Another windy day in the Bay

A bit blowy here again. (Photos of the Bay currently being used have been sent in by regular reader Jim. I can't use a camera what with my hooves not having fingers.)

Biscuit of the week - the Orange Club

These are half price (72p) in Somerfield at the moment, which is why they are our biscuit of the week. The Jacob's Club is not my favourite biscuit, but it is cheap, and you have to have something with a cup of tea, so it will do. That's all I'm saying.

breakfast of the week - the double egg roll

Geoffrey doesn't eat eggs. To him, it's cannibalism. I can understand that, of course. But when he nipped out to get a breath of fresh air earlier, I took the opportunity of making myself a double fried egg roll with a red sauce garnish and some salt and pepper. I then opened the windows to get rid of the evidence i.e. "fried egg smell".
By the way - I'd like to apologise if the "juxtapositioning" of the photo below, and the photo shown here, has caused any readers to reach for the Rennies due to "abdominal discomfort" and/or nausea. Soz!!

breakfast of the week - the double egg roll

Geoffrey doesn't eat eggs. To him, it's cannibalism. I can understand that, of course. But when he nipped out to get a breath of fresh air earlier, I took the opportunity of making myself a double fried egg roll with a red sauce garnish and some salt and pepper. I then opened the windows to get rid of the evidence i.e. "fried egg smell".
By the way - I'd like to apologise if the "juxtapositioning" of the photo below, and the photo shown here, has caused any readers to reach for the Rennies due to "abdominal discomfort" and/or nausea. Soz!!

Cake of the Week

This is a new feature - cake of the week. This week's cake is the Co-operative's Ginger Loaf Cake. The T-G brought it round yesterday when he stopped by for another chat about the pylon/road problem (yawn - call me shallow, but I'm bored rigid already). We didn't open it till he went away - naturally - but as soon as he disappeared across the moors, we ripped open the packaging and tucked in. As you can see, there isn't much left.
It's nice and moist with small pieces of stem ginger mixed through, and a crunchy sugar topping. I haven't examined the list of ingredients, as I don't want to scare myself, but the extreme lightness and stickiness of the cake leads me to suspect the presence of not entirely natural substances. I will update this later once I put my specs on/when I get round to it.

Geoffrey's back to normal

Geoffrey's back to normal. The partial soul extraction "wore off" - although I'm tending to the view that it may well not have happened in the first place. A soul extractor? what a load of codswallop...oops - the Tupfinder General has just tapped on the door so better throw the old tartan knee rug over this lot for a sec. till I see what he wants.
Three hours later...the T-G was all apologetic about the "accident" with the soul extractor, saying that his sleeve must have caught on a handle, or something, and he brought a plateful of sausage rolls to make up for it. Fine by me. I'd swap my immortal soul for a fresh Tower Bakery sausage roll, any day.
He's still wittering on about the trench.
"We could get Titus and Spockfingers to do the heavy labouring, Tuppy."
"Oh yes. Asked them about it, have you?"
"Er, no."
"Hmmph. I shouldn't waste your breath. They aren't into manual labour. especially Spockfingers."
"It might help them shift a few pounds. Heaven knows they could do with it."
"Are you saying I'm fat? or are my ears needing cleaned out?" Spockfingers' dulcet tones bellowed through the half-opened window. (well, it IS spring-time)
"Probably both," replied the T-G rather acidly.
"How dare you! I'm big-boned! Just you wait there one minute..." and there was a loud splintering sound as Spockfingers attempted to heave himself through the window-frame.
"See what I mean," I whispered as the T-G put on his cape ready for a quick exit.

Geoffrey has his soul partially extracted.

What a week it's been. It all started with the planned meeting at Tupfinder Towers, to discuss ways of sabotaging the new road which is being built across the moors, to transport the wind farm turbines to goodness only knows where along the cliffs. The Tupfinder side-tracked things by insisting we first have a shot of his new soul extractor machine, and once he got the thing fired up there was no stopping him.
Luckily one of the poo foo valves over-heated and only a partial extraction/capturing of the essence was possible. And at first, there seemed no way of telling who it was that had been affected.
However, once the machine had cooled down and the meeting was convened, all became clear.
Mrs T-G came in with a platter of sausage rolls, and I'm sorry to say Geoffrey devoured the lot willy nilly and without so much as a by your leave. Due to the machine going off half cock, his face had not been turned to stone, as such, but his expression definitely was "stoney". Not to mention his personality. He actually became quite aggressive if anyone (i.e. me) so much as sniffed a sausage roll. He even told me to "bog off", which I will not forget in a hurry I can tell you.
Currently the soul extractor does not have a reverse gear, but the Tupfinder feels confident he will remedy that soon.
I hope so. This carry on is doing my nerves no good at all. Geoffrey's snapping at me for the least thing - slippers not warm enough, tea not brewed to his liking, knee rug not positioned in exactly the right way. He's driving me up the wall.
re. new road prevention solutions by the way - only idea that emerged from what - apart from Geoffrey's antics - was a VERY dull meeting was from the Tupfinder - he suggested digging a large trench along the boundary of "Hereabouts", into which any alien/unwanted machinery would topple. I think that's a poor idea. For one thing, who's to do the digging of this massive hole? I've got a dicky knee, and Geoffrey's got a "glass back". No, we'll have to think "outside the box"...

our breakfast

Geoffrey's sandwich is the top one, garnished with red sauce (he's still on the healthy eating thing), and mine is the lower one, garnished with brown. Either is good, to be honest, and just the very dab after a night at Stormy's lock-in. More of that later, plus more on the wind farm/soul extractor meeting.

the Tupfinder General reveals a new invention

"But why is the face twisted in that horrible, repulsive way?" whispered Geoffrey. "And is it REALLY the ghastly Wilson?"
"Yes!" boomed the T-G, as he opened the vast oaken, iron-clad door, releasing a cloud of smoke from his pipe and the wonderful aroma of a freshly opened packet of sausage rolls. "Yes!" he continued. "It IS Wilson. Captured in stone. Just shows you what can happen when the wind changes."
"But it's not really him, surely? after all, we only saw him the other day. Surely it's just his...er...likeness? not his real head?" quavered Geoffrey.
"It's his soul, Goeffrey," replied the T-G, proudly. " An exact likeness, as you put it, of his inner essence. I've got a machine that does it. I call it the soul extractor. Made it myself out of bits and pieces. Come on in and I'll give you a shot on it before we get down to business."
"Great!" we chorused. I heard two muffled "clicks" as Tuppence removed the safety catch on his pistols.

we have our stomachs turned on the way to the wind farm meeting

We all made our way along to Tupfinder Towers, as arranged, on Wednesday at the witching hour. Some people didn't know when that was, or were too scared to go out at that time, but at any rate Geoffrey and I were not deterred and bolstered by a flask of madeira and the prospect of Mrs T-G's sausage rolls we staggered up the ivy-covered steps, past the rows of grotesque, leering gargoyles, and hammered on the iron-clad door with a convenient rock.
"What on earth is THAT supposed to be?" gasped Geoffrey, staring in horror at one of the gargoyles.
"Don't you mean WHO?" piped a familiar voice. It was none other than Tuppence. We haven't seen him in AGES. He had crept up behind us in a pair of rubber-soled shoes, and was armed to the teeth, as usual, with a hunting knife stuck in his belt, knuckle dusters, and sporting his customary brace of pistols.
"Well, WHO, then? and for goodness sake keep those pistols pointing the other way. The OTHER way, if you please! the OTHER...oh for HEAVEN'S sake!"
"Look closely, uncle Tuppy and uncle Geoffrey."
"Blimey! it's enough to turn your stomach."
"Yes. That's the whole point, I think.

dreadful wind farm shock

What a terrible, terrible shock. Just as Geoffrey and I were tucking into our second round of double sausage and brown sauce sandwiches, and pouring ourselves another mugful of hot madeira, Razor Bill arrived with the day's post.
"Bad news, Tuppy old son," said Bill, sitting down heavily in our spare armchair, which promptly collapsed underneath him (and he's not even slightly obese - never mind morbidly, unlike myself - but that's another story). "Everyone's getting one of these." And he handed me a long brown envelope.
Inside, there was a letter, informing me that a "road" is to be built across the moors, in order to "service" the building of a "wind farm" on the cliffs.
"Well, there's plenty of wind round here. In more ways than one," I mused. "But I don't like the sound of this, at all."
"It's to do with green energy targets, Tuppy. You know the obesity targets Wilson keeps banging on about?"
"Don't remind me. We're all much too fat and lazy, and we've all to eat five veg. a day, not including red sauce, or we get sent to the hulks?"
"Yes. But this is much, much worse. It could mean the end of the Outcrop, as we know it."
"Oh no! Something must be done!"
"Yes. The Tupfinder's arranged a top-level meeting at the Towers, tonight, at the witching hour. Be there. Mrs T-G is doing sausage rolls."

Geoffrey returns

Early this morning (about 11.35) I was awakened by an eager "tap-tap-tap" on the window pane. At first, I thought it was just the loose sash rattling in the wind, so I ignored it and attempted to get back to sleep. But the rattling became more insistent and so I put on my "tupwatch tartan" dressing gown and staggered to the window. As I flung open the curtains, I saw dear old Geoffrey's face, peering back at me. You can only imagine my joy.
"Why didn't you just use the door?" I asked.
"It was locked, and my key wouldn't work," said Geoffrey, looking rather hurt.
"Well, I haven't locked it. I NEVER lock it, " I replied, giving the door a good kick. "It must have swollen up with the damp weather, and jammed. Come in and sit down and have a glass of madeira. I'll fire some sausages under the grill as well."
"That sounds lovely, Tuppy. I'm pig sick of seaweed and fresh fish."
Mind you, I have to say he was looking well on it. His feathers were gleaming and his eyes were brighter and more inquisitive than ever. How great to have him back where he belongs, sitting across from me by the fireside at the Rocky Outcrop, our home. I can't wait to hear about his travels.

recipes from the outcrop

Someone has requested the recipe for my fave koktale, the Purple Peril. Unfortunately, Stormy tends to mix this on an "as required" basis, and I'm not privy to the murky secrets held in the dusty cellars of the Puff Inn. I do of course have an idea of what MIGHT be in the mixture, and am only too aware that the main ingredient is very cheap - and also highly combustible. Apparently, one "measure" (if you use such things) exceeds the entire recommended weekly safe drinking limit for the population of Inverness.
Once Geoffrey returns (any day now!) I will ask Stormy to make us up a celebratory bucketful. In fact, once I've finished my pipe, I think I'll head off along the cliffs, and alert him. It will give him time to order in some extra salty snax, and book a decent band for the lock in (last time, we were regaled by Tuppence and his moog, when he was going through that awful prog rock phase and playing Rick Wakeman's Eight Wives of Henry the Sixth" or whatever it's called, incessantly. Here's hoping we don't have to put up with THAT again, or, worse, him playing Tull's "Minstrel in the Gallery" relentlessly at ear-splitting volume.)

Geoffrey changes his palate

Another letter from Geoffrey - this time, it contained a confession.
Dere Tpuie
I still wiff my cuzzins, just off the coset of Mull, I srie, I gone of the dyitt, I et sum fish and seewede it woz verry nise u c thay don' hav tins heer. I think I lost sum wait, hoping this fines u well
ure frend
Geoffrey xx

Readers will perhaps recall that Geoffrey and I embarked upon an experiment, just after January 1st. In defiance of all health-warnings we decided to try a "processed meat only" diet. We've always been fans of korn bif, Spam, sausages and such-like, so it was scarcely a hardship, and a good excuse to stick two fingers up at the Ghastly Wilson and his ilk.
But it looks like Geoffrey has been eating fresh fish and sea-weed, at his cousins' place - he might well have developed a taste for "healthy options" while away, so goodness knows how he'll adjust to our customary hi-fat hi-salt lo-fibre diet, once he's home.
To be honest, I've gone off the diet as well, as I've eaten crisps, which are a form of vegetable. I also enjoy the odd dollop of tomato ketchup on my korn bif sandwiches, and eat pies, which of course have pastry made from wheat and hydrogenated vegetable oil. So we'll probably have to start all over again and devise a new system. I'll discuss this with Geoffrey, when he returns.

the T-G looks down his nose at Geoffrey's writing

"For pity's sake," said the T-G in a shocked, hushed voice,"You'll have to send him to night classes. Is he alright in the, you know, head?"
"Of course he is!" I snapped, loyally. "He just can't spell."
"It's not just the spelling. It's the handwriting," he added in a disgusted tone.
"That's hardly his fault. Geoffrey doesn't have hands," I explained.
"Oh, of course," said the T-G. "I'd forgotten. I suppose he does alright for someone with webbed feet."
"Is Mrs T-G much of a writer?" I asked innocently, taking exception to his sneering manner. Any mention of Mrs T-G makes him jump and look guilty. "And isn't she wondering where you are at 1.30 in the morning? Not that it's any of my business."
"Ahem," he coughed," I think I'll just..."
His face had turned a ghastly and rather alarming shade of beige.
"Oh, forget it, T-G. Let's not fall out. Have another glass of madeira."
After all, I couldn't have him conking out on me.