'
'Just because she's selling them it doesn't mean that she's partaking of them herself.  She could still be vegan.'
'Oh come off it.'
'She's got to keep body and soul together somehow, and you said yourself that the flapjack market has collapsed.  She's had to diversify in order to survive.'
'She didn't have to diversify into m-m-meat.  That's US Geoffrey.  I don't understand why you've any sympathy for her.'
'I s'pose you're right.'
'I AM right.  Now stick the kettle on.  My head hurts.'
'We can worry about the dark and the deep tomorrow?'
'Yes.  Preferably through a comforting blanket of mind-numbing psychotropics.'

More later........

It's All Over.....thank goodness.....

Well, that's it over for another year.  The feasting, the merry-making, the false jollity, the hangovers, the upset stomachs, the heartburn, the angst, the self-hatred, the guilt, the disappointment, the loneliness, the boredom,  the ennui, the bad memories,  the regret, the overspending, the falling-comatose-on-the-sofa-at-all-hours-for-no-reason-that-you-can-think-of and so forth.
Not to mention the chucking-people-off-cliffs custom, which as any reader of Sea Penguins Parts One to Five will know, happens with stomach-churning regularity Hereabouts, and most especially at Yule, when the person voted Most Unpopular in the annual Yuletide poll, gets chucked 'over-the-top'.  But more of that later.
Or perhaps not.
Geoffrey and I are well-past-it, of course, in terms of forced jollity merry-making;  plus, we are sufficently self-aware to know that we're known locally as miserable and stingey 'old-git-style-personages', who dislike 'company', so we kept a fairly low profile.  Not entirely, therefore, but largely, through choice.  Tuppence usually turns up for Yuletide luncheon (extra-large sausages, marinated for three days in the cellar in our own absinthe-and-sage micksture, twenty-five apiece, all neatly threaded and roasted on a spit with M &S fish-fingers and windfall russet apples in between, just for the aesthetic appeal - we don't actually eat 'froot' Hereabouts, as regular readers will know).  But he's getting older now, and this year he decided not to join us. Instead, he borrowed my waterproof trousers, my tinderbox, a jar of beef paste, four loaves of bread, three tins of spaghetti hoops and the Tupfinder General's old army tent, and went off to have an adventure Out in the Wilds with some of his so-called friends - more of that later, if he returns.
Geoffrey has been feeling especially paranoid this year due to the current bizarre fetish for 'multiple bird roasts'.  And well he might.  The Narks have jumped on the bandwagon.  Back in November they turned one of their yurts into a 'farm shop' and started taking orders for an organic version, using 'locally-sourced, free-range meat', and stuffed with seaweed and hunza apricots.  They even put a blackboard outside, with prices. Fifty quid a pop,  apparently.  Yet they won't specify which 'locally-sourced' birds are involved.
'As long as it's not me I don't care Tuppy,' he sobbed. 'I don't want to end up in the middle of a Russian doll-style fowl-fest, rolled and frozen in a box with several of my friends. It doesn't bear thinking about.'
'So much for their so-called vegan lifestyle with their herbal tisanes and their aduki bean rissoles.  They've gone for the meat dollar Geoffrey - and that tells you all you need to know.  I'll never sample one of Val's goji berry and raw oat flapjacks again, not even if she gets down on her bended knees and begs.  So help me I won't.'
'I doubt if she'll have the brass neck to make flapjacks now Tuppy.  Not after soiling her hands with multiple bird roasts.'
'I wouldn't be too sure Geoffrey.  It's follow the money with those two.  You'd think butter wouldn't melt what with their Peruvian hats and their rustic hand-knits, but really they've no scruples.  For now the flapjack market has bottomed out, but who knows - in the Spring it could rise again and she'll be flogging them as fast as she can bake 'em. She'd probably start a flapjack sweat-shop if she could.'
'Tuppy.'
'Yes?'
'Brace yourself.  I've heard rumours that she plans to sell....I'm awfully sorry to have to say it, but... Spring lamb...in the Spring,..in her farm shop...there will be a big special promotion on at Easter,  apparently.'  Geoffrey pressed his hankie to his mouth and cried a little.
'Well don't fret Geoffrey, because that won't affect me.  I'm well-past the lamb stage,'  I replied briskly, pulling the tartan knee rug tighter over my arthritic...knees. 'But we should plan ahead and warn Tuppence as soon as he returns.  He's an adolescent now but in her warped eyes he might just qualify as a lamb.  Luckily, he's very resourceful, and handy with his pistols ( see previous e-books for details http://www.amazon.co.uk/Kate-Smart/e/B008MFK3NE/ref=ntt_athr_dp_pel_1) , so he should be able to protect himself, if need be.'
'But that's the point Tuppy.  Why should he have to protect himself?  Why should he have to live in fear?  It's not right.'
'Of course it's not right Geoffrey.  Many things in life are not right.  But what can we do?'
'We must think of something Tuppy.  We can't just give in.'
'We'll never give in Geoffrey. But for now let's fortify ourselves with a snack and a nap, and perhaps a mug of that nice French brandy you got me for Yule.  We can think about life's trickier side after.'

More Later....

Meanwhile, please help yourself to Sea Penguins One and Two for free today and tomorrow (27th and 28th) via this link to my Amazon page.  http://www.amazon.co.uk/Kate-Smart/e/B008MFK3NE/ref=ntt_athr_dp_pel_pop_1


'  

Measuring the Thinness (or thickness) of the Line betwixt the Living and the Dead

All Hallow's Eve has been and gone, and we're still here.
November the 5th has been and gone, and we're still here, despite effigies of us both being burnt to a crisp on bonfires on top of the moor, placed on a go-kart and shoved smartly downhill to plummet off the cliffs into the raging sea below.
Next up, the winter Solstice, and Yuletide, with all its merriment,  LED fairy lights, trifle, presents, sherry,  sausage rolls,  and general horror and ghastliness.
Ah well.  The wheel turns, and there is nothing that we can do to stop it - unless we tunnel into the centre of the Earth and interfere with its axis of gravity somehow, by filling it with black pudding or whatever.
Personally,  I find the relentless, grinding, nature of the turning of the Earth a bit passive aggressive in flavour. But that's just me!  And perhaps I'll feel differently tomorrow*.
Last Saturday Geoffrey's DebSoc debated the rights and wrongs of Trick or Treating, which is just about the level I would expect from a club that calls itself 'DebSoc'.
Back at the Rocky Outcrop we were in better form, sitting either side of our customary roaring driftwood fire with steaming mugs of Madeira and platefuls of salty snax, discussing the precise nature and thinness of the line betwixt the living and the dead.
The Tupfinder General had joined us for the evening.  "I'd say it's so thin as to be negligible," he said,  toasting a row of sausages, kebab-style, on the end of his sword-stick.
"You mean there's no discernable difference between us and dead people?"asked Geoffrey through a mouthful of mini cheddars.  "How do we know which side of the line we're on then?"
"We don't,"  I replied.
"And how do we know when we've crossed it?"
"We don't know that either."
"So we three might be dead, and we might not even know?"
"That's about the size of it."
"Wait till I tell them at DebSoc!  I'm bound to win Whinge of the Week with that one!"
"It's hardly a Whinge, though, is it?"  I said doubtfully.
"I'd say it qualifies," said the Tupfinder General, "Depending on how it's phrased. For example, you could say 'why oh why don't we know if, when, or indeed why, for that matter, we're dead?'  That would be a good whinge.  Three whinges in one, if you can be bothered taking the time to deconstruct it.  Sort of like an Aldi three-bird roast, like the one Mrs T-G has had in the freezer for the last four years, beneath the Viennetta, the bag of pre-digested Macedoine, and Aunt Bessie's extra-greasy Yorkshire Puddings."
"Yes!  Or I could try, 'why oh why is the line betwixt the living and the dead so appallingly thin?' "Geoffrey enthused.
"You could even start a campaign to get it thickened,"  said the Tupfinder General, "Sort of like dualling the A9."
"I'll start by putting a Notice up on Val and Dave Nark's Noticeboard at the main Yurt. 'Anyone wanting to get the line betwixt the living and the dead thickened forthwith, please sign your name below or contact Geoffrey direct at The Rocky Outcrop,  3,  The Cliffs,  Hereabouts.'  Thanks T-G!"

*probably not though.

more later.

More - lots and lots more - five volumes more, in fact - from Tuppy, Geoffrey and the Tupfinder General in my e-books - here are links to two of them.   http://www.amazon.co.uk/Sea-Penguin-Fireside-Outcrop-Selections-ebook/dp/B007IKMM7E/ref=pd_rhf_gw_p_img_10 http://www.amazon.co.uk/Sea-Penguin-Extractor-Outcrop-Selections-ebook/dp/B007KUXBM2/ref=pd_sim_kinc_1?ie=UTF8&refRID=1FBG4AFEVW3TFRM4B252

'

Geoffrey and Tuppy talk about defibrillators and biscuits and Death and university.

'People are so boring nowadays.  By people I mean poets.  Not that I know any poets, but...'
'I know what you mean.  I've been dying to talk to you about this all week only it slipped my mind. We were only saying at DebSoc the other night...Tuppy? TUPPY!'
'Yes?  Oh sorry.  It's just when you say 'DebSoc' it knocks me out cold.  I'll just have a quick whiff of sal volatile, and run some silver foil over my fillings, and I should be able to resume my normal level of consciousness - without having to charge up the defibrillator.'
'Oh yes.  Last time we did that, it fused the lights.  And the Fulmars' jacoozy stopped pumping. The rats* strapped to the bikes down at the power station just couldn't cope Tuppy.  They've still not forgiven you for showing them up like that.  Revealing their weaknesses and all.  They like to pretend they're invincible.'
'I know all that and I don't want reminding.  Now please continue with your dreadful tale, if you must.  The sooner you start, the sooner it's over with, and I can go back to thinking about the inevitability of Death, and whether it might be a  good or bad idea to speed its relentless, grinding approach with an over-ingestion of Fox's double chocolate chunk cookies at tea-time - only don't say 'DebSoc' out loud.'
'O.K.'
Geoffrey and I were sitting by the fire digesting our lunches.   I'd had three pint mugs of tea and a five-sausage sandwich with butter, pepper, and brown sauce, and he'd had a thimbleful of buttonberry and ox blood daisy-honey tisane and an aduki bean burger with half a dozen alf-alfa sprouts.
Outside the wind howled and raged like a snarling devil-dog lashed to the gates of Hell and straining at the leash.
'The wind sounds remarkably like a snarling devil-dog lashed to the gates of Hell and straining at its leash Tuppy,' said Geoffrey, picking an alf-alfa sprout out of his upper right pre-molar.
'Yes indeed.  And those flecks of rain could even be hideous slobbers flung from its vast ravening jaws.  Ah well.  Let's put the kettle on again and continue our discussion about Dylan Thomas.  In fact - let's go one better and crack open a fresh bottle of Madeira in his honour.  The sun's well over the yard-arm, I think. Not that I've any idea when or where or indeed what the yard-arm actually is.'
'Me neither.  I'm trying to lay off the drink Tuppy.  Val Nark says...'
'Val Nark can naff off.  Last time I saw her she tried to sell me a blueberry e-pipe.  Ten quid it was Geoffrey. Ten quid!  Think of all the baccy I could get for that.  If I had to buy it instead of steal it, of course.'
'Val Nark wants me to go to university Tuppy.  There, I said it.'  Geoffrey blushed and gulped and looked generally incredibly uncomfortable.  I stared at him over my eye-glasses and tried my best to make him feel even worse.
'University?'
'Yes.  She says I've got potential Tuppy.  She says I can go far.  She wants me to study book-learning,' he blurted.
'You've already BEEN far.  You've gone right round the naffing world**.'
'I suppose so...'
'And who needs book-learning?  We've got a pile of books over there, and we never open them.  Why?  Because we don't need to.  We've got all the knowledge we need right here.'  I tapped my forehead with the leg of my specs. and tried to look convincing.
'She says I could get a degree Tuppy.  In literature or philosophy maybe.  She says I'm bright.'
'Has she got a degree?'
'No.  But sometimes she listens to Radio 4 Tuppy, and that's almost as good,  if not better.'
'Who says that?'
'She does.'


more of this later...............

*the rats power all the electricity Hereabouts, by bicycling on vast numbers of exercise bikes in the tunnels below the cliffs.
**Geoffrey circumnambulated the globe on more than one occasion.
Details of all this and much much more, of course, in the e-books to be found via this link to Amazon  here http://www.amazon.co.uk/Kate-Smart/e/B008MFK3NE/ref=sr_ntt_srch_lnk_1?qid=1414419081&sr=8-1