Existential Solstice Gloom

 

'How do we survive this darkness,' said Dave. 'This bleakness.  This cold thorny wilderness. How do we get through?'

'This vale of tears called life,' murmured the T-G, leafing through last week's Bugle. 'We're all weak-eyed bats,  no sun should tempt out of our four walls.  Or something along those lines.  Blindly groping our way in the dark.  There's no easy way through. But whatever you do - avoid Facebook and Whatsapp.'

'Strong drink,' I offered, swirling my hot vodka and Bovril.  'Barbiturates.  Opiates perhaps.  It all helps to take the edge off.  Especially in the dead of winter.'

'I find loud music really helps,' said Tuppence. 'When I play my Moog at volume 11 with my headphones on it blasts everything else out of my head.  Also shooting things.'

'I can't communicate,' said Dave.  He stood up and started to pace.  'I'm trying to explain myself to people and everything but it seems to just not get through.  It's like there's a massive wall between me and the rest of humanity.  It's so PAINFUL.  Everyone else looks like they're all sorted and having the time of their lives.  I try to join in but it's like I'm behind a glass screen and they can't hear me.'

'Maybe they're just ignorant bastards,' I said.  'Maybe it's them, not you.  Maybe you're better off without everyone else.  Whoever everyone else is.  It certainly can't be US because here we are giving you full support Dave.'

'Only connect,' murmured the T-G, skewering a pickled worm with a cocktail stick.  'If only it were that simple.'

'Val's raving on about the Solstice and the psychic conflict between the waxing Moon and the waning year.  She says it's that. Plus her mother coming to stay for the Festive.  And my IBS and my dodgy prostate doesn't help - I haven't mentioned that before because it's embarrassing but I'm sharing so,' Dave shrugged,' I mean that's all terrible but it can't be JUST that because I feel like this most of the time.  She says it'll be better when the Spring comes and I can get out and about wildlife vidding a bit more but it's not that.  It's not that at all.  There's something deeper I need to face.'

Next time - Dave faces something deeper and Santa comes to call.. but which one??

Thoughts expected during the coming year.

Loss of place, loss of community - memories of a time when islands were not, or seemed not, places of isolation.
These are the things that will be occupying my thoughts during the coming year.  When I can shoehorn them in among worrying about bills, getting the car fixed, damp-dusting, the 'ageing process', Death, World War Three, eating too many biscuits, did I use up the emergency UHT milk last Tuesday, bothering the doctor with my rheumy eye, will I die 'early and suddenly' (preferred option) or wither away, alone and ga-ga, in a work-house-style care home et cetera, et cetera, et cetera, that is.  Death and Money, basically.  And as one gets older, Death, naturally, tends to predominate.
If you aren't readying yourself for Death, ur not doin it rite. Life, that is.  I read that somewhere.  Or at least, something along those lines.
I'm forever readying myself for Death.  I have been ever since I was in my 30s when I expected, due to illness, to be dead at 42.  However that did not occur.  42 came and went, and a fairly large number of years have followed.  I count myself lucky.  Now I think of myself as being in a waiting room, waiting my turn, sweaty palms and dicky tummy, reading magazines I never usually read and eating sweets to try to take my mind off the horror of it all.  Lots of people have gone on before, let's face it.  It can't be that bad - can it? We all must open the door alone and find out what lies behind it, alone.  Perhaps it's not that bad after all.  We just don't know what lies beyond, because nobody's come back to tell us.  Fear of the unknown and all that.
Meanwhile, it's probably a good idea to set aside 'readying yourself' from time to time, and enjoy oneself as much as possible.  Otherwise one might become depressed and likely to move on from magazines and sweets to truly life-threatening things such as alcohol, drugs, fatty foods, dangerous 'sports' and so forth, in order to blot out the existential anxiety, thereby increasing it by increasing the chances of an earlier demise possibly through complications arising from morbid obesity.
Can I manage that?  Can I manage to set aside readying myself?  I'm not sure.   I am sure, and I know from experience, that reading and writing are two non-life-threatening activities which can blot it out, if the subject matter is sufficiently interesting and engaging.  Obviously that won't include (at least not when anyone's looking) articles about gluten-free baking,  Katie Perry's beach-ready-body and Cruz Beckham's singing career.  That is an excellent motivation.
On the other hand, why should one bother to avoid life-threatening things, when one is going to die anyway?  It's only putting off the inevitable and you can smoke and drink merrily knowing you will be saving the state a few quid by dying 'early and suddenly' of a heart attack or rapidly-advancing cancer.  Nobody lives forever.  The reason I don't presently tend to over-indulge TOO much is because I enjoy physical activity in a moderate kind of way, walking and nature and so forth, and I want to be able to do so for as long as possible.
On the other hand - or foot, since we've used up both hands - you never can tell.  One might not have to bother setting aside 'readying oneself'.   One might come to terms with one's mortality - biting the bullet, so to speak - as one potters along, and have a terrific time doing it.
Compliments of the season, and all that.

Home for Christmas...

We're not sure if we're really home, or if we're hallucinating due to lack of food and drink.  At the moment, we don't much care.
We seem to remember being pushed shore-wards at alarming speed by the Great 'Fat' Whale of Norway.  Both of us remember that,  so it must be true, surely.   We reached land at about 5 o'clock this morning - Christmas morning - and managed to leap ashore and throw the painter round a rock to secure Fancy, before she could escape.
It wasn't easy, weak with hunger as we were, and we wouldn't have managed it but for the assistance of the forward momentum provided by the Whale.
"Thank you, Whale!"  we cried.
"Don't forget me lads!  Throw me some food as soon as you get the chance."  The Whale circled slowly in the deep water of the Bay.
Not too far behind him, circled the other coracle - the Big One.   When we got back to the Outcrop, I found my most powerful spyglass and had a look at it from the livingroom window while Geoffrey set to in the kitchen, lighting the fire and getting some breakfast on the go.
"Sausages, egg, bacon, fried bread, tattie scones, beans....yes, that should do.  Brown sauce.  Mustn't forget that.  Toast and marmalade for afters, and a large pot of tea," I heard him murmur, amidst the clattering of pans, and the spattering of hot fat.  Comforting, homely sounds.
"That coracle's carrying a ragged black flag at half-mast,"  I said. "What do you make of that,  Geoffrey?"
The kettle whistled.
"Same as you,  I imagine,  Tuppy.  She's a Death ship, come to claim her own during the Dark Days of Winter.  Let's chuck a sausage sandwich down to the Whale and then light the signal fire.  We'd better warn the others."
"What others?"
"You know.  Our neighbours.  The Fulmars.  Stormy Petrel. The Narks.   Doctor Wilson."
"Wilson?  The Narks?  You must be kidding."
"Well, the Tupfinder-Generals then. Although, I'm quite certain he'll already be aware."
"Oh I can't be bothered Geoffrey.  At least, not until I've had my breakfast and a serious nap.  Surely nothing bad will happen today.  After all, it's Christmas.  Goodwill to all.  A time of joy and starlight and happy faces crowded round a homely fire over glasses of hot punch.  Everyone will be busy with their Christmas dinners and stockings and presents and stuff."
"Not everybody,  Tuppy.  Think of that poor Whale, circling round and round all alone in the cold and the dark.  All he has to eat is what we throw down to him."
"But that's his natural environment Geoffrey.  He's a Whale.  He can't manage on land, just as we can't manage in water."
"I can.  I'm a gull.  I can manage water, land and air."
"Don't be smug!   You know what I mean.  Not everyone can enjoy Christmas like we can,  but there's nothing we can do about it so we're just going to have to blot out the guilt with insane amounts of food and drink,  and hopefully every other nasty memory.  Is that breakfast ready yet?"
"Oh dear Tuppy.  That's not the way to approach things, at all."
"Well I can't help it,"  I snapped," I'm tired and I can't manage moral dilemmas and guilt on an empty stomach.  I hope you've made plenty tattie scones."
"I have,  Tuppy.  I have."
"Black pudding?  Don't say a word.  I can tell by the look on your face that you forgot."
"Well to be honest Tuppy - and I know this is very poor timing - I think we need to give up black pudding."
"Oh?"
Geoffrey swallowed anxiously.  "I want to go macrobiotic Tuppy.  There, I've said it."
" I'll have your full-cooked then."
"I didn't mean right now!  It's something for the New Year. You know the kind of thing."
"I do."
Phew!  I thought.  Macrobiotics?  It'd be yoga next,  if I couldn't nip this in the bud, and giving up smoking and opium.  And then where would we be?  Life wouldn't be worth a candle.  I'd need to keep a close eye on Geoffrey.

We sat by the fire and ate in silence, and then dozed pleasantly in the warmth as we waited for the sun to creep above the horizon.

And we tried not to think about the lonely Whale, swimming round and round in the cold dark water, or the coracle of Death, as it drifted ever closer....

Solstice approaches.


That is all..................

The Solstice Strangers...........

"GAUDETE GAUDETE KRISTOOS IST NAH-TOOS...."

As we approached the blazing inferno that was Tupfnder Towers, we could see a circle of people dressed in white, wearing crowns of mistletoe and ivy, all swinging their arms and singing at the tops of their voices.

"Tuppy, who ARE these people?" said Geoffrey anxiously, fumbling in his new khaki, combat-style bumbag (an early Yuletide gift from his distant aunt Jemima) for his brass telescope.

"They're Strangers Geoffrey."

"Yes they are Tuppy," said Geoffrey, screwing up one eye and peering through his telescope, "They look like they're from Overthere.  I remember the fat one with the ring in her nose from the check-out when we were Overthere three years ago (see e-books for MUCH more  detail), on our epic search for the oracle in the coracle.  And I'm sure that one with the pink hair and the tattoo on her neck is the nurse from the compulsory health screening centre."
"That's called body art," I corrected absently, "A completely different thing to the tattoos of whales and sailing ships and "MOTHER" to which we're accustomed.  I read about it in Bad Trip Advisor."  I was appalled.  We don't like Strangers round here, with their fancy different ways.  We're inbred, and we like to keep it that way.

"Will we have to - " Geoffrey hesitated.

"I'm afraid so, Geoffrey," I said shortly, "We've little option.  We'll have to send them Over the Top, just like we did the last lot.  Come on.   Let's get back to the Outcrop and think of a plan."

Meanwhile, as the jets of water from the Bay did their work, clouds of steam rose high above the dully-glowing embers of Tupfinder Towers,  and the muffled voices of helpers running to and fro with buckets of this and that faded behind us in the mid-winter twilight.

"Shouldn't we stay and help, Tuppy?  It seems wrong not to. After all, the T-G and Mrs T-G are our dearest friends."
"No Geoffrey. Lots of things seem wrong, but they aren't really when you sit down and think about it.  It's all under control now.  No point in wasting our energies."
And I hastened along the homeward track, trying to blot out the mental image of the contents of my pipe smouldering away in the waste paper basket in the library of Tupfinnder Towers....

AMAZON PAGE

The Solstice Burning

Geoffrey and I have hit on a plan.  We're going to have a burning pyre to celebrate the solstice next week.
Usually we celebrate by sending people we don't like "Over the Top" (see e-books for examples of how this works).  But this year we want to do something different.
We're going to get a shot of Apsley and Cherry's "printer" (now powered by a massive fifty foot "windmill-style erection", rather than their former rat-powered cables - again, see e-books for how this works and how Geoffrey and I managed to rip the cable out of its socket and nearly electrocute everyone) and we're going to "print out" every horrible email or other upsetting "virtual message" that we've ever received, the rip them up and stamp on them in a bucket of watery glue-style stuff, and then fashion the resulting papier mache into a humanoid-style-man-type figger - let it dry out completely - then set the bastard alight!
As we haven't actually received that many really horrible communications, it will be a fairly small figger-style-humanoid-style-man-style thing.  But the proof will be in the burning, and the intensity thereof, as the T-G commented when we asked if we could use a barren patch of his land for the occasion (see photo).  He reckons it will blaze up like mad, and that the colours of the flames will correspond to the emotions in the emails.  Red for anger, green for envy, yellow for jealousy and spite, black for despair.  And so on and so forth.
We can't wait.

Meanwhile, we're going to get ourselves kitted out in some brand new gear so we look smart for the occasion, courtesy of the T-G's account at his favourite kitting out shop.  See photo.

The Chanting Hordes return for Hallowe'en

"It's All Hallow's Eve, Geoffrey, when the dead rise from the grave and walk the earth."

"Brilliant. When's it over?"

"Don't be negative. I think we should just go with the gloomy vibe, Geoffrey. Let's kill everyone."

"Right. How will we do that?"

"We'll dig a big huge pit, and put lots of sharp sticks in it, pointy end up. Then we'll lure them all in, to their deaths."

"We can't possibly do that. It's a terrible plan."

"Why?"

"Because I can't be arsed sharpening sticks for hours on end. Besides, Who's "them"? And how would we lure them in, precisely?"

"Put a plate of sausage rolls and a coconut sponge in the middle. They'd all run for that willy nilly and without so much as a by your leave. Result. To be honest I don't know who "they" are though. You've got a "point" there. Ha ha. Oh dear - what's that awful moaning, wailing, dragging sound?"

"I think we MIGHT be about to find out....the chanting, puffa jacket-wearing hordes are back (see previous posts)...and they're heading our way. You get sharpening and I'll start digging - we've not got a second to lose - HURRY!!!!"

Taken on Midsummer's Day, 2011

Thanks and a very happy Solstice to all my readers

I'd just like to say a big thank you to those who have contacted me over the past day or two to say they're reading and enjoying this blog. And of course, massive thanks to those who have kept hanging in there over the past couple of years. It goes without saying, but I'm saying it anyway - you're all Very Much Appreciated. Indeed.
Blogging can be kind of like screaming into a void, so getting that kind of encouragement means a lot - especially on this, the darkest day of the year!!!

#duh duh DUUUUUUUUUHHHHHHH!# (dramatic music)

I have already posted the promo video for Jethro Tull's Solstice Bells. [As mentioned on my musical tastes page, despite all my better instincts I do have a weakness for "the mighty Tull", possibly after getting Ian Anderson's autograph in 1976. His auntie was our local chemist.]

Later on, Geoffrey and I will be putting on our jester's hats and our slippers with the pointy curled up toes and bells on the end, getting blind drunk, expanding our brains with strange herbs we've foraged from the moors, lighting a roaring driftwood fire and hunting down and roasting the first sentient being we can find in a ghastly low budget re-enactment of the final scene from the Wicker Man. I'll tell you all about it later.

Black Bun - the scourge of Scotland

Geoffrey and I have been arguing over which special comestibles to get in over the Festive.

As long-term readers will know, the "Big Day" Hereabouts is the Solstice rather than December 25th which we see as mere southern jiggerypokery and up-their-ain-bumness.

Yes, we celebrate the sun's nadir and the total dearth of sunlight and warmth and cheer with as much glee as we can muster - which isn't that much if I'm totally honest.

Geoffrey reckons we should try to obtain some "Black Bun".

"I really fancy a slice of Black Bun," he said. He sounded enthusiastic enough but I could still sense an element of doubt in his tone.

"I haven't laid eyes on a Black Bun since 1978," I countered. "And I can't say I'm all that sorry. As I remember, I burst a filling on the last slice I attempted. It seemed to be full of low grade gravel. And it tasted like something that came out of a dog's behind. So I can't see the attraction, quite frankly."

"I don't care," he pouted." I'm going out to search for some right now."

"Knock yourself out," I said, reaching for my pipe. "I'll keep an eye on your online Heartache Removal Service till you get back..."

Solstice Insanity

In one of his poems (can't remember which, off-hand) Sorley MacLean describes Nietzsche as a "lying braggart". Discuss.
On second thoughts - don't bother. Blimey, it's hot. My brain is over-heating.

solstice seige

"Quick Geoffrey! pile more stuff on the fire!" I urged, as the chanting hordes drew ever nearer. Yes, they were back, attired in their cowled robe-style things, padding closer and closer in that relentless manner that sinister cowled figures always have.
Just as Geoffrey was about to smash up my chair for firewood (we'd long since run out of driftwood), a tall horseman in a pointy black hat charged through the hordes, scattering them to the four winds. "Begone!" he shouted, brandishing a blazing torch. And they were.
Who was this brave horseman? none other than the Tupfinder General, of course, mounted on Titus.
Soon we were ushering them into comfy chairs by the fire and pouring them mugfuls of madeira (watered down a bit, of course - visitors are all very well but we don't want to leave ourselves short). Both declined a whiff of sal volatile, by the way. All the more for us.
"Who were those cowled hordes?" I quavered. "Minions, sent from the bowels of hell?"
"If you'd taken time to look, instead of panicking, Tuppy, you'd have seen that the so-called cowled hordes were merely your neighbours, out a-wassailing, dressed up in identical hooded puffa coats - which happen to be on special at Speedispend. They're BOGOFs. We've all got one. Look!"
And he whipped open his black cape to reveal exactly that.
"I don't put the hood up, because of my hat," he added, patting said pointy item. "And speaking of bowels of hell - where's that bowel cancer testing kit? throw another chair on the fire and let's all have a go!"

moaning and chanting hordes surround the Outcrop

Well it's almost the Solstice and so far so good. One benefit of the cold snap is that everyone's staying indoors for now - and for the foreseeable, going by the forecast. So, we haven't had the chanting, cowl-wearing, hordes pacing around impatiently outside the Outcrop, awaiting my appearance so's they can seize me and fling me willy nilly and without so much as a by my leave, Over the Top - unlike last year. Phew!!
Cheery item in the post today - a Speedispend free sample-style bowel cancer testing kit!!! what fun we'll have over the Festive, testing one another's stools for occult blood...speaking of which, there's just been a lull in the howling blizzard outside and I think I hear some moaning and chanting...

solstice terror approaches

After our traumatic attempt to reach Cuba (we ended up on the tinsel-infested gallows outside Speedispend, instead - see previous posts) and our dramatic albeit involuntary rescue by Spockfingers, Geoffrey and I crept back to the Outcrop under cover of darkness.
Why under cover of darkness, you ask? well, the days are so short now we'd little choice in the matter. It gets dark about half past one.
Besides, readers will remember (or perhaps not) that the Solstice is celebrated, or "marked" Hereabouts in Very Special Way. viz., there is a poll, and the person voted "least popular" is thrown willy nilly and without so much as a by your leave, Over the Top. Last year it was yours truly, 'cept being a highly resourceful type I managed to escape. This year, I might not be so lucky, so best to lie low for a while...

solstice balls

Well it's almost summer solstice, though you'd never know it. It's been freezing cold, wet and windy. Geoffrey and me have been huddled up by the fire, tartan knee rugs and slippers on, with only a guttering candle to illuminate the gloom of the evenings, reminding ourselves that next thing, the nights'll be drawing in again. Blimey.
The only cheery thing I can think of to keep my spirits up is that at LEAST I haven't been voted "most unpopular" in the bi-annual solstice poll - readers will recall that I WAS the winner of this dubious honour, on the occasion of last winter solstice. And I barely escaped with my life. "Winners" are chucked "over the top" - (see gazetteer, re. "over the Top".)
Goeffrey and I haven't demeaned ourselves by taking part in this summer's ballot, not really because we've any moral objection, it's just that we can't be bothered - though apparently lots of other people Hereabouts HAVE been bothered and we'll find out this year's winner tomorrow when the sun is at its zenith...

moog-generator-Fulmar's-cable-style problem

Well, we haven't quite solved the "moog-cable-Fulmar's generator" problem, but almost. I suppose this is what some might say is the "cup-half-full-cup-half-empty" paradigm - but not me. I don't like these "either or" things. I'm more a "shades of grey" person. Tuppence always despised me for it and used to tell me that I'm criminally lacking in moral fibre. I suppose he could be right, but moral fibre-style decision-making seems to require such a lot of brain effort, and frankly I can't be bothered. Perhaps some people know immediately what's right or wrong, but not me. I'd rather blow with the prevailing wind. It can lead me into some difficult, perhaps morally compromising situations, but I can generally winkle my way out of them by flattery, bribery, cheating and/or fibbing. Why not! After all I've had lots of practice! and it's done me no harm! Mind you I was voted "least popular" in the solstice poll last year (see previous posts) and have been ostracised by the local community on several occasions...perhaps people are trying to tell me something? but personally, I believe that the poll results say more about the harsh and judgmental nature of those voting rather than those voted for or against i.e. me...anyway, personally I think the "truth" is pretty elastic in nature. Why make life harder by sticking to it, specially when no-one really knows what it is. Least of all me.
Anyway I'm rambling too much. Back to the moog problem. Apsley managed to track down the tape recorder, and managed to neutralise it by snipping through the tape with a pair of nail scissors. The cable connecting it to the Fulmar's generator was unfortunately concreted in to the cave wall, and the recorder was jammed right up against said wall, also concreted in, so it wasn't possible to cut the cable as we'd planned. We're going to have to go back tonight with some gelignite to blow the thing off. It's the only possible solution. The Tupfinder's got "jelly", fuses, the lot, so it shouldn't be a problem...

what an insult

It gets worse and worse. I'm starting to feel paranoid and defensive again, and not without good reason. Readers will remember that I was voted "most unpopular" in the solstice poll - though I managed to survive the resulting solstice seige unscathed - physically unscathed, that is, as it will take aeons for the mental scars to heal, if ever - well, I was only just managing to sleep nights after that debacle, when I was informed that baby orca has put a bounty on my head - as mentioned in my last post. I assumed that "bounty" meant "price" or "reward" i.e. a very large sum of money for my head on a plate. But no. Apparently he really is offering a Bounty, as in bar. I can only hope it's the full double bar, not just the half, and that it's a real Bounty, not the supermarket own brand coconut-style bar. Though if he was offering a multi-pack I might be tempted myself.
I'm now attempting to do a review of the year. It's been fairly eventful. Highlights include: time travelling to "over there"; setting sail in my old coracle; being swallowed up by a whale, and escaping by being belched out; being swallowed up again by same whale, and escaping by blowing whale up by setting light to anal emission from Highland cow; wandering as an outcast through the mist; being locked in the dungeon of the chateau d'If with the man in the iron mask; being attacked in my own home by Dr "I hate him" Wilson and my own nephew, Tuppence; seeeing my own home being blown to smithereens; being voted least popular; and now, I've got a bounty on my head.
On the up side, Geoffrey has been a staunch friend most of the time - although his loyalty was sorely tested after I ate Captain Scott's last biscuit - as has the Tupfinder general, and we have enjoyed the Fulmar's hospitality/BBQs/Xmas fare more often than we deserve, given how much we slag them off behind their backs. I also salvaged my wooly socks and non-slip soled slippers after Tuppence robbed Sanity Claws. So, I must be thankful for small mercies.
Some snowdrops are beginning to raise their little heads in the outcrop garden - what will the coming Springtime bring, and will I last that long?

Well, the weather's calmed down a bit and so have I, now that the immediate threat to my person has passed. This is because I managed to survive Solstice night. According to custom Hereabouts, if a person gets through the night without being seized, then the sentence is null and void, and life goes on as normal. Normal! how can I live a normal life, knowing that the entire community has voted me least popular person? I suppose I just have to count my blessings, and appreciate good friends like Geoffrey. Nevertheless, I shall always be wondering what is really going on behind the mask of civility.
Geoffrey and I have sent off our letters to Sanity Claws. He usually pays us a visit Christmas Eve, but he's a strange character and one can never be sure quite what to expect. He doesn't bother trying to squeeze himself down chimneys these days, and just thumps on the door shouting "I'm gagging on a madeira" or some such, then barges in and flings himself on the settee in a melodramatic fashion. I wouldn't mind, but more often than not he gets all the presents mixed up, or fails to bring anything at all - we're last on his list, Hereabouts, so we often end up receiving the oddest conglomeration of items. Sanity says the rest of the leftover stuff goes on Ebay.
Anyway, we'll see what this evening brings. Geoffrey and I will be relaxing by the fire before the rigours of the forthcoming social whirl - Fulmars tomorrow, Tupfinders on Boxing Day.

solstice seige

Help! it's the solstice, and I've been under seige! All the strange looks I've been getting, the cold-shouldering, the pervasive feeling of paranoia, the odd scratching sounds coming from round the skirting board - NOT my imagination. What happened is this. I sat up all night last night - the longest night of the year - while "others" attempted to enter my house, seize me, and then throw me "Over the Top" without so much as a by your leave. Yes, I have been voted least popular member of this community, and have been condemned to a watery grave. (see previous posts re. customs hereabouts). How have I survived? well, luckily I still have the muskets, lent me by the Tupfinder general, and I certainly put them to good use. Most of the trouble came from the rats, trying to scrabble in through the loose skirting boards, and a couple of blasts soon put them off. Faces, wearing white masks, appeared at the windows, and pale hands thumped on the glass. I could see ropes and a net - clearly meant for me. I knew I could not hold them off forever. I was beginning to panic when there came an enormous wind sweeping down from the north. The roof began to rattle and the Willesden canvas was flapping and cracking like mad. A bell began to toll, somewhere far along th cliffs. The noise was incredible.
The masked faces at the windows disappeared as they all scurried to find shelter from the worst storm I can remember.
Now that it's daylight, I think I can relax. Geoffrey's coming for lunch, so I'd better get the FF's on.
But what haunts me is this. The masks. Who - or what - were they hiding?

solstice slump

Geoffrey and I are feeling under the weather at the moment. We think it's probably the annual "solstice slump", so are administering the usual remedies to each other i.e. Fisher and Donaldson steak pies and regular ingestion of Duke of Clarence-style madeira, industrial strength.
The Tupfinder generals are having open house on Boxing Day, so goodness knows who might turn up. Geoffrey and I are going of course - wouldn't miss out on free grub, despite Mrs T-G's sausage rolls leaving a lot to be desired. I think I'll take the muskets the Tupfinder lent me, just in case Tuppence arrives mob-handed. Always best to prepare for the worst.
On Christmas Day we've been invited to a slap up lunch/BBQ at the Fulmars. Again, we won't turn down free food, but we do have doubts as to how our digestions will cope, and are stocking up on bisodal. Menu is to include deep fried turkey and chipolatas with BBQ sos, and Xmas pud. flambeed in meths.
On Christmas Eve, Geoffrey and I plan to have the evening entirely to ourselves, sitting in our customary and beloved shabby armchairs at either side of the fire, at the rocky outcrop. We'll be preparing stockings for each other. Last year, Geoffrey was disgusted with me because I'd bulked out his stocking with some stale monkey nuts and a dried up satsuma - I did get him a Cliff Richard CD as well, and a pair of bed socks - but the monkey nuts and satsuma have rankled and he's not properly forgiven me. So, I have to think of something better this year. It's easy for him - my stocking is for some reason, half the size of his. So, a packet of wotsits and a handful of Quality Street and it's practically full up.
But before then, there is the main event of the year, which is the winter solstice, at which time fires are lit all along the cliffs and everyone makes merry. It's also the time when, traditionally Hereabouts, we throw people we don't like "over the top" (see previous posts). It goes like this. There is a secret ballot, and everyone votes for the person they like least. The Tupfinder general collates the votes. No-one knows who the most disliked person Hereabouts is - sometimes Stormy Petrel opens a book on it, and last year, Dr Wilson was favourite to go, and go he did, though not quite as or when expected - (see previous posts) ANYWAY - the Tupfinder hog-ties whoever the unfortunate person is, and does the deed - i.e. chucks them over the cliffs.
I'm not sure if that is going to happen this year. No-one has mentioned it - at least, not in my presence...I tried to discuss the subject when we were at the Puff Inn recently, but everyone avoided my eye and began talking about something else...what can it mean?