help - i'm a prisoner in the chateau d'if

Before I knew what was happening I was seized in the jaws of an enormous beast and dragged screaming into a dungeon. For a moment I thought I was back in the belly of the whale again (see previous posts) but no, I was thrown into a dank and dripping cell with a studded oaken door and a tiny window with rusting irons bars providing the only light.

A pewter plate with a crust of stale bread was flung in after me and then the door slammed shut with a terrible echoing clang.

I've no idea why I'm here or who is keeping me prisoner.

One thing I'm sure of is, I'm not the only unfortunate inmate. There's someone in the next cell, and they're making one heck of a racket.

As I write, they/he/she/it is/are banging away on the wall, causing the mortar to loosen between the....

Oh! Some stones have just come away between me and the next cell and I can now see my neighbour - for some reason he is wearing a strange iron mask. He demolished the wall using his mask/head as a battering ram, so I expect he is in a bit of pain. But he seems quite friendly - and obviously desperate to escape. He's French, I think , says his name is "Louis", and refers to me as "cotelet d'agneau" which worries me slightly as he looks a bit peckish. Oh well, hopefully we will unite our forces at least while we effect our escape and then we'll see what's what. I'm sure I'll be able to fight him off - he looks like a weakling.

Our obvious route would be through the rusting iron grille which covers the tiny window. However it is quite high up and neither of us can reach it. Louis wants to stand on my back while he removes the grille, but then how would I get out? I don't trust him an inch. I've suggested piling up the stones which fell out of the wall, thus creating a makeshift staircase, and he has agred to give this a try. So we're going to be a bit busy for a while.

OH NO!!!!?????

I think I have to think of some key words, fast, to put in here to change the Google ads. - who wants to look at Google ads. for peeing standing up??! Not me! So here goes. Cake. Sausages. Seasonal leafy salad (eh?). Furniture polish. Meerschaum pipe...oh no! that last one's brought back memories of my last sight of the old rocky outcrop, before it was blown to smithereens. Dr Wilson, framed in the window, smoking MY Meerschaum pipe, with its stem a perfect reproduction of the Transantarctic mountains and its bulb an equally perfect Mount Erebus. I know that the pipe had been purloined from the Tupfinder general's vitrine (see previous posts) by Tuppence using his skeleton keys (see previous posts), but I'd come to think of it as my own. Originally I believe it belonged to Sherlock Holmes.
As I was wandering around, lost on the moor in the mist earlier on, it brought to mind Dr Watson's account of The Hound of the Baskervilles. I haven't heard any howling so far, I'm pleased to say, and no large pawprints either - oh no! what's THAT??!!!!!

burnsey and mr spockfingers save me from bright green death

...a bright green...well, as you'll have guessed it was a bog actually, and I was in there for frigging ages. I know you're supposed to jump from clump to clump and avoid the bright green bits, but I slipped and next thing I knew I was up to my oxters in slime and in danger of being sucked under. The way I got out was none too pretty either but at any rate one has to be grateful for small mercies - it could have been worse.
What happened was this.
I got such a fright I was unable to call for help. My throat seized up completely and I began to panic. I knew that if I kicked and struggled I'd make it worse so I stayed still, shut my eyes tight and hoped for the best. It's a strategy that's got me through many a difficult situation.
Sure enough, next thing I knew I was rocketing through the air (again!) and then landed "crump!" (again!) - or should it be "ploof!" on to a fairly acceptably soft patch of turf.
Once I came to, I discovered that what had happened was this. Burnsey and Mr Spockfingers (I still am not clear if they are one and the same) also got lost in the mist and fell into the same bog as me. Suffering badly with wind (as usual) they passed a humungus anal emission which was especially pressing and potent due to shock and between the two of them the sheer power of it created an inverse whirlpool effect which in turn blasted me out of the bog and almost into orbit.
Of course I'm glad to be alive but really - talk about undignified.
I 've just peered over the rim of the crater that was left after the two "petomaines" let rip - what is the name of that place in Africa which is supposed to be the cradle of civilisation? anyway, it looks like that. Burnsey and Mr Spockfingers are grazing away peacefully like two wildebeeste as if nothing had happened.

a hopeful sign then................

I'm managing to keep body and soul together, because I found a half-eaten cherry madeira, still in its Somerfield's cellophane wrapper. This might be a hopeful sign, as it seems to indicate I'm nearing some sort of civilisation - perhaps I'm even getting nearer to the old rocky outcrop.
The mist seems to be thinning a little bit too - it's definitely getting wispier.
I sat down for a while to eat the cherry madeira, but I didn't linger as I'm afraid of developing hypothermia. Now I'm slowly picking my way through a bright green..............

desperate times

Well, I haven't done anything 'cos I simply can't be bothered. I wandered off into the mist and let them get on with it. I've no idea how far I've travelled. Sound gets distorted in the mist. If I strain my ears I can just about hear Mr Spockfingers giving it laldy. But why would I want to do that.
I'm so exhausted, and haven't eaten for days. I'm afraid to lie down, because I won't be able to get back up again. What's to become of me?
I suppose I'll just have to keep going for as long as I can, and hope for rescue.

I Have To DO Something

Mystery solved. Burnsey IS Mr Spockfingers, and A.N. Other is Burnsey, who also wants to be known as Mr Spockfingers. But now I'm wondering - could I be seeing double? not only that, could I be THINKING double?
Anyway I can't trouble myself with trivialities just now. I have to re-orientate myself and try to establish a new rocky outcrop. I have to rebuild my life from the ashes.
The trouble is the mist is still down and until it clears I can't see my way ahead. My two - or is it one? companions are no help at all. They just grin and slap each other on the back as they murder another Harry Lauder number. I can't bear it, it's quite intolerable and I can't concentrate.
It doesn't help that I'm starving either. I need some brain food and would kill for some fishfingers. Kill? would I really? Who really knows what they are capable of until they're tested?
I can't help but think of Tuppence and his smug adherence to veganism (see previous posts) After all that's what got me into this mess. If only he'd not disturbed our comfy old routine. And I wonder how long he'd last here, with nothing to eat and two sturdy cows there for the taking, and a working service revolver in his pocket?
Of course I would never stoop to such...or would I?
"Let's give it laldy Burnsey!" this from Mr Spockfingers. I really can't abide this racket. I'll have to Do Something.

strange companions in the mist

Aaaaaargh! crump! well, that's kind of what I sounded like as I tumbled headlong over a cliff. You'll know from the "crump" sound that I didn't land in the sea - at that point. I landed on a peat hag, and when I rubbed my eyes and my head cleared a bit, I discerned two strange companions, viz. Burnsey and A.N. Other. Well, it looked like Burnsey, but at the same time it didn't, if you know what I mean. Like when you have a dream, and you recognise where you are, but at the same time it's different. Or maybe you're different? who knows. ANYWAY - turns out Burnsey wishes to be known as "Mr Spockfingers" from now on. I've no clue as to why this might be, but I'm wondering if he really is who he says he is? i.e. IS he Burnsey, or is he Mr Spockfingers? And how do I know that he wants this name change? because he hasn't actually said anything verbally - I just seem to have absorbed this information by osmosis.
The mist is still as thick as ever, and my mind is boggling. I'm also starving hungry again and would kill for a decent fry up and a glass or two of madeira in front of the fire at the rocky outcrop. But of course the rocky outcrop was blown to oblivion...I keep forgetting.

Geoffrey hatches a plan

Geoffrey arrived for lunch as planned. He was a nervous wreck. It was as much as he could do to swallow a fish finger. I'd to add the sauce for him. He couldn't manage the bread and butter. After, he rushed to the toilet doubled up in agony. Sheer anxiety, of course, but all the same just as well Tuppence wasn't there, as goodness knows what comments he'd have made, re. wind, turnips and so on.
Thinking it would be a special treat I'd managed to get hold of some of Granny S.'s shortbread - not an easy feat - but poor Geoffrey couldn't bear to look at it. There was a strange blackish patterning on the underside of one piece, caused by an error in the firing. Probably burnt sugar, or perhaps Granny Sooker hadn't scrubbed her baking sheet thoroughly enough - which wouldn't surprise me, as to be honest, her hygiene leaves a lot to be desired these days - ANYway, the patterning bore a distinct resemblance to Mrs Fulmar - one of the neighbours who have caused Geoffrey such distress and agony of mind by not inviting him to their constant parties. Geoffrey caught sight of the image, and fell into a faint. I'd to find the sal volatile in a hurry - I hadn't used it since Granny Sooker's skirt flew up in a gale last January, and Tuppence was in the firing line.
After a whiff of that, Geoffrey was absolutely fit for anything, and we began to hatch our plan.
We decided to gatecrash the Fulmars party this evening.

fishfinger shock

Geoffrey just swooped in again, in an even worse tizz. On top of everything else, he just heard that Somerfield is being taken over by the Co-op. I have to say this puts us in a bit of a bad position viz a viz our regular supply of fishfingers, as we have been accustomed to purchasing these at Somerfield. We have NO idea what the Co-op have in the way of frozen fish products, and it has, in short, thrown us completely.
"Fish fingers at one, tomorrow, then?" I said, unable to disguise the tremor in my voice as I realised it could be the last time we ate THAT type of snack together. A snack - no, far more than a mere snack - it was a ritual. The buttering of the thinly sliced loaf. The shaking of the sauce bottle. The heating of the grill to just the right temperature. Could the Co-op possibly reach the dizzy heights of Somerfield, in the fish finger department?
Geoffrey's reply was lost as he soared towards the sinking sun - but I was sure he'd be there.

Tuppy plans a supper party

Geoffrey stopped by for lunch again today. He was in a dreadful state. It was the neighbour problem again - the Fulmars. He'd heard from another neighbour that they are to have another party this weekend, and yet again no sign of an invitation for poor Geoffrey. He feels quite distraught and his self esteem is simply plummeting.
"I'll tell you what, Geoffrey. You pop over here on Friday evening and I'll make a nice pot of stovies for us. We'll put the world to rights over a glass or two of madeira and you can have a puff of my Black Bogey."
Geoffrey looked at me gratefully. Just as he was opening hs beak to reply, a voice trebled "Can I come, uncle Tuppy? Can I come on Friday evening, and have stovies, a glass of madeira and a puff of Black Bogey, as well?"
It was Tuppence. He trotted on to the rocky outcrop and gambolled up to the fireside where Geoffrey and I were seated on either side of a roaring blaze.
"No, Tuppence, you can't come..."I began, firmly, determined to put my foot down this time. But Tuppence was prepared. He narrowed his little eyes, and shrilled, "I'll tell Granny Sooker you've been smoking again!"
I quailed. Anything but that. I didn't often see Granny Sooker, but when I did, it tended to be a somewhat tense occasion, and very bad for my nerves, to put it mildly. Geoffrey simply couldn't cope at all, and in his present state, who knew what lengths he might be driven to.
"Very well, Tuppence. You can join us. But best behaviour, mind! and it's lemonade for you."
Tuppence jumped round in a circle excitedly.
"Bring some of your mum's cherry and sultana, if you can get it." suggested Geoffrey. "And mind - no need to say anything to Granny Sooker."
Tuppence smiled and looked demure. "Course not."
After Geoffrey and Tuppence had left, I sat by the fire puffing away on my pipe. What would the weekend bring, I wondered. And how would I get Geoffrey's self esteem back on track? Would the stovies and madeira do the trick? Somehow I doubted it. But I was sure I'd think of something.

Geoffrey has a bad case of indigestion

Geoffrey dropped in for lunch yesterday as planned, and I knocked up a quick fish finger sandwich as promised. Well, three sandwiches, actually, as Tuppence arrived, too. And after the way he cheeked me yesterday - wind, indeed! - I had to admire his nerve.
Anyway, I could tell by a certain agitated look in his eye, and a slight tremor when he pecked at his sandwich, that Geoffrey had something on his mind, so I gave Tuppence short shrift and once he'd eaten I told him to go and play with the other lambs.
"But there aren't any other lambs!" he bleated. "I'm all on my own!"
Why am I not surprised, I thought to myself.
By this time Geoffrey was flapping his wings and pacing around the rocky outcrop in an agitated manner. He looked like he was about to suffer from a dreadful case of indigestion. I decided to take control.
"Tuppence! if you haven't any friends to play with, go and find yourself something else to do. Go down to the cliffs and look for whales." Tuppence hung his head, braced his little legs and glared at me defiantly from under his eyebrows.
"Yes, I mean it Tuppence! Geoffrey and I want to talk. Go and play on the cliffs. Right at the edge. Go on now."
"May I take your binoculars uncle Tuppy? To help me look for whales?"
"I suppose so. But be careful. Don't drop them." Tuppence smiled innocently and trotted over to the ledge where they were kept. He slung the leather strap over his little horns and made for the cliffs.
"Thank you uncle Tuppy! I won't let you down!"
I watched him benignly as he gambolled over to the cliffs. "Maybe he's not such a bad lad," I sighed.
"Don't kid yourself. That lamb has a dark side. I wouldn't trust..." Geoffrey began to cough violently, and turned an alarming puce.
I patted him on the back. "What is it, Geoffrey? What is it that's troubling you so much today? You're not yourself, at all."
Geoffrey struggled to contain his sobs as he blurted out the cause of his distress. "It's the new neighbours. The Fulmars. They had a party on Saturday and invited all the neighbours except me. I could hear the music, the laughter...it was awful. What's wrong with me, Tuppy? Why was I left out?"
"There's nothing wrong with you, Geoffrey. You're the best friend I've got. Calm down now. We'll get to the bottom of it, and sort out these Fulmar people."
Geoffrey dried his eyes with the back of a wing and took a deep breath. "Thank you, Tuppy. You're ever such a good chap..." he began to break down again.
"Now, now, Geoffrey. You'll end up with terrible dyspepsia."
"What's dyspepsia?" a little voice piped from just behind us. Geoffrey and I nearly jumped out of our skins.
"Tuppence!"
"What's dyspepsia? "he shrilled again, swinging the binoculars in an arc above his head. "Is it wind? has he been eating turnips, like you uncle Tuppy?"
Geoffrey and I exchanged an exasperated glance. So much for playing on the cliff edge. I shrugged my shoulders and heaved a heavy sigh as Geoffrey flapped his wings and prepared for take off.
"Fish fingers at one again tomorrow, Geoffrey?"
His reply was lost on the wind as he soared into the sinking sun...

Tuppy answers a question

Just this morning, as I was pushing my head through a gap in the fence to get at some tasty- looking leaves, my nephew Tuppence approached me and asked, "Uncle Tuppy, do you want to live till you're a hundred?"
I paused for a moment and withdrew my head from the hole in the fence while I pondered. As it happens, I did not need to ponder long before answering, as this is a question which has exercised me recently, what with me now being "of a certain age", and I am quite certain, or at least as certain as one can be in the matter of one's life and death, of my views in this regard.
"No, Tuppence, I really don't," I replied, settling myself upon my favourite rocky outcrop, crossing my legs and lighting a pipeful of Black Bogey. "And here's why."
I blew a long stream of smoke out towards the direction of the far horizon. The sea gleamed silver under the late afternoon sun. A herring gull - our friend, Geoffrey, as it happens - alighted on the next rock and sat with his head cocked in an attitude which indicated that he was giving me the benefit of his full attention.
"Tuppence - Geoffrey...you both know me well. You are familiar with my habits and my disposition. Not to mention my diet. If I wanted to live to a hundred, and unlikely though it seems it is possible for a sheep to do that by the way - I had a grand uncle from Harris who lived till a hundred and twenty - I would need to take lots of exercise and restrict my diet to grass and leaves only, with perhaps the odd turnip to leaven things on festive occasions. But grass and leaves are so tedious, and turnips are terribly hard on one's teeth, especially as one gets on in years, and I'm afraid I find they create horrendous wind. Sorry to lower the tone with such unsavouriness."
I paused, and looked sympathetically at Tuppence, who blushed furiously.
" And you know how fond I am of the odd tin of luncheon meat, and the occasional slice of cherry and sultana," I continued. "Not to mention the regular ingestion of fish finger sandwiches. Yes, I know only too well that they are your faves too, Geoffrey. By the way there's no need to pinch them off my plate. I'll gladly grill a couple for you as well. Somerfield's yellow pack are still great value, and you really can't tell that they are Alaskan Pollock."
Tuppence hugged his knees and smiled up at me with a fond expression. "And you'd never give up your Black Bogey, uncle!"
"No, I would not. I'd rather die tomorrow than give up that!" I gulped as I realised what I'd said. I definitely didn't want to die as soon as that.
"Couldn't you compromise, and eat unhealthily half of the time, and healthily the other half?" suggested Geoffrey.
"That would mean you'd die at fifty!" piped Tuppence, jumping to his feet and gambolling round the rocks.
I eyed him sourly. I'm fifty next year, I thought. And I haven't even eaten healthily a tenth of the time. Tins of luncheon meat began to dance before my eyes.
"Careful, Tuppence. You don't want to take a tumble off the cliffs," said Geoffrey evenly, patting me on the knee with his webbed foot and giving me a comforting wink. I was moved, and hastily brushed a tear from my eye.
"Uncle Tuppy! are you crying?" Tuppence's high pitched bleat grated on my ears.
"No, no, it's just the wind."
"Have you been eating turnips, then?"
Geoffrey rolled his eyes and flew up and westwards towards the sinking sun. "You've got your hands full there chum. Best of British. See you tomorrow."
"Fish fingers at one?"
His reply was caught on the rising breeze as he soared.