Mirror Mirror...

 

The upper field

Val Nark peered at herself in the artisan-crafted mirror, framed with locally-sourced driftwood and dried seaweed fronds.

'Mirror, mirror, on the wall.  Who is the fairest between me and Mrs T-G? I know we're both  d'un age certain, or whatever - but come on.  It must be me and not that hideous old bat.'

Enter the cleaner, an empath, wearing rubber-soled Skechers and holding a bottle of glass cleaner and a blue microfibre cloth.  It is Alexa,  Tuppence's on-off off-on on-off girlfriend.  

'I'm not being judgmental or anything, I'm sure she's a very nice person and all...' babbled Val, unaware, 'and I do feel really bad for being so appearance-obsessed and superficial, but honestly she has a complexion like corned beef, no discernable neck, a black moustache, liver spots and a torso the size, shape and texture of a large sack of potatoes.  She lives off black sausage rolls and crisps and I've seen her swigging cheap gin and smoking cheroots while lurking in the ha ha.   At least I think they were cheroots.  They might have been spliffs.   In fact they probably were, now I think about it.  If I were married to that old devil the Tupfinder General  I'd require more than spliffs, I'd need weapons-grade opiates just to cope with the knowledge that I'd wantonly destroyed my own life.    Anyway where was I.  Oh yes. I bung on a bit of jojoba oil,  I do the old pelvic floors, I breakfast on goji berry tea and my own-baked gravel flapjacks.  I think if it came to it most people would say that I am definitely the more well-preserved.   Or at least I deserve to be.  I...'

Alexa coughed gently, unfolded the blue microfibre cloth, and set the glass spray to 'stun'.

'Alexa!  you evil little creep!'

'It's my Skechers.  They're silent.  I can't help that.  Perhaps I should wear a bell round my neck.'

'Or you could just say hello when you come in, like a normal person. But you aren't normal, are you dear?  You're a CLEANER.  So I don't suppose you understand about the social niceties, like not eavesdropping.  Give the car park Portaloo a really good scrub today by the way.  We don't want any more complaints on Tripadvisor.  The yurt's fully booked and Dave says there are wild campers in the upper field. He caught them in his wildlife cam shitting in the gorse bushes.  If they'd only keep to that there wouldn't be a problem but no, they have to go all civilised and use the fucking Portaloo...'

'This is very tedious,' thought Alexa, squirting glass cleaner on the mirror. 'That Dave is a total arsehole.  I don't know which one's worse, him with his wildlife vids or Val with her nettle underpants.  Still, they're paying my wages and it's getting me through uni.  This and Onlyfans.'

'Did you just use a chemical spray on my artisan-crafted mirror, you troglodyte?' shrieked Val. 

'SKREEEEEEEEEEEK.......SHATTER.......................SPLINTER..................SKREEEEEEEEEK'

'Sorry....'

Next time...Tuppence re-launches his band via the power of the internet, gets no interest whatsoever, and also finds out about Alexa's Onlyfans revenue stream. Unsure how he feels about it all except that it isn't anything good he turns to his uncles Tuppy and Geoffrey for moral guidance....a lengthy, pointless, philosophical deconstruction over Madeira and pipes of baccy follows.

Geoffrey is a Psychopath

 'So now on top of stealing from them you're having a go at people who donate to foodbanks.  You pair are so horrible I can't even.'

'You can't even WHAT?' sneered Geoffrey, scraping his spoon round the inside of the tin to get the last vestiges of custard.  'We haven't said a word.'

'You've said that people who donate to foodbanks are donating crappy stuff.  You're basically calling them stingey and mean.  People who have almost nothing themselves,  yet still find the money for a tin of custard for a stranger in need.  And you two are slagging them off. '

'Did we say that?  Did you actually HEAR us say that?  Or is this just your unconscious bias rearing its head again to reveal you as the sanctimonious little Peter Pan-style twerp that we are apparently condemned to put up with for all eternity.'

'That's gaslighting Uncle Geoffrey.  But I'm pretty sure you didn't do it deliberately.  You're definitely too stupid to know how to gaslight.  So you must've done it unconsciously - or, unwittingly, more like, what with you being totally and utterly witless and all that.  Which makes you  an utter and total psychopath.'

'Well pardon me all over the place.  How old are you now Tuppence?  Thirty two isn't it?  Isn't time you moved on from the sixth year common room student activist stage, into maybe, oh I don't know - a job at Speedispend customer service desk or something?  And while you're here - let me get this off my chest.  You know what really annoys me more than anything about you Tuppence?  Away ahead of some strong competition?  It's your vocal fry. '

'My what?'

'You heard.  Let me tell you right now m'laddo...'

'I'm all ears.'

 'We're living on a rocky outcrop somewhere on the north west Scottish seaboard,' continued Geoffrey, flinging the empty custard tin grandly out of the window, 'Nobody is quite sure where 'somewhere' is exactly,  but we know where it definitely isn't.  And that's the United States of America ten years ago.  The only 'fry' required round here involves eggs and bacon with possibly a slice or two of black pudding, some kidneys and a couple of sausages.   Which reminds me of my original point - how did the foodbank comestibles find their way into the tunnels?  We don't have a foodbank in these parts, so what - or who - on earth brought them here?  And why?'

'Don't you know anything about what goes on round here - except your neighbour's personal business from listening at keyholes?  Of course you don't.  All you two ever think about is yourselves.  Cripes you are self-obsessed.  OK I'll tell you.  If you must know, Stormy Petrel is only opening up a mobile coffee wagon cum hi-end vegan burger van in the tourist car park.  He's going for the green dollar with McCartney sausages, maybe some bulgur wheat salads, hand-cut chips and buckets of coleslaw or whatever.  It means using half the spaces meant for cars so the tourists will have nowhere to park but he reckons that's even greener and better for an eco-micro-business cos they'll have to take the bus, bike it or walk.  He needs as many foodbank comestibles as he can get till he gets it off the ground cos he's skint.  The Puff Inn's on a knife-edge - it hasn't recovered from lockdown yet.  The foodbank stuff came from the donation trolleys in the Speedispend exit lane but it was all a mistake.  Stormy wanted the rats to nick stuff, supposedly to order, in return for a cut of his profits.  He asked for packets of Quorn mince and gluten free buns and ketchup and stuff but they couldn't be arsed hunting round the shop for all that so they took the foodbank's trolleys instead. He'll have to make do.  And now he can't even do that, because you pair have stolen it all.'

'Oh...'

More later

Dave Nark - covid marshal

 Tuppence staggered in at dawn this morning and threw himself on the sofa.

'Thank fizz you've got a hole in the wall for a front door uncle Tuppy cos I'd never have managed a proper door handle,' he wheezed, pulling the tartan knee rug over himself as he curled into a foetal position.

'Thank fizz?  are we in an Enid Blyton story Tuppence?  next you'll be wanting lashings of ginger beer, treacle tart and heaps of cook's special plum cake.'

'I wouldn't say no.'

'Where've you been all night anyway?  And why wouldn't you manage a door handle?  You look awful.'  I kicked a fresh log on to the smouldering embers and wafted yesterday's 'Bugle' in front of it to get a flame.  

'Don't ask.  Well, do.  I don't mind talking about it.  I've binned Alexa.'

'Really.'

'Well all right, she binned me.  There, I said it.  Are you happy now?  She only got off with Alvin, the frozen foods manager at Speedispend's pre-lockdown completely non-socially-distanced street party last night while I was providing the musical entertainment with my band.  You'd think she'd want to stick with ME, the mercurial, brooding, Byronic musical genius, the undoubted future STAR of the 2030 Jools Holland Hootenanny - but no, off she went with fizzing Alvin and his frozen fizzing fish-style fingers.   I was in the middle of a fantastic rendition of Egg's classic from 1970, 'The Song of McGillicudie the Pusillanimous' when I saw them openly flouting the social distancing guidelines together.   It totally put me off my half hour moog solo, to the extent that I fell backwards off my organ stool, getting my fingers trapped in a tightening coil of the electric cable as I did so, and toppled the entire amplifier stack as I yanked at the cable in the - ultimately successful - struggle to free myself.  Nobody helped.  Not even the rats.  I was utterly humiliated and I've been wandering the moors ever since.  My fingers are still swollen - look.'

'You'd better have a mug of hot Madeira and get off to your bed then.  I'm sure everything will seem better after a bit of kip. What's that noise?'

CRUMP CRUMP CRUMP

'Somebody's thumping the wall with a big fizzing stick!'

CRUMP CRUMP CRUMP

A lump of plaster fell off the ceiling.

'Hey just a  - '

'OPEN UP.  THIS IS YOUR LOCAL COVID MARSHAL. WE HAVE REASON TO BELIEVE THAT YOU ARE BRAZENLY FLOUTING THE COVID LAWS.'

'That's Dave Nark's voice!  What the fizz is going on Dave?'  I poked my head through the hole in the wall and peered at him.  He was sporting a yellow hi-viz jacket and a peaked cap, and was carrying a clip board and a mobile telephone.

'That's Sir to you if you don't mind.   I'm here to put you all under house arrest for not adhering to the new covid rules.'

Turns out that Dave's Youtube vids weren't bringing in enough dosh to keep him and Val in teabags never mind anything else, and so he applied - successfully, weirdly enough - for a job as Covid Marshal at the princely sum of £8.72 an hour.

'At least I've got my pride!' said Dave.

'Really,' I replied. 'You'd better come in and have a cup of hot Madeira to keep the cold out.  That rain's dripping off your cap and right down the back of your hi-viz jacket.  Before you know it you'll have a sniffle and have to self-isolate for fourteen days.'

'But you're a separate household.  We're not a bubble.  We cannot - I cannot - I cannot - '

'You don't understand the rules, do you Dave.  Never mind - nor does anyone else.  Just come in and take the weight off for half an hour.'

'Oh what the fizz.  Don't mind if I do.  I'll just scan the horizon with my hi-powered binoculars - the ones I usually use for watching wildlife for my Youtube vids - to see if any potential grasses are watching.'

NEXT TIME - a potential grass WAS watching, and we are forced to track them down and 'correct' them in the customary manner.  Dave sees the error of his ways and packs in the job as covid marshal, leaving a vacuum that only Nature - or some venal jobsworth - could fill...

The Great 'Fat' Whale of Norway Shares His Feelings about This and That

"I don't know much about This,  but I can tell you an awful lot about THAT," began the Whale.*

Then it began to cough.

"Jings,"  I said.

"Crivvins," said Geoffrey.

"Help ma boab**," said Fancy, spinning round and round in her excitement.

"STOP THAT FANCY!" I shouted, "You'll knock us all sick."

"Yes please do stop," said the Whale,"I can't address a spinning audience.  It reminds terribly me of the terrible time when I had a terrible inner ear infection, and I got terrible vertigo.  I got terribly ill and it took me a terrible length of time to recover.  And even then, when I was supposedly better, I felt terrible."

"Doctors eh," said Geoffrey.

"Never trust 'em,"  I added darkly.  (We were both thinking of Drs Wilson and Kwak, mentioned in earlier Tales, and in the first four e-books)

"That was how the weight gain started," continued the Whale, warming to its tale. "There I was, housebound, with only a reclining chair, a biscuit barrel, a deep fat fryer and a wall-mounted TV for company."

Geoffrey and I glanced at each other.  "Where were you?  A sheltered housing complex?"  I asked. "Did you have a walk-in bath, as well?"

"No Tuppy.  You're quite wrong.  They couldn't possibly allow deep fat fryers in sheltered housing, due to health and safety issues," said Geoffrey in his best 'job'sworth' tone.  Not that he's ever had a job.

"Yes!" said the Whale,"Well, kind of. It was a theme park for elderly whales.  Well they said it was a theme park, but really it was a knacker's yard, for old whales who couldn't jump and do tricks any more. Before they made us into scampi bites and fish-style fingers.  They wanted us to fatten up.  Pile on the beef, so to speak.  You know - Overthere.  Right by the Speedispend Hypermarket and Compulsory Screening Centre.  I managed to escape," it added proudly.

"How?  How did you manage to escape?"  we cried.

"Give me a biscuit and I'll tell you.  I've not had sight or sound of so much as a Rich Tea for three long months."

more later



*apologies to the late Chic Murray

**apologies to The Broons

Muckfast Abbey

(first off - apologies for the brown thing at the RH side of the bottle - there's something stuck in my scanner)

...there we were, suspended in a net, hundreds of feet above a fiery pit.
Far below, we saw thousands of rats scurrying around with lengths of tubing, attaching them to bubbling, smoking test tubes.
"What's going on?" we gasped in unison.
"Welcome to Muckfast Abbey," shrilled Tuppence, removing a pistol from his belt and twirling it in a devil-may-care fashion.
"He's only extracting Mindmuck and distilling into a rather lethal tonic wine!" whispered the T-G.
"I heard that!" snapped Tuppence, giving the net a shove with a pointy stick and making us swing out further over the fiery pit. "Yes. I'm making Muckfast, and it will be available in a range of flavours in Speedispend hypermarket and compulsory screening centre for Christmas. For example - Greed, Jealousy, Spite, Envy (that's a bit like Chartreuse), Bile, Hatred, Lust (not that that applies to you lot), Foot-picking, and Arse-scratching. There will be more. And for that, I need more source material."
Tuppence lifted a megaphone to his lips. "Lower the net! get them into position, then begin the MindMuck Removal procedure IMMEDIATELY!"
"Oo-er Tuppy," quavered Geofrey. "Hadn't we better ought to DO something?"
"Anyone got a pair of scissors," I asked feverishly. "Maybe we could cut our way out of the net."
"Don't be stupid Tuppy. We'd only plummet into the fiery pit. We'll have to think of something else."
more tomorrow.

Bacon sandwich, anyone?

It was a wet and windy night and me, Geoffrey and the T-G were all sitting round a roaring driftwood fire back at the Outcrop.
"Wonder where B.O. is now?" I mused, packing some Black Bogey into the Meerschaum.
"I'm sure he won't be too far away. Here - have my Swan Vestas. Those disposable lighters are useless," said the T-G.
"Awful if he got turned into fish fingers," said Geoffrey.
"Meat fingers, actually," said Peter Edant, pushing up the sash window and sticking his oar in.
"I suppose you better come in before we all expire from the cold, Edant. But do try to control your more boring propensities," I said.
"Oooh! get you uncle Tuppy! Porpensities!" it was Tuppence - sticking his oar in as well. They both clambered in the window.
"PROpensities, actually," murmured Edant.
"Tuppence! what on earth are you doing here?"
"Yes! You see? You can't get rid of me so easily. I was wearing a life preserver, remember!"
We all exchanged glances.
"You don't still want to harpoon baby Orca and turn him into fish fingers, I hope?"
"Of course I do! think of it - we'd have our own food supply right through the winter and beyond, and that's AFTER we've sold the bulk of it to Speedispend and made our fortunes!"
"But that's WRONG, Tuppence."
"In what respect?" frowned my nephew.
"Killing your fellow creatures, and eating them. Let me explain why," began the T-G.
"Okay - I can see this is going to take a while so I'll just put a few sausage rolls in the oven and make up some ham sandwiches to keep us going..."
They all stared at me.
"Well? oh - I see. Well, let me remind you that I was key to the release of the lactating ewes from the Hulks in summer 2008. Remember?" ( see previous posts)
"That's all very well Tuppy. But you only did that because they were sheep like yourself. What about other animals? You don't seem to bother so much about pigs and cows."
I rushed into the kitchen in a huff and didn't come out for four days...

Medical extras

Great news! turns out that Tuppence and his gang of rats are doing a nice line in "medical extras" down in the tunnels, and we're fully stocked up now. So, we don't have to go to Speedispend. Thank goodness - after our last experience.
No, we don't want to be strung up on the gallows again, or be tested for bowel cancer while we're waiting at the checkout, thank you very much.

Munny - is it the root of all evil, or what?

Well, it's 10.33, the T-G has arrived for his morning snifter and so it's high time we cracked open the madeira and lit our pipes. Geoffrey and I have been recovering from our recent ordeal in the tunnels, in which the Grim Reaper aided by the Ghastly Dr Wilson attempted to make us part of his "quota". As if.
Anyway, we're none the wiser re. how Tuppence got his digital camera, never mind his "munny".
"But why do people need munny?" mused Geoffrey.
"Nobody needs munny. It's the root of all evil," asserted the T-G, poking the fire with his sword stick. "Take Speedispend for example. You can bet your bottom dollar that's where Tuppence got his camera."
"But we've not got bottom dollars. That's what we're getting at. Should we have? Is munny necessary? Should we be going to Speedispend as well?"
"NO!" shouted the T-G, leaping to his feet and releasing a shower of ash from his pipe. "NEVER darken its doors."
Geoffrey and I exchanged glances. We already did darken its doors, by accident last summer, when the TTD went awry (I think - anyone keen to read that episode will have to trawl back a bit) and we had a dreadful time.

1980s songs that drive you over the edge

Spockfingers has been giving it laldy at the Puff Inn most nights recently. It must be the Spring air or something. Unfortunately he got hold of a 1980s songbook as part of a Speedispend special offer/from off some minging skip somewhere, and his top three are as follows (brace yourselves and have a bucket handy):

"Take My Breath Away" by Berlin
"Power of Love" by Jennifer Rush
"Lady in Red" by Chris de Burgh

It's driving everyone nuts - to the extent that people are running willy nilly towards the cliff edge in order to escape the ghastly racket. Consequently, the cliffs have started to crumble and "snap off" - we're at risk of disappearing into the sea...

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...

we escape!

Geoffrey just had a brainwave. He began to sing, softly at first, James Grant's Winter, and I joined in. We began to sing more and more loudly. As our voices reached a crescendo, the checkout operator's jaw dropped in amazement as all of a sudden, Spockfingers charged full pelt and singing at the top of his lungs, out of the Speedispend entrance and barged into the gallows, demolishing it completely. We ripped the bags from our heads, flung the nooses aside, jumped on Spockfingers back and galloped off into the gathering dusk...

on the gallows

Geoffrey and I are in a terrible state. Strung up on a gallows, to be precise, with sacks over our heads, awaiting execution. (how am I managing to write this then? don't ask.)
Why are we on the scaffold? well, when we finally reached the checkout, the assistant or "attendant" demanded, "Gorra Kloobkahd?" alternating with "Gorra Kashkahd?", to which we rather naively replied "no".
The assistant then bellowed into her tannoy, "Security to checkout 16,000000 please!" and we were whisked outside, via a side entrance, to aforementioned gallows - which are, by the way, festooned with twinkling fairy lights. Someone in a blue and red chequered uniform and wearing a Santa hat dangled tinsel-bedecked nooses in front of us and said "sign up for Kash n 'Kloobkahd's now, or else!"
What can we do?

"plastic" surgery

Well, we escaped from the whirlpool - only to be sucked up by the Speedispend vortex and whisked off to the Hypermarket and compulsory health screening centre, where we were coldly informed that we are both "morbidly obese"!
After that riveting bit of info., which is hardly news to either of us, we were whisked up in the air again and dumped at the end of a very long checkout queue, behind a massive trolley-load of groceries which, we explained to the faceless customer service assistant, we have no means of paying for.
"Sign for Kashkard!" it intoned in a grating metallic voice, as it handed us both a form with print so tiny we could barely see it never mind read it. "Sign for Kashkard!"

the debt-bringer

Blimey we've had a strange few days. As soon as Geoffrey finished waterproofing and "caulking" (as I believe those familiar with such goings on call it) the coracle, we put on our wellies and sou' westers and set off in a dreadful storm the other afternoon, just as sun was setting.
Rather than boringly pushing off from the rocks in the Bay below, as we normally would, we decided to try a new, exciting type of launch. We enlisted help from our neighbours, the T-G and Apsley and Cherry. Then Geoffrey and I sat in the coracle and waited for a suitably powerful gust of wind; when one arrived, our helpers pushed us in a windward direction, i.e. Over The Top - and off we flew, sailing out and over the Bay, carried by the storm in the general direction of Over There.
Anyway - we were heading for Cuba, so we were hoping that the wind would carry us in a westerly direction, for some considerable distance. If that occurred, and with any luck, we reckoned we'd definitely overshoot Over There, thus avoiding all the concomitent ghastlinesses such as the Speedispend Hypermarket and compulsory health screening centre, and so forth. But as it happened the wind shifted direction and forced us northwards. We now find ourselves just to the north west of Over There, and on course for Greenland rather than Cuba. Oh dear. To make matters worse, we seem to be just within range of the Speedispend magnet-style Xmas shopping victim detector and grab radar, (known as "the debt-bringer")so we are having to scull for our lives just to stay in the same place - if we give up for a second, we'll be sucked into the terrible vortex that is Speedispend. We can even hear the tinny blare of Xmas carols and pop tunes being played incessantly like some sort of ghastly medieval noise torture...
"Keep sculling, Geoffrey! for pity's sake keep sculling!"

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?"

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!