An Encounter with the Great 'Fat' Whale. Of Norway.

No,  of course I didn't eat Geoffrey.  He would probably be perfectly edible served up with a couple of rashers of bacon on his back and some sage and onion stuffing, or even, at a push, roasted with a Knorr stock cube crumbled and massaged into his skin 'to bring out the flavour', and an unwaxed lemon up his nethers a la Marco Pierre White,  or even simmered vilely in Coca Cola a la Nigella,  but sadly there are no cooking facilities on the coracle and I just couldn't face him 'au nature' or whatever.
I certainly couldn't manage to pluck him, with my hooves.  I'd have to singe his feathers off.  Maybe with my Zippo.  But it would take AGES.......

"Tuppy!  How c-can you even think of such things!"  gasped Geoffrey.  I'd forgotten about his mind-reading facility.

Oh dear.   Oh well.....

"I'm STARVING Geoffrey!  Have a heart.  Call yourself a friend?  The least you can do is...."

WHOOOOOOSSSHHHHHHHHHHH     BBLLOOWWWWWWWWWWW

A large whale appeared off our starboard bow.  Well, it would have been our starboard bow, if we had one. The coracle doesn't have bows,  being circular.  So,  I suppose all bows are at the same time either and or equally starboard and or port depending on how the mood - or indeed "Fancy", to make another nauseating and laboured allusion* - takes you.

"My.  You're awfully big.  Even for a whale.  What kind are you?" asked Geoffrey politely.

"I'm the Great 'Fat' Whale.  Of Norway," replied the creature.

"Really?  How interesting.  Do tell me how you came by your name, especially the 'Fat' bit. I'm sure it will be an absolutely fascinating tale, and I'm longing to hear it," enthused Geoffrey.

I put my feet up on the bowsprit and prepared myself for a nap.

"Fire the kettle on and crack open your best biscuits, friend," replied the genial Leviathon**, "Chocolate ones.  And maybe some cake as well.  And I wouldn't say no to a scone with clotted cream and strawberry jam, if you have it.  And plenty full fat milk and six sugars in my tea.  And after that I'll tell you how I got my name and other tales that will make your feathers fall out."

I opened an eye.  "Ummmmm....."

*the name of our coracle is Fancy.  Feel free to split your sides.

**apologies for using the term 'genial Leviathon'

Does Chewing One's Own Toenails Mean You're a Cannibal?

"Of course you can't turn cannibal, Tuppy," scolded Geoffrey. "It would be absolutely appalling."

He was reading my mind again.  Where was the Mind-Reading-Prevention-Device when I needed it? (as mentioned back in 2011 or 12 or thereabouts, and possibly in an e-book only don't ask me which one)
Back at the Outcrop, somewhere in the cupboard under the stairs, probably.  Or down the back of the settee, possibly.  Or propping up the end of the sideboard where the woodworm had eaten through.  At any rate, it was somewhere well out of reach.  I made a mental note to always carry it with me, in future. It's an unattractive but impressively functional device, with an effect similar to throwing a blanket over a garrulous budgie's cage.  Only in reverse, as it's me that has to wear it.

"What do you mean, cannibal?" snapped the sheep with the greenest, most piercing and most disturbingly gyroscopic eyes.  He was definitely the leader.  Far too full of the big 'I am' for my liking.

"You're feeling threatened by him, aren't you Tuppy?  I'm sure there's no need." Geoffrey again.  How tiresome, not to mention intrusive, this mind-reading is!  Mind you - when he manages to read minds other than mine, it can prove quite interesting AND useful.  Depending on whose, of course.

"I'm quite sure there will be a need, if he turns cannibal," said the sheep leader, folding his front legs in a truculent manner.  All the other sheep huddled behind him, bleating their support in a rather half-hearted fashion.

"Is it cannibalism when you chew your own toenails?" asked Geoffrey.  "I've always wondered. Same with nose dirt consumption."

"Nose dirt consumption is definitely not cannibalism, because nose dirt is an exudate - a bodily excretion.  It isn't part of the fleshy corporeum, or whatever," said the sheep leader.  "Toenails are a moot point.  Especially if they're someone else's."

"You're awfully sure of yourself, aren't you?" I said.  "What's your name, anyway?"

"It's Wool I Am," sniggered Geoffrey.

"Don't be stupid Geoffrey," I snapped.  It annoys me when he pretends to be "current".

And he knows it.

"No really it is,"  he protested.  "Ouch!  Don't pinch me.  It is, isn't it,  Wool?"

"Yes," muttered Wool,  blushing. "But how did you know?"

"Geoffrey can read minds,"  I said proudly.  "And he's my best friend in all the world."

Geoffrey beamed with pleasure.

more later

Is it Possible to be Bored and Terrified at the Same Time?

Ah well.  It's great to be home, toasting my feet before a roaring driftwood fire and sipping a large mug of Madeira.
How did I get here?  I can't for the life of me remember,  and it's probably just as well.  Geoffrey assures me that it was all a horrible dream - except for the part where we were sitting on Saturn's rings.  Which leads me to think that we might still be there, and that my cosy fireside is an illusion, brought on by either boredom or terror.  Or both.
Is it possible to be bored and terrified at the same time?
I will ask Geoffrey.
"Geoffrey?"
"Yes, I think it is.  For example - "
"But I haven't asked you anything yet.  Oh no!  Don't tell me you're at the mind-reading again.  Where's your Mind-reading Prevention Device, or M.P.D.?  Put it on immediately."
"No.  I have a new Device.  It's a Mind-reading Filtre,  or M.F.  It enables me to choose which minds to home in on and read, rather than having to endure the chitter chatter of many minds, when in range of course.  Some people's minds are rather unsavoury, Tuppy.  You'd be surprised."
"I wouldn't," I thought.
"Yes you would.  And no, I don't mean normal dirt and muck, or wanting to put a pillow over my face to stop me snoring PERMANENTLY, or hiding packets of Gypsy Creams and Black Bogey behind the skirting and pretending we've run out.  Yes, I know about all that, because I saw your thoughts - it was just like being at a magick lantern show, except it was deeply hurtful and upsetting and there was no popcorn and nobody sneezing in the seat behind without covering their mouth."
I was aghast.  Talk about intrusive!  I tried to make my mind as blank as possible by thinking about Nothing...nothing.....nothing.....Gosh it was difficult.  So much for people saying I'm empty-headed.
Geoffrey was still rattling on. "It's all right Tuppy - I forgive you.  I understand your foibles,  despite your not understanding mine and being horribly impatient with me.  What I mean is, some people think nasty, poisonous thoughts about other people.  They assume the worst.  They suffer agonies of jealousy and they want to bring them down.  These thoughts occupy most of their waking moments, and as a result they make their own lives miserable as well as the lives of those around them.  I can't bear it Tuppy!"
He began to sob.
"Fetch the M.P.D. right now Geoffrey,"  I snapped, "I'm sure it's still in the attic - possibly underneath the coracle.  The new-fangled M.F. obviously is no earthly use whatever, and you're starting to rave, albeit rather feebly.  This carry-on has to stop, and stop NOW.  While you're searching for it I'm going to have an opium tabloid to take the edge off my morbid fear of still being on Saturn's ring and my own cosy fireside just being a trick of the over-taxed brain, and ponder today's conundrum - is it possible to be both bored and terrified at the same time."

more later