Friday lock-in continues

Oh dear. I'm afraid the poultice landed foursquare on the bonce of Mrs T-G. Regular readers will remember (or they might not) that Mrs T-G (Tupfinder general) is rarely seen in public. In fact, never.
When he stopped by for a snifter last week, the T-G had hinted that "Elizabeth" as he calls her, had put on a bit of weight lately, and had been advised by the ghastly Wilson to "lose some of the beef" - or else. Wilson mimed a cutting motion at his throat, as he said "or else". So, I can only assume that the unfortunate woman was in fear for her life and had set out on a desperate "health and fitness" walk, furtively creeping along the cliffs under cover of darkness. That'll teach her to pay attention to Wilson and his ilk.
Anyway, one side effect is that the poultice had retained sufficient heat to leach some of the fat cells out of her body ("Why did it not do the same for me? I asked Geoffrey, plaintively. "It would take more than a bread poultice to make a dent in YOUR waistline, Tuppy!" he replied, jokingly. At least, I THINK he was joking...)
ANYWAY - this latest atrocity from Wilson has strengthened our resolve and we are "making plans" as I write. In fact, I'm writing this in the Puff Inn - the Friday lock-in continues...

bread poultice

Bliss! thanks to the hasty application of a boiling hot bread poultice the "vaccine" has been leached out of my behind/bloodstream. Geoffrey valiantly offered to suck the noxious subtsance out, snake venom-style, but unfortunately his beak is hardly suited to such a task.
After it had done its work, I flung the poultice out of the window, and it landed with a loud slapping noise on the bonce of some passerby or other, I'm not sure exactly who...

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!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

we discuss how best to murder the ghastly Wilson

"Well, I'm not really into murder these days," said Titus, when we'd related the ghastly tale of how Geoffrey was incarcerated in the Old Asylum. Minus MY part in the matter, of course.
"Can't you make an exception? stretch a point given the circumstances? old chums and all that?" we pleaded.
Titus pursed his lips. "Hmmm. Well, I'll think about it. But there mustn't be any comeback, you know."
"No, of course not Titus! we won't breathe a word. And we'd be awfully grateful," I gushed eagerly.
"Awfully," Geoffrey echoed faintly. He's still not quite his usual self - and who can blame him? mind you, his feathers are growing back wonderfully thanks to Titus' mysterious ointment.
"If you could see your way clear to...well, bucking him off again? that would be wonderful," I suggested.
"I'm not sure about THAT," said Titus. "After all, he's psychopathic, not stupid. I can't see him agreeing to sit on my back after what happened last time." (see previous posts, for an account of what happened last time)
"No Titus. That's not what I had in mind at all. I was thinking more along the lines of sneaking up behind him, and giving a swift kick to, well, his behind, from behind? perhaps on a dark and stormy evening...along the cliffs... if you follow..."
"I DO, Tuppy! I DO! leave it to me. But say nothing to anyone! I don't want to have to go into hiding again."
"Consider our lips well and truly sealed, Titus..."

we receive an offer of help from an unexpected visitor

"But why on earth did you sign the papers?" Geoffrey keeps asking me. He can't seem to move on, at all, and I think it's terribly unhealthy. I know that I made a dreadful mistake, signing his incarceration papers, but can't he put the past behind him? after all, it was last week.

"Perhaps you should go to Specsavers, Tuppy," suggested the T-G, who had stopped by for a chat on his daily patrol of the cliffs. Yes, he's still keeping a weather eye on things - when he feels like it. "Whatever THAT might be."

"Never mind that. I'll buy a pair of reading glasses for three pounds, from the mobile shop. It's due round any minute."

Sure enough, we heard the clippetty clop of hooves on the path and the Speedispend "Direct" van drew up, crammed to the gunnels with all sorts of essential supplies/staff of life-style goods. Clippetty clop, you muse? and well you might, because clippetty cloppetting along, drawing the van AND making a healthy profit selling stuff "off the back", was none other than Titus (the horse who bucked Dr "ghastly" Wilson right off in the summer of 2008 - see posts for details as to how and why).

Once we'd informed Titus of Wilson's latest atrocity, we purchased some ointment for Geoffrey's baldness (never mind Granny Sooker - I've the very dab, said Titus, when he caught sight of him) and stocked up on supplies, viz., one jar Chivers Thick Cut orange marmalade, one Mother's Pride loaf, half a pound of butter, three tins korn bif, two tins spam, half a pound of streaky bacon, porridge oats, potatoes, three packets Dream Topping, two tins froot koktale, one pack butterscotch flavour Angel Delight, half a pound of kola drops, half a pound of soor plooms, one box firelighters and a box of Bluebell matches. Not to mention a complete restock of the medical chest - but I won't go into that now. Other essentials such as tobacco and madeira are still...er...procured... via the Tunnels. And just as well too, as the only alcoholic beverage stocked by Titus is a rather attractively-coloured alcopop (bright pink, bubblegum flavour). Geoffrey was tempted, and I must admit that so was I, but as I reached for a bottle, Titus slammed a hoof down on the counter. "No, Tuppy! you'll regret it."

"But why, Titus? I'm sure..."

"Very low alcohol content, combined with dangerously high levels of sugar. If you switch to bubblegum alcopops now, you'll hit withdrawals within the hour, and probably develop type 2 diabetes. Mark my words. Stick to meths 'n' madeira. After all, it's not as if you pay for it. If you're REALLY looking for something different, though, I've some white cider due to fall off the back of the van before the raised minimum price per unit kicks in."

"N-no thanks, Titus."

"Wise decision. Now what's all this about "ghastly" Wilson? what on earth's he been up to, and how can I help?"

I DO rescue Geoffrey from The Old Asylum

Well, Geoffrey's home. But he's in a terrible state - and so am I! the trauma! I've had to step up my intake of sal volatile and madeira, and supplies are running low...but more of that later. I suppose readers will be eager to know how we rescued Geoffrey from the insane asylum. What happened is this.
After filling his pipe with a potent mixture of Old Fogey and gripping it between his teeth, the Tupfinder strapped on a brace of pistols and said, "Rightoh! off we jolly well pop!"
"Er...are you quite sure that you don't want to change into something more...suitable?" I postulated, concerned that the T-G was stiil wearing his dressing gown and slippers.
"I could say the same about YOU, Tuppy! but of course you're quite right."
I blushed, and looked at my reflection in the silver tea pot. Not an attractive sight. While the T-G stepped into his dressing room to change into his tweeds, I decided to rid myself of the satin loons once and for all. I seized the butter knife, jabbed it into a side seam and ripped the stitching down the left leg - one down, one to go...
"Come on Tuppy! no time to waste!" The Tupfinder appeared, dressed head to toe in tweed and carrying a sword stick and a bag of tools. I could see the pistols bulging under his jacket.
"But I..."
"Come ON!"
So off we set, me now wearing half the pair of tight satin loons and barely able to walk due to a terrible attack of pins and needles as the returning blood surged into my appendage.
We rattled along in the Tupfinder's hansom cab and before long we found ourselves at the ivy-covered gates of The Old Asylum. There was an awful creaking sound as the gates swung open and a raven croaked alarmingly from the depths of an old oak as we cantered up the neglected driveway.
As we drew up, a forlorn face peered wanly from an upper window - it was Geoffrey!
The Tupfinder shinned up the ivy in a trice and jemmied the window open.
"Out you pop old son. Can you fly?"
"N-no." Of course he couldn't...poor Geoffrey had had all his feathers shorn off by the asylum attendants...for his own good, they said.
So the T-G carried him back down to the carriage on his shoulder, and we had an emotional reunion.
"Oh Geoffrey, Geoffrey!" I sobbed, "Whatever have they done to you?"
Now we're safely back at the Outcrop, and Geoffrey is in his usual place toasting his toes by the fire enjoying a plateful of "tangy Cheese" Doritos and a hot mug of madeira. I'm sure he'll be back to his usual self in no time.
We're going to have to find some way of making his feathers grow back quick-style, though. It's getting a bit parky of an evening.
Perhaps we might have to consult...Granny Sooker (gulp)....

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...