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".

is death avoidable?

Razor Bill stopped by with the post this morning. Not that we ever get any real post, it's usually just Reader's Digest competitions, Betterware catalogues and address labels and stuff from the PDSA. Not to mention the occasional lump of dog muck. The item we look forward to most of course is the weekly Somerfield specials leaflet, which generally features our fave things, such as crisps, drink, fizzy juice, pies and korn bif.
Bill informed us that he'd treated himself recently to a multi pack of Somerfield own brand LUXURY toilet paper, and was SHOCKED to discover, on opening it, that the perforations were missing! imagine his horror!! not to mention the sheer inconvenience of having to rip it!!! that'll teach him to indulge in unnecessary luxuries.
Geoffrey and I, having used up the supply left by the visitors, have now reverted to our practice of going " au naturel".
The weather's been a bit hot recently so I got Geoffrey to clip my wool. He used the no. 1 setting on our tondeuse set which gives me quite a severe look, but I think I like it, although it does age me a bit. I then went out for a stroll along the cliffs to get a breath of air. On the way I bumped into the ghastly Wilson ( see list of characters if you don't know who he is) who was patrolling the cliffs to check that anyone out and about was wearing sunblock. Wilson demanded to know if I was wearing any - when I said no, of course not, he screamed at me to get back indoors, as in my hairless, fairskinned state, I was a cancer risk, and as such, was liable to give him an awful lot of unnecessary work, and possibly die, at some future date! charming!!
This led to a conversation between me and Geoffrey about death - specifically, is death avoidable? as we sat comfortably by our fireside (fire unlit, due to heatwave, and no tartan knee rugs, either) sipping a glass or two of iced madeira and puffing away on our pipes, after a slap up dinner of Somerfield steak and gravy pies and hash browns, followed by two blueberry muffins apiece, and looking forward to a late supper of korn bif and salad cream sandwiches, we pondered the question. If we did as Wilson demands, and gave up our pies, drink, pipes, and complete lack of exercise, if we never went out in the sun without hats and sunblock, if we never crossed a road, or had a bacon or processed meat sandwich, would we live forever? could death actually be avoided? we're going to ask the Tupfinder what he thinks, tomorrow.

summer visitors

Now it's summer we're getting lots of visitors, and we're so flattered because they do like to leave stuff behind, perhaps as a little keepsake/thankyou gift? Very generous of them whatever the reason. The socks are particularly brilliant, just the very dab once we'd brushed the earth and crustiness off them. Even the lavvy paper can be "re-used" once it's dried out a bit! it's so expensive, lavvy paper, nowadays - and I think this is the soft kind! (what a treat - we usually buy Izal!!) We've got it hanging on the line as I speak and I'm sure the brown stains will fade in the sun. We're keeping the lager cans and used BBQ tray in case Tuppence wants to make another heatshield for his new time travelling device (see last summer's posts for diagram of previous TTD, and details of its destruction). And as for the sauce bottle - well! we were ecstatic when we saw there was actually some left in it - and it's barbeque flavour! our fave - plus, it's a "brand name", not the Somerfield value kind which we usually buy - so we can take it along to Apsley and Cherry's next BBQ party and not feel ashamed! Thanks, whoever you were!!

midsummer on the outcrop

solstice balls

Well it's almost summer solstice, though you'd never know it. It's been freezing cold, wet and windy. Geoffrey and me have been huddled up by the fire, tartan knee rugs and slippers on, with only a guttering candle to illuminate the gloom of the evenings, reminding ourselves that next thing, the nights'll be drawing in again. Blimey.
The only cheery thing I can think of to keep my spirits up is that at LEAST I haven't been voted "most unpopular" in the bi-annual solstice poll - readers will recall that I WAS the winner of this dubious honour, on the occasion of last winter solstice. And I barely escaped with my life. "Winners" are chucked "over the top" - (see gazetteer, re. "over the Top".)
Goeffrey and I haven't demeaned ourselves by taking part in this summer's ballot, not really because we've any moral objection, it's just that we can't be bothered - though apparently lots of other people Hereabouts HAVE been bothered and we'll find out this year's winner tomorrow when the sun is at its zenith...

phew - a near death experience

Well, here I am, back at the outcrop - and I couldn't be more relieved. There was I, breathing my last, the strength draining out of my exhausted limbs, when Geoffrey appeared as I knew he would - sculling along in the coracle. I was alarmed to see that Tuppence was with him - as readers will know, Tuppence went right off the rails after his ghastly prog rock phase. But I needn't have worried.

"Grab an oar uncle Tuppy," he piped, and in a trice I was hauled on board and a flask of brandy was at my lips - but it was too late for brandy - I fell into a deep swoon - the last words I heard were,"Oh-oh - we're losing him - fetch the medical case, Geoffrey," as Tuppence snapped into his "officer in charge" mode.

I awoke to find Tuppence's concerned eyes peering anxiously into mine. "I think the adrenalin's working, Geoffrey. You can stop pumping now. Fetch the sal volatile, will you?"

Pumping? Indeed, I could feel the steady rhythm of Geoffrey's webbed feet beating out a one-two-one-two directly over my heart. Next, he snapped open a vial of sal volatile and waved it under my nose. I felt like my old self in no time at all, after that.

Later on, we sat by a roaring driftwood fire at the Outcrop, slippers on, enjoying a glass or two of madeira, a pipeful of Black Bogey and a bowl of savoury bacon flavour snax, and I was so glad to be home once more and among friends. Tuppence apologised for his past - quite frankly vile - behaviour, and I agreed to let bygones be bygones - for now anyway...

Word had also arrived, while I was "away", from Mr Spockfingers - he sent a photo of himself enjoying life on his health farm.

tossing about in the swell

Aaaaaaaaaaaargh!!!! double aaaaaaaaargh!!!! You'll never guess where I ended up!! I was washed south, flushed down with another mouthful of mackerel, through the orca's gullet and into the stomach, where I sloshed about for ages, waist deep in a stew of god knows what - old bones, fish guts, and general debris (see photo for example) A few mackerel survived and I had a bit of conversation with them about this and that. "What do you make of this?" I asked. "Well, we don't think much of THAT" they replied. Fans of Chic Murray will know that this is a very badly told version of one of his excellent jokes - and it turns out that the orca is also a fan of Chic Murray, because he was so nauseated by our despicable rendition that he roared a terrible, terrible roar and promptly threw us all up.

I'm now tossing about in the swell, somewhere between Hereabouts and ...Overthere. I'm not a good swimmer, the water's awfully cold and my wool is getting terribly heavy...where oh where is Geoffrey??

STILL in the belly of the beast

Hello..lo...lo..Is anybody there...there...there...? Yah-HOO!!! OOH!!!!OOOOHHHH!!!!!!!!!
(there's one heck of an echo in here.)
Good grief, I'm bored. I'm completely alone, as Geoffrey flew out yesterday when the orca burped after a good lunch (viz. a large shoal of mackerel, washed down with copious amounts of seawater; we had to hide behind the molars and cling on for dear life as they flooded past) I've kept myself entertained by picking all the orca's teeth, scraping his tongue, and now I'm bo..........aaaargh!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

return of B.O.

You won't believe the week I've had. Or where I am. I'm back in the belly of the frigging beast! What happened is this. In my last post I described how Nippy Grimshaw floated off the cliff edge and over the sea, due to his sandwich boards being caught by a gust of wind.
We thought little of it until Geoffrey pointed out that there was an orca in the bay - none other than B.O. - Baby Orca - readers will recall - see previous posts if not - that B.O. arrived here some months back seeking revenge for the death of his mother, which he blamed on ME. Wrongly! (okay, I lit the match, but, as readers may also recall, it was really none other than mr spockfingers who caused the explosion inside the orca's cavernous belly - in which I was incarcerated - ergo, spockfingers is the true culprit.)
Anyway, I tried to press the point with B.O. - Spockfingers is presently in a clinic, recovering from the stresses of performing in BGT, and is not due back till tomorrow, so I didn't feel in the least bad about putting all the blame on him - via a megaphone, but with no effect - if anything he become more enraged and began breaching and snapping his massive jaws and blowing spouts of water up in the air in a most aggressive and alarming fashion.
Meanwhile poor Nippy was slowly heading downwards, the sandwich boards having lost their "lift". Geoffrey decided that we had to help him. Naturally I was horrified, but he said that he'd never speak to me again unless I helped too. So, I'd no choice but to get the old coracle out of the attic and drag it down to the shore, and sail off, taking the Tupfinder's brace of pistols with us, to fend off the orca.
Need I say more? We were swallowed up in a trice, and here we frigging are, sitting on his back molars and bored out of our skulls. Do we have a plan? of course! it is this: next time the orca opens his gob - which shouldn't be long - Geoffrey will fly out and get help. I trust Geoffrey implicitly - I know he won't let me down...

blimey - near tragedy on the cliffs!

Blimey! what a day yesterday. Nippy Grimshaw marched up and down along the cliff tops wearing sandwich boards emblazoned with the words DOWN, DOWN, DOWN with EVERYTHING, and shouting the same at the top of his lungs! We tried to engage him in conversation, and offered him some refreshment in the form of a korn bif and wotsit sandwich, but he burst into tears - we felt terribly sorry for him but there was little we could do. We tried asking him to be a bit more specific - down with everything is a bit broad - but unfortunately before we got to the bottom of the mystery, a gust of wind caught the sandwich boards and lifted him off the ground and over the cliff edge. Nippy is now drifting on a thermal, slowly across the open sea...perhaps he'll return when the wind changes...

duck island

"Duck freakin' island? Duck FREAKIN' island???!!!" I'm afraid Geoffrey and I were awakened VERY rudely by Apsley and Cherry Fulmar's less than dulcet tones. What happened is this.

Apsley and Cherry are very nice in their own way - BUT - they are prone to petty jealousies. Hereabouts, we don't "keep up with the Jones's", we keep up with the Fulmars. Or would, if we gave a toss about keeping up with anybody - as readers will know only too well, we don't.

The Fulmars discovered that "someone" has built a floating island for ducks, half way between Hereabouts and ...Over there. It's not ideally situated, actually, as the sea gets terribly rough and there's a whirlpool and everything, (please see previous posts re. my travels to see the oracle in my coracle) so my guess is it won't last long. Nevertheless, the Fulmars are black affronted as they can see the freakin' thing from their patio. They're determined to either demolish it or build their own.

nippy grimshaw

Razor Bill told me this morning that a new person has moved in - someone called Nippy Grimshaw, and he's living in the flat above the Puff Inn. (no, Stormy doesn't live there - he lives in the old broch). A lot of people seem to be coming and going at the moment. The Narks are still at the North Pole, and obviously we're hoping they decide to stay there.
Spockfingers has gone to London for the finals of Britain's Got Talent. The Swallows are around, but we don't see them much as they're very busy due to impending arrival of youngsters. The Tupfinder general is recovering from a touch of swine flu, so has obviously been staying in. The only person we've seen this week is Razor Bill when he delivers the post.
I suppose we did have quite a weekend of it though, so can't complain.
Wilson's still working on a "cure" for swine flu, and as the dead pig behind our oven had rotted sufficiently to allow it to be unwedged, we managed to heave it over the cliffs, where it landed just above the tide line, and Wilson is presently performing a dissection.
We hope to make Nippy's acquaintance later at the Puff Inn.

spockfingers goes for bgt

What a weekend we've had. We all made a bit of a night of it on Friday, down at the Puff Inn. Stormy had a lock in, broke open some doritos and made up a vat of Purple Peril in honour of the return of Chic and Phemie Swallow - all courtesy of their second home allowance of course. The revelry continued until well into Saturday, when we all went round to Apsley and Cherry Fulmar's to watch the Eurovision Song Contest on their 62 inch LCD telly. As readers will know, and despite what Dave and Valerie Nark might think, the Fulmars are the only folks Hereabouts who have leccy and a telly - however, Chic and Phemie are now planning to claim for an £8000 home cinema system, again courtesy of their seemingly very elastic second home expenses. They plan to generate the leccy for it by paying (or threatening) the rats to get on their bikes again and power it up - as they did for Tuppence when he went through his prog rock phase (see previous posts) and performed a gig with his moog at the Puff Inn.
Anyway - I conked out soon after the start of Eurovision (thankful for small mercies) but woke up for the voting. Geoffrey was glued throughout - his fave was Ukraine (something to do with the outfits, I gather), followed by Malta. Manners prevented him from commenting on the UK entry, or the winner, so I'm none the wiser.
More news - mr spockfingers has entered Britain's Got Talent, but is unsure which talent to display to the public. Readers will know he's got two. His singing voice is certainly unmistakeable, but a little voice in my head and a flutter of apprehension in my bowels tends to make me think that he will lean towards the appalling anal emissions department - he watched the chap who was on last week giving a very feeble account of himself and declared that he could do MUCH better - as if we didn't already know that. Oh dear - it's all terribly vulgar - mind you, if he makes it to the final, Geoffrey and I will be loyally feeding him cabbage and cheering him on, and if the Swallows get the home cinema system installed in time, I will personally offer to get on a bike and cycle like "Billy-be-jiggered" in order to power it up. (er...maybe not that last part...)

summer approaches

Chic and Phemie Swallow are well and truly back and ensconced in their "second home", designated as such for tax purposes and expenses claims. Some are whispering that it's their "primary residence", given that they raise at least one family here every summer and travel to warmer climes merely to escape the weather, but who knows. No-one else bothers paying tax Hereabouts anyway - we don't hold with such draconian goings on. Incomers have made attempts to drag us into that horrible system, but so far we've always managed to see them off.

Speaking of which, the Narks seem to have abandoned their yurt, hopefully for good, but people say they have gone on an eco-holiday to some boiling hot godforsaken hellhole, so we sense they may return and Bonkers McGee is standing by just in case.

Oh - Razor Bill has just delivered the mail, and he tells me the Narks have not gone to a boiling hot godforsaken hellhole, they've gone to the Arctic Circle and are planning to swim to the North Pole.

We can only hope that they will be suitably refreshed by their holiday and that afterwards they will have the strength to target their eco-rage on some of the massive multinationals who are belching out immeasurable amounts of carbon into the atmosphere instead of ranting on to us miserable individuals about our lack of cavity wall insulation.

tupfinder general livid - calls in bonkers mcgee to save the day

Well, we tried to tunnel out as best we could but we only made it as far as the deadfall (which we had prepared a few days ago in case Tuppence arrived to collect the dead pig from behind our oven. The pig's still there by the way, but we've kind of got used to the smell - strange to say, it seems almost pleasant now... that can't be normal, can it?) Geoffrey managed to fly out of course, being a gull, and he managed to drop a length of rope down for me to shin up. I got out eventually sans dignity but it was far from easy - never mind - at least it was a tad less traumatic than being blasted out of the belly of the beast by one of Spockfingers' anal emissions (see previous posts, if you're curious).
We spent the evening at the Tupfinders' - Mrs T-G had made some cucumber sandwiches - NOT my favourite, as regular readers will know, but managed to polish them off anyway - with the aim of hatching a plan to get rid of the Narks. But the Tupfinder already had it all in hand! he was absolutely livid.
"We can't have this kind of carry on round here. Leaflets thrust through letterboxes willy nilly. Quarantined without a by your leave. Cavity wall insulations if you please. Pipe lagging experts springing up like a bad rash. Ghastly lectures about living without cars and LCD tellys - we don't HAVE cars and tellys Hereabouts...never mind cavity walls...most of us don't even have leccy...but they don't care about that..."
The Tupfinder was in full flow. "It simply won't do. I've contacted the Heavy Mob."
"Not Bonkers McGee?" Geoffrey and I were aghast.
"We've no option. Serious times need serious people. And there's no-one more serious than Bonkers McGee."
"But..who's going to control him?"
"Who said anything about controlling him? I intend to let him rip...as far as I'm concerned he can do his worst."
Bonkers arrives on Monday, and is sure to be tooled up. We've all battened down our hatches. Bonkers' worst is sure to wreak absolute havoc Hereabouts...