Home for Christmas...

We're not sure if we're really home, or if we're hallucinating due to lack of food and drink.  At the moment, we don't much care.
We seem to remember being pushed shore-wards at alarming speed by the Great 'Fat' Whale of Norway.  Both of us remember that,  so it must be true, surely.   We reached land at about 5 o'clock this morning - Christmas morning - and managed to leap ashore and throw the painter round a rock to secure Fancy, before she could escape.
It wasn't easy, weak with hunger as we were, and we wouldn't have managed it but for the assistance of the forward momentum provided by the Whale.
"Thank you, Whale!"  we cried.
"Don't forget me lads!  Throw me some food as soon as you get the chance."  The Whale circled slowly in the deep water of the Bay.
Not too far behind him, circled the other coracle - the Big One.   When we got back to the Outcrop, I found my most powerful spyglass and had a look at it from the livingroom window while Geoffrey set to in the kitchen, lighting the fire and getting some breakfast on the go.
"Sausages, egg, bacon, fried bread, tattie scones, beans....yes, that should do.  Brown sauce.  Mustn't forget that.  Toast and marmalade for afters, and a large pot of tea," I heard him murmur, amidst the clattering of pans, and the spattering of hot fat.  Comforting, homely sounds.
"That coracle's carrying a ragged black flag at half-mast,"  I said. "What do you make of that,  Geoffrey?"
The kettle whistled.
"Same as you,  I imagine,  Tuppy.  She's a Death ship, come to claim her own during the Dark Days of Winter.  Let's chuck a sausage sandwich down to the Whale and then light the signal fire.  We'd better warn the others."
"What others?"
"You know.  Our neighbours.  The Fulmars.  Stormy Petrel. The Narks.   Doctor Wilson."
"Wilson?  The Narks?  You must be kidding."
"Well, the Tupfinder-Generals then. Although, I'm quite certain he'll already be aware."
"Oh I can't be bothered Geoffrey.  At least, not until I've had my breakfast and a serious nap.  Surely nothing bad will happen today.  After all, it's Christmas.  Goodwill to all.  A time of joy and starlight and happy faces crowded round a homely fire over glasses of hot punch.  Everyone will be busy with their Christmas dinners and stockings and presents and stuff."
"Not everybody,  Tuppy.  Think of that poor Whale, circling round and round all alone in the cold and the dark.  All he has to eat is what we throw down to him."
"But that's his natural environment Geoffrey.  He's a Whale.  He can't manage on land, just as we can't manage in water."
"I can.  I'm a gull.  I can manage water, land and air."
"Don't be smug!   You know what I mean.  Not everyone can enjoy Christmas like we can,  but there's nothing we can do about it so we're just going to have to blot out the guilt with insane amounts of food and drink,  and hopefully every other nasty memory.  Is that breakfast ready yet?"
"Oh dear Tuppy.  That's not the way to approach things, at all."
"Well I can't help it,"  I snapped," I'm tired and I can't manage moral dilemmas and guilt on an empty stomach.  I hope you've made plenty tattie scones."
"I have,  Tuppy.  I have."
"Black pudding?  Don't say a word.  I can tell by the look on your face that you forgot."
"Well to be honest Tuppy - and I know this is very poor timing - I think we need to give up black pudding."
"Oh?"
Geoffrey swallowed anxiously.  "I want to go macrobiotic Tuppy.  There, I've said it."
" I'll have your full-cooked then."
"I didn't mean right now!  It's something for the New Year. You know the kind of thing."
"I do."
Phew!  I thought.  Macrobiotics?  It'd be yoga next,  if I couldn't nip this in the bud, and giving up smoking and opium.  And then where would we be?  Life wouldn't be worth a candle.  I'd need to keep a close eye on Geoffrey.

We sat by the fire and ate in silence, and then dozed pleasantly in the warmth as we waited for the sun to creep above the horizon.

And we tried not to think about the lonely Whale, swimming round and round in the cold dark water, or the coracle of Death, as it drifted ever closer....

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............................

A Nasty Encounter in the Tunnels

...none other than the Ghastly Wilson, all togged out in Lycra for pity's sake. And looking very full of himself.
"He's looking very full of himself," whispered Geoffrey.
"And well he might," I muttered. "Look who he's got riding shotgun. In a manner of speaking."
"Blimey!"
Striding around impatiently at the back of the podium was none other than the Grim Reaper himself.
"Come on, come on, get on with it," he hissed, swirling his cape around and creating a terrible draught. "I haven't got all day! I need to make my quota before midnite. Get them on the machines, toot sweet."
"Yes, master," grovelled Wilson. "And I'll start feeding them the health foods, as well. Just to send their systems into shock."

wilson hits the skids and is replaced by kwak

"Ring out the old, ring in the new!"
"For pity's sake, Geoffrey! We've been and done the New Year. It's the first of frigging February!" I snapped.
"Soz, Tuppy."
Soz? what the heck does THAT mean? I can probably guess, but blimey - what's the world coming to? answers on a...oh, never mind.
Regular readers will sense that there is something amiss with dear old Geoffrey. He's pretty darn far from his usual sanguine self. The T-G suspects that trying to work out how to play two-handed cribbage might have over-taxed his (soz to say it, but rather small) brain. Geoffrey received a cribbage set from Sanity Claws at Yule, and spent hours obsessively poring over the rules. I hate to even allow this thought loose, but things are so bad that he MIGHT have to (gulp) arrange a so-called consultation with our new so-called medic, Dr Kwak.
Yes, the ghastly Wilson has a rival. A quack called Kwak is in our midst, doing his worst to test and screen us for every ailment known to man, just so's he can keep himself in luxury on a six figure salary. Not that we're jealous! no! not a bit of envy here - it's way beneath folk like us, with impeccable moral fibre/hygiene. Geoffrey and I are absolutely incapable of feeling anything so crass. No, we're quite content to live in our rundown hovel with its quaint leaks and draughts, which are SO character...oh, forget it.
Anyway - re. Wilson - turns out he has a terrible morphine habit (no surprise to US Hereabouts, but "the authorities" were quite unaware, till "someone" (no, not us - again, we're FAR too morally hygienic) grassed him up. Question is - who was it? do we care? not particularly, but it does give us something to mull over while we try to figure out the cribbage thing...

blimey - medical chest disaster

I don't know if it's age, the time of year, clocks going back (or is it forwards?) but I seem to have lost me thread i.e. am going what I believe psychiatrists call "doo-freakin'-lally". Quickstyle.
I reached for the sal volatile earlier today, as it usually helps at such times, but was devastated to find that the bottle which has been my saviour on so many occasions (see previous posts, if you want to know exactly HOW many occasions - but be warned - you may be some time) contained nowt but a weak, namby-pamby mixture of synthetic eucalyptus and menthol. A quick whisk through the other items in our recently re-stocked medical chest (see previous posts - recent ones this time so it shouldn't take too long) revealed a horrifying sight. No morphia. No "equipment", viz. needles and syringes. No mustard plasters. To cap it all the emergency strait jacket (sometimes required for guests) has been replaced with one made of "stretchee" lycra-mix and has velcro fastenings.
And who has so defiled our box of medical basics? the ghastly Wilson, of course! a vile little label was stuck inside the lid, informing us that previous contents constituted a red alert-style health and safety hazard, and that henceforth we would be "allowed" only junior aspirin and elastoplast, plus of course the wishy washy eucalyptus and the rubbish straitjacket. What's the point of having a straitjacket that you can get out of in a trice? we used the old one to restrain the occasional houseguest - for their own good of course, but more importantly, for our entertainment!
We suspect that Wilson has purloined the old straitjacket so that he can restrain passersby willy nilly and without a by your leave,while he fires needlesful of swine flu "untested on anything remotely sentient, but totally safe" vaccine into their unsuspecting backsides.
Fortunately, the T-G has a replacement "genuine" one, which he is prepared to lend us as we assist Titus in his efforts to "unseat" Wilson (see previous post). Hopefully we will be able to preempt his vaccination mania before too many of us lose our sanities. We expect mission to be accomplished by tomorrow tea-time at the latest. That will leave the evening free for the usual Friday lock-in at the Puff Inn.
Aaaaaaaaaargh!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! too late!!!!!!!!!!a large needle and syringe has just lodged itself dart-like in my behind!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

new neighbours are utter swine

We've got new neighbours. Two eco-style warriors have set up home in a yurt in the tourist car park. They're called Dave and Valerie Nark, and they want all of us to get our roofs and pipes lagged, and cavity walls insulated, or they'll do something terrible. They announced through a loudhailer that we're destroying our environment, and if we don't do as they say, they will spray the area with the deadly pig plague virus. That way, the environment will be free from our contamination and abuse.
Obviously this is a bit worrying, but we think if worst comes to worst, we can ask the dreaded Wilson to manufacture "vaccine" from the dead pig behind oven - yes, it's still there - we can't move it, it weighs a ton. We'll just have to leave it till it rots away completely.
We can't possibly get our walls etc. insulated - the Outcrop is "traditional-build" i.e. draughty and full of holes - it would be a case of rebuilding the entire place, and that is utterly unthinkable.
We're going to try and get Dave and Valerie along to a BBQ at the Fulmars, this weekend weather permitting - although they do have supercharged patio heaters, so weather doesn't really matter - to see if we can get them to mellow out a bit.

gig off

Great news! Razor Bill (postman) stopped by on his rounds for a drop of madeira this morning - never too early - as someone once said "It's five o'clock somewhere" - and gave us the latest from the Puff Inn. Rehearsals for Tuppence's band's Sunday lunchtime gig have not been going too well. There have been horrible scenes. Dr Wilson insisted on playing "pure prog" (no surprise there - he's such a pedant) but Tuppence and the Reaper wanted to play more heavy rock, egged on by Mr Spockfingers, who wanted to start the set with Deep Purple's Sweet Child in Time, so he could showcase his vocal range. Wilson stormed out in a terrible huff, which left them without anyone to squeak the glass. And without electrics, that means they only have the biscuit tin lids left.
Anyway it's all gone "tits up" as they say.
And Geoffrey and I couldn't be more pleased. We don't like music. We like Val Doonican.