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...

drat! locked out of the lock in!!

Well! I'm black affronted! I made my way down to the Puff Inn (Geoffrey is indisposed at present - he takes these "turns" occasionally, and it's best to leave him alone to recover his, well, how can I put it? scattered senses) and was rudely dismissed.
Okay, I admit I'd indulged in a glass or two of Somerfield's version of Duke of Malmsey's finest, but to be refused admittance to my own local hostelry? What happened is this.
I ambled across the clifftops, admiring the view of the moonlight shining on the calm waters of the Minch and observing Baby Orca slowly circling in the bay below me, Spockfingers back legs still sticking out of his mouth and kicking wildly. I was still sporting my fancy dress outfit (Billy Ocean - see previous posts) from the party the other week, simply because I could not get the trousers off (satin loons). They're far too close a fit. I could cut them off, I suppose, but I don't want to ruin them...anyway I'll deal with that later...
Anyway, I arrived eventually at the Puff Inn, and tapped on the window as is my wont, only to be met with horrified stares from those within, and the curtains whisked across.
"It's me, Tuppy," I cried wistfully, thinking that perhaps they didn't know me due to my outfit.
"We know perfectly well who you are. Sod off," a sinister voice growled.
The curtains were still open just a tiny bit, and I could see the flickering of a cosy fire and hear the clinking of pewter mugs and the crunching of salty snax as the chosen few laughed and chatted together in the companionable warmth.
A thick drizzle began to fall, and I turned for home...I can only hope that dear old Geoffrey is recovering swiftly from his "turn". I don't cope well when he's not available to help me with these type of distressing-style upsets. Plus, I need him to help me cut the loons off toot sweet before they saw me in two - they've shrunk a bit due to being out in the rain...
But who was the owner of the sinister voice? I've a fair idea.

spockfingers plunges off the cliff....

Quick summary of weekend before last's final hours, before moving on to THIS weekend's. Suffice to say, Spockfingers arrived, and joined in with the rousing finale to Sweet Child in Time, ignoring the clouds of thick smoke billowing from the leccy socket.
"That wiz grate, Tuppmeister", opined Spockfingers, stamping his feet/hooves enthusiastically (Tuppence is sometimes referred to as The Tuppmeister. Of course, that should be MY nickname...but I'll deal with that later...) "Noo let's hae a go at Fanfare for the Common M-A-A-A-A-A-A-A-A-...................................." and his voice faded into a ghastly fading scream type thing, as he plunged of the cliff - yes, the blaze - the second in the space of two weeks, bear in mind - had weakened the cliff edge, leading it to crumble and collapse under Spockfingers' stamping feet and massive bulk.
On his way down, he let rip with a humungous anal emission - for which he is renowned - please see previous posts for an account of me lighting one and blasting my way forth from the belly of the beast - this propelled him earthwards, or should I say, BAY wards - at an even faster rate and he landed headfirst, smack in the jaws of Baby Orca, who as usual was lurking in the bay waiting for passing victims.
Methinks Spockfingers will prove too strong a meat for even Baby Orca, and I'm sure he will be belched forth before too long....
Off to the Puff Inn for the Friday lock in now...

slaughterhouse fifty five

Party party party! those were the words which greeted us as we arrived at the newly refurbished Old Rectory last weekend. No, not that weekend just gone past - the one BEFORE.
Yes, it's taken us that long to recover. Apsley and Cherry had really gone to town with a BBQ, patio heaters, outdoor jacuzzi, Dansette record player plugged in to an extension cable, mirror ball and flashing disco lights. Ranald and Sandy (Wand'ring Albatrosse) were guests of honour, as they redesigned the place of course. They've gone for a "retro" 70s look, very rustic, with dried flowers and gourds everywhere, and really uncomfortable orange moquette furniture. The wallpaper was the same as Jack Regan's in The Sweeney - sort of large, intersecting greenish and cream squares, specially chosen to clash horribly with the orange moquette.
The drinks (purple peril, natch) were served in olde style pint mugs, the ones you don't get any more in pubs (except in the Puff Inn, of course).
The food was to die for (more of that later!) Cherry had excelled herself as usual. Not only did we have our fave korn bif and pineapple chunk kebabs, there were weird things on sticks, jammed into upside down oranges covered with foil, such as sausages (my fave!!) cheese kubes (Hmmm....) pickled onions (better) and maraschino cherries (take them or leave them, personally).
And the guests!! first, the more savoury ones. Me and Geoffrey, of course, The Tupfinder General (Mrs T-G did not appear, as per), Stormy (appeared after closing time with a welcome couple of crates of meths), Razor Bill, and of course Ranald and Sandy. We all wore fancy dress by the way - the theme was 70s, to match the decor. Ranald and Sandy rather boringly wore denims and long wigs, and came as "The Sutherland Brothers" - very disappointing and out of character. Razor Bill wore moon boots (goodness knows where he dug them up from - but more of that later!) and came as David Cassidy - Stormy came as Robert Plant, which we thought doesn't really count as apart from wrinkles he looks pretty much the same regardless of decade - the T-G came as Sherlock Holmes, and nobody had the nerve to tell him he'd got it badly wrong (he thought theme was the 1870s).
I got my wool tightly permed and dyed black, wore blue satin flares, platform soles and a sequinned jacket and came as Billy Ocean. Geoffrey was mortified and almost refused to go to the party at all. In the end, he wore a long white cape and a blond wig, and went as Rick Wakeman.
Now for the UNsavoury guests. True to form, Tuppence arrived mob-handed with his gang of rats, and proceeded to "diss" the entire party, saying the music was "crap" (Apsley's Top of the Pops album 1972 with not the right singers on it, was playing at the time, so maybe he had a point...)and the food inedible (well, I suppose he had a point there too - some of it definitely was...and coming from me, that's saying a lot...) He then plugged in his moog, to Apsley and Cherry's generator, shouting "I'LL give you 70s" and started blasting out the opening bit from Deep Purple's Sweet Child in Time.
As the song progressed, and Tuppence's screeching and screaming reached a ghastly crescendo, the generator began to overheat and smoke began to pour from the electric socket.
Before we knew it, a raging fire had started - AGAIN!!!!
more later....

the Fulmars invite us to a party/do

Great news! Ranald and Sandy (Wand'ring Albatrosse) have finished remodelling the Old Rectory (which people are rather churlishly blaming ME for burning down! see previous posts as to why this ridiculous accusation was made - as if it was MY fault the meths got spilt over the BBQ) and Apsley and Cherry are all set to move back in. They're fed up living in the caravan - it would do Geoffrey and me quite nicely as a holiday home/weekend retreat-style dwelling, but Cherry does like her comforts.
A large Speedispend van arrived at the Old Rectory this afternoon, stuffed full of every electrical appliance and mod con under the sun. (Cherry says the stuff's not costing her a penny, as she's put it on plastic and in any case will be getting a load of Speedispend kloobkahd money-back-style vouchers just in time for Christmas - personally I'm not quite sure she's got that right but time will tell) Chief item of interest alongside the foot spas, plug in back massagers etc. was a replacement 62 inch telly, and an invite arrived via Razor Bill this morning to an X Factor/housewarming-style party/do, this Saturday evening!
Let's just hope the house doesn't get TOO warm - like it did last time when it burnt down!

what exactly happens, after death?

Last evening, as we sat by our roaring driftwood fire, and chatted aimlessly over a glass of madeira and a pipe or two, Geoffrey and I realised that we had tired of our fave topic, "Is Death Avoidable?", and have taken the logical step of turning to the next rung up so to speak, viz., "Is There Life After Death?", or, "What Exactly Happens, After Death?".
"Does this mean that we've accepted Death as inevitable?" I mused.
"No Tuppy, of course we haven't," replied Geoffrey, refilling his pipe.
"All the same that doesn't mean that we're going to stop eating pies, surely?" I asked, worriedly.
"No. Pies, salty/fatty snax and processed meats will remain a major part of our diets. Have no fear on that front, Tuppy."
"What on earth do you mean then? According to the ghastly Wilson, our diet is killing us. Salt, the silent killer. Kidneys like conkers. Fatty atheromas. Plaques. You name it, we've got it."
"Yes, but who is Wilson, really? what does he really know? all this so-called research that he bangs on about viz a viz our diets could be just a load of old pants, quite frankly. And look at the state of him! So pale and scrawny. And that's him living on seaweed."
"Or so he says, Geoffrey. I've often suspected he might supplement his so-called diet with something else...but more of that later. I agree he does look as if he could do with a good feed."
"Yes and he's SO tense all the time! ranting on about people's mortality and getting worked up."
"Yes. I'm surprised that HE doesn't have a heart attack. He wants to chill out a bit. Anyway enough about Wilson. Get back to the point, please, Geoffrey. You were saying that we haven't given up on the idea that death could be avoidable?"
"Of course we haven't. But we might as well digress for a bit to consider what might happen should death occur - afterwards."
"Oh." I must say my heart sank as I contemplated this ghastliness. All sorts of depressing scenarios flooded my brain. Life without Geoffrey! And never mind that - would there be madeira, and crisps?
"No, Geoffrey, this won't do at all. This is depressing the hell out of me. We'll have to return to sunnier climes, viz., is Death Avoidable. And pass me that plateful of korn bif and salad cream sandwiches while you're at it."

I swap a knee rug for my immortal soul

Last evening, Geoffrey and I were enjoying our usual glass of madeira in front of a roaring driftwood fire. We sat in companionable silence for an hour or so, puffing away on pipefuls of Black Bogey and toasting our feet. Then...
"What's that awful smell?" said Geoffrey.
"Burning rubber, " I replied. The sole of my slipper had started to melt. Not for the first time.
Once we'd removed the slipper and set it at the front door to re-solidify, we sat down again and began to discuss our fave topic, viz. "Is Death Avoidable?" Regular readers will know that this involves a reflection on the point or otherwise of reducing dietary fat intake and increasing regular exercise. Usually we decide that there's no point in doing either - why make life more unpleasant that it needs to be?
As we did so, a shadow passed back and forth outside our window - the Grim Reaper himself, complete with scythe - the miserable old so and so.
"Get lost!" we shouted. "You're much too early. The winter hasn't even set in."
"Why isn't he down at the bay?" muttered Geoffrey. "After all, there's plenty work for him there, what with the new trip wire and all."
"Yes," a ghastly voice intoned (the Reaper), "but the tourist season's nearly over. I'm all out of cyclists and kayakers. I'm having to spread my net a bit wider. Can I come in? It's a bit nippy out here."
"No! go and spread your net somewhere else, why don't you?" I snapped. "What about Tuppence's wrecking light? aren't there any doomed seafarers you can pick on?"
"Good idea. Forgot about that. But I'm still awfully chilly."
"Tuppy - give him your tartan knee rug. And what about your zip up slippers? the sole's gone on one anyway."
With a sigh, I opened the door a crack and handed the Reaper said knee rug and slippers.
And off he went. For now...
"I want the rug back mind," I called. The Reaper replied with a nonchalant wave as he shuffled off down the hillside.
"Tuppy!" hissed Geoffrey. "You fool! You've given him a reason to return. Let him keep the thing. It's a small exchange for your immortal soul, after all."
"Ooops! I didn't think of that!"

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.

Back at the Outcrop, after we'd rescued all the survivors and helped them on their way, Geoffrey and the T-G gave me a serious talking to, in the course of which I shamefacedly blurted out the details of my gruesome deal with baby orca.
"Foolish animal," said the T-G, who was still waxing stern. "Why worry about a few death threats from a killer whale? he can only harm you if you go into the water."
"Or near it," ventured Geoffrey.
"Indeed," agreed the T-G. "So no more talk about throwing people over the top willy nilly. Tell baby orca to stop throwing his weight about and crack open that barrel of illicit madeira."
Why didn't I think of that? of course I'm safe on dry land! perfectly safe...unless...well, I must admit I'm a little concerned that once he realises I've welshed he will enlist the help of A.N. Other, i.e. a hired assassin, to do me in. Tuppence and the rats, perchance?
They will soon tire of wrecking - too much effort - and I'm sure no activity is too nefarious for Tuppence and his gang - in fact, the more nefarious the better.
The T-G has agreed to lend me a musket, just in case...

ship ahoy

More gloom. Although...I must say, for my part it's more gloom mixed with relief. I feel terrible for saying that, but the way things stand with baby orca, well, I have to put myself first, after all. What choice do I have?
Readers will remember (if not, please delve back through previous posts) that baby orca pursued me for ages in a relentless attempt to seek revenge for his mother's death. He's still after me - hence the deal that we struck recently, in which I agreed to provide him with "fresh meat" on demand. (How did I manage to strike a deal with a killer whale? well, I used the heliograph, over by the old coastguard hut, and signalled to him in morse code from the cliff top. He replied in the following manner - one blast from his blowhole for "yes", and two for "no".)
Today's emotional "melange" comprises a) "gloom" because naturally like (almost) everyone else I do have feelings, can empathise, sense another's pain blah blah blah yawn oops! I mean etc. and so forth, and so when Tuppence's wrecking light succeeded in grounding a ship on the rocks close to shore early this morning, I was quite distraught, horrified, appalled and so on, and hurried down to the shore to see what could be done; and b) "relief", which, despite my efforts to dismiss it from my mind, forced itself into the emotional sunlight as I realised with (I'm ashamed to say) some joy that here before my eyes was the perfect breakfast for Baby Orca.
Geoffrey observed me jumping up and down with excitement, and knew immediately that something was up.
"What have you been up to, Tuppy? there's something you're not telling me. Out with it!"
"Let's get back to the outcrop first Geoffrey, and I'll tell you all about it over a glass of madeira. In fact, I think I see a barrel floating in the water over there. Hand me that stick. I'll just..."
"No you won't! you'll help the rest of us rescue the survivors. Have you no decency?" It was the Tupfinder, waxing "stern".
I gulped. Here I was, thinking of looting barrels of illicit madeira, when there were arms and legs waving helplessly in the bay. How could I be so callous?

nasty accident in the bay

Goodness, what a weekend we've had. Geoffrey and I battled our way along to the Puff Inn - and through a Force 9 gale might I add. No joke when you've got a nine hundred foot drop on your lee side and a list to port. (or something like that anyway).
Of course we were supposed to be having a meeting to discuss the "stranger in our midst", but we all overindulged in the Purple Peril and after a while it didn't seem to matter quite as much that some narcissistic nutter had taken it upon himself to treat us like some sort of experiment for nothing short of his own unhealthy edification.
"Let him film us!" I remember shouting, standing on a table and brandishing a brimming pewter mugful of Stormy's finest. "What do we care? We've nothing to hide!"
Everyone applauded loudly and showed their approval by blowing up empty crisp bags and bursting them.
Naturally Stormy had his usual Friday lock-in and everything's pretty much a blank after that.
Next day, we were wending our way back along the cliffs after a "heart starter", and looking forward to a slap up breakfast, when we spotted what looked like a bundle of brightly coloured lycra rags, drifting in the bay below.
"Oh dear. How dreadfully, dreadfully sad," we said insincerely. "Looks like the "stranger" came a cropper in the gale last night. Dearie, dearie me."
Was he blown off the cliffs in the gale? Possibly - after all, it was a bad one. OR, was he "assisted" on his watery way, by "someone" setting an electrified trip wire in front of his tent? we'll never know for sure, and I couldn't possibly comment.
HOWEVER- sighted swimming round and round the bay in a very smug manner and looking rather full up, was baby orca. Coincidence? hardly. Let's just say, strictly between ourselves, that after a lengthy feud (see previous posts as to why I had to blast my way out of his mother's belly - twice - thus leading to aforesaid lengthy feud) baby orca and I have reached an "arrangement" viz. I keep him "fed", and he leaves me alone.
No, it isn't nice, I know. But needs must. Obviously Geoffrey and the T-G know nothing of this. They'd never permit such appalling behaviour. I feel dreadful about keeping secrets from dear old Geoffrey, but I want the nightmares to stop - it was awful closing my eyes at night and seeing him there, those enormous teeth, the huge dorsal fin, the snapping jaws, the beady little eye seeking, always seeking his prey - ME!!! I know it's wrong of me to even contemplate throwing living beings over the top in order to save myself, but honestly I can't think what on earth else to do. Oh well.
Besides, I probably won't have to contribute to his diet for the foreseeable, because something tells me he won't be going short of food for quite some while. Tuppence has been spotted setting up a wrecking light along the cliffs. He's up to his old tricks again, back in the tunnels, with the rats. No good can come of this, at all....

red alert - outdoor fanatic spotted

Newsflash - everything on hold - there's a stranger in our midst, viz. some outdoor fanatic wearing camouflage gear and living in a tent. He's carrying some sort of portable camera, and films himself, constantly, and even attempts to film US!! he - apparently - thinks he's living "rough" in "the wilderness", and plans to broadcast his "experiences" on telly! which we won't even be able to watch, since Apsley and Cherry Fulmar's place burned down (see recent posts) along with their 62" LCD TV.
Obviously this won't do at all. Something will have to be done. Personally, I'd chuck him "over the top" immediately, no question, (see Gazetteer and previous posts for details of this practice), but the T-G, Geoffrey, Razor Bill, Stormy et al prefer to have a top level meeting to decide on the proper, morally-correct-style course of action. So, tomorrow night a formal meeting of Everyone Hereabouts wil be convened at the Puff Inn, 8.30 sharp. Purple Perils and salty/hi fat snax to be provided by Stormy for a small remuneration.
Weather forecast is for gales and torrential rain - I only hope we make it...

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.

the old rectory burns to the ground, and I get the blame

Geoffrey and I are having a quiet day today, huddled by the fireside with our kneerugs and steaming mugs of hot madeira as the rain pours down outside. Mind you, even if the rain wasn't pouring down, we'd both be pretty incapable of movement.
"Great to be back home again, Geoffrey."
"Indeed, Tuppy. Just wish we hadn't overindulged at the Fulmars' on Friday. Have you got any more Bisodal by the way?"
We were all invited to BBQ at the Fulmars' on Friday night, in honour of Ranald and Sandy's forthcoming re-modelling of the Old Rectory. Cherry had made up some of her famous korn bif and pineapple kebabs, and I'm sorry to say it and risk seeming ungrateful, but Apsley undercooked them. Geoffrey spotted that the gas jets on the barbeque were burning with a sinister yellow, not blue, flame, and pointed this out to Apsley, emphasizing the risk to us all of carbon monoxide poisoning, not to mention some sort of ghastly improperly-heated-through-food-style poisoning, as well.
"Rubbish! relax and have another drink, Geoff!" said Apsley in his fulsome way, slapping Geoffrey on the shoulder and pouring him another brimming glass of purple peril (meths based drink - see previous posts for recipe). Geoffrey hates being slapped on the shoulder, and he hates being called "Geoff" as well, but he was much too polite to say so. I therefore felt obliged to step in and say something.
Unfortunately, as I stepped forwards, my foot caught in the trailing string of Apsley's special plastic BBQ apron (ghastly - female Fulmar in black underwear on front), and I tripped, banging in to Geoffrey, and knocking his glassful of Purple Peril all over the BBQ, which consequently was set ablaze in no uncertain manner.
Some fool attempted to stem the flames by pouring more meths over, and you can imagine the result.
The Old Rectory was burnt to the ground, jacuzzi, 62" telly, Cherry's Burt Bacharach albums, decking, the lot. We all had to run for our lives!!!
We offered the Fulmars the sanctuary of our settee here at the Outcrop, which they declined rather sniffily, partly because they blame ME for the fire!! and partly because the Outcrop falls a tad short of their usual requirements viz a viz accommodation i.e. we have no "mod cons".
So they are now ensconced in the East Wing of Tupfinder Towers, which has ensuite facilities and gives a lovely view of the sea, so they imagine. (I think the ensuite facilities likely consist of a hole in the floor of the bedroom, with a "drop" on to the seaweed covered rocks below (East Wing is on the fourth floor) - not sure how Cherry will cope with that, but I'm sure we'll hear all about it - I'll bet there is no soft bog roll, either)
No sign of Tuppence yet - Geoffrey flew a mile or two out for a recce but saw nothing.
We can only hope that the Orca is still away visiting his family in the Southern Ocean...