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

'It escaped from a lab in Wuhan Uncle Tuppy,' Tuppence raved as he paced the room with a loaded pistol in one hand and a empty packet of hot 'n' spicy Niknaks in the other.
'What did?'
'For pity's sake, Tuppy,' yawned the T-G (for he had returned), 'Whatever else does anyone talk about these days but that tiresome virus.'
'It's not a virus though,' continued Tuppence, his eyes glittering feverishly, 'It's a bioweapon.'
'That doesn't preclude it being a virus Tuppence.  It could be a weaponised virus.'
'What about the bats?'  I asked.  'I thought it originated in bats. Someone in China et one and it jumped species.  Didn't they?'
'I thought pangolins,' said Geoffrey from the kitchen, raising his voice over the sound of sizzling bacon.
'I'll tell you precisely where it originated,' said the T-G, filling his pipe. 'It originated in darkest South America, in a Nazi colony that's been thriving since the fall of Hitler and waiting its chance for world domination.  Do you remember when you got stung by the giant South American wasp, Tuppy?'
'I do.  I'm still troubled by occasional hallucinations about being pursued by that massive egg.'
'That was just the start Tuppy.  They were only warming up at that point.  You, yes you - were the guinea pig.'
'You mean, the wasp that stung me had escaped from a laboratory run by Nazis?'
'Yes.  Or was it released? You see Tuppy, those Nazis are determined to return, using hi-tech bioweapons delivered by wasps that will wipe out half the population of the earth with minimum effort.  The concentrated venom of the giant South American wasp makes the effects of Covid-19 look like a five year old's birthday party.  They intensified its toxicity through years of careful inbreeding.  Just one droplet is now enough to wipe out a city the size of Inverness.'
'I thought that the wasp had escaped from your vitrine - the one in the topmost tower of Tupfinder Towers, late of this parish.'
'It did. A contact of mine had managed to capture it and sent me it via Yodel in a cast iron strongbox, bolted and padlocked but sadly with no key, so that I could study it. I was out when it arrived but they left it in the coal bunker and put a note through the letterbox.  When I eventually crow-barred open the box and got the creature under a hi-powered microscope with a pair of two foot long fire tongs I was appalled!  So appalled that I let go of the tongs and the wasp escaped and - well, you know the rest.  Yet that wasp was only an outrider Tuppy!  The wasps they've got now make that one look like a Mayfly.  They're super-intelligent, but also completely insane due to the inbreeding.  And their venom - dear Lord.'
The T-G shuddered and I signalled to Geoffrey to fetch the sal volatile.
'What can we do to protect ourselves?  Stay indoors and save lives?  Wash our hands for twenty seconds in hot soapy water?'
'That won't do any good.  We need a plan.  I suggest that firstly we must construct individual hazmat suits, so that we can safely go out-doors.  Then, we should all meet up in the Puff Inn.  Stormy's re-opening while maintaining social distancing - though, how he's going to manage that with a pub the size of your average bathroom, beats me.  But we need to support local businesses so -'
'But his staff have been furloughed T-G', Tuppence interrupted, ' and why should they return to work when the virus is still on the loose?'
'Stormy hasn't got any staff, he does it all himself,' I replied. 'He uses rats when he needs casual labour.  Fetch the sewing machine and the tarpaulin Geoffrey.  We'd better get those hazmat suits made up.  I could murder a pint of Purple Peril.'

next time - battling our terror we venture down to the Puff Inn in our newly-fashioned hazmat suits to find that Stormy has devised a foolproof method of keeping himself and his customers safe - six foot long drinking straws, leading from external seating to the bar, and a six foot long 'money chute' for 'contactless' payment.  Also, Tuppence releases a charity single to raise funds for the NHS, featuring a 100 year old care home resident playing the theremin with his false teeth.

Medicine, Snouts and Sustenance. Moral Dilemma #145690

Tupfinder Towers

'I don't see how you can say that it's morally wrong to steal from a food bank and sell the stuff on at a profit.  Isn't that what we're supposed to be doing nowadays - starting our own businesses and looking out for number one or whatever?'  Tuppence was sitting cross-legged on the edge of the settee, swathed in blankets and sipping hot Ribena from his favourite pewter mug. 'And what's more Uncle Tuppy - it's not like I've just thought this up myself.  I learned from the best.  From you and Uncle Geoffrey.  We did use to steal Madeira and crisps and baccy and stuff from the tunnels, remember.*  '
'We still do,' said Geoffrey, through a mouthful of chilli heatwave Doritos.
'Yes that's true,' I said, throwing another driftwood log on the fire, 'but I'm sure I read somewhere that two wrongs don't make a right.  Mind you, we've never actually sold on anything we've stolen from the tunnels.  We always consume it ourselves, taking only that which is sufficient to our needs, plus a bit extra in case of emergencies, late night snacks and so forth.  Crates of best brandy and snouts don't count, as brandy is medicine and snouts are treatment for our baccy addiction. And everything else is sustenance.  Which makes it kind of not stealing in a way, and therefore okay.'
'Get away!' said Geoffrey, 'The stuff in the tunnels doesn't belong to us.  Stealing is stealing.  The best you could say about it is,  we aren't involved in 'reset'.'
'Maybe if we gave up stealing from the tunnels and just focused on stealing from the food bank that would leave just the one wrong, making it right.'
'That sounds all very well on one level,' said Geoffrey, 'but let's face it, the stuff we get from the tunnels is top notch.  Best brandy, Madeira by the barrel, Turkish snouts, reams of silk...'
'Tins of korn bif,' added Tuppence.
'Of course!  Crates of the stuff.  And it's the real McCoy, not supermarket own brand,' continued Geoffrey.  'Tins of value rice pudding and cheesy pasta are not worth the candle.  And remember - the stuff in the tunnels was looted from wrecked ships by the rats.  It might not belong to us, but it doesn't really belong to anyone else either.  And better that we enjoy it than the rats.'
Tuppence drained his Ribena and set his mug down with a crash.  'Alright.  You've convinced me.  I kind of feel bad that I ever even thought about stealing from a food bank. Not that it's morally wrong, or that, to steal food from starving people - it just isn't worth it.  Part of me will always yearn to be a Victorian-style entrepreneur and I am DETERMINED, determined, mark you,  to find a way.' 

next time - the Narks offer Tuppence a job as an apprentice toilet cleaner, cleaning the yurt toilets for £3.50 an hour on an 'as required' basis.

*as explained in e-books and paperbacks, at great length

The Monster Munch Crisis

Tuppence has been ill with a mysterious fever ever since we busted him out of gaol.  The symptoms include 'ennui', extreme 'lethargy' and an inability to eat anything other than ham sandwiches with the crusts cut off, and huge amounts of pickled onion flavour Monster Munch.  He's been tucked up with four hot water bottles and a Lem-sip drip, and bundles of spiral-bound notebooks containing his Gaol Diaries.  He's been entertaining himself and fighting off the 'ennui' by reading them to us as we sit solicitously by his sick-bed.

'Here I am, stuck in gaol.  Or what passes for gaol in this godforsaken place. It's a cave, right at the bottom of the cliffs, with an iron grille across the entrance to prevent my 'egress'.  As if! They obviously don't know me.
Only half an hour ago I was chained to the wall - all four legs, shackled and padlocked together by a gang of sniggering rats.  The very same gang of rats who used to pedal bikes to power up my moog synthesiser during gigs at the Puff Inn, and who cheered me along during numerous nefarious-style adventures (see e-books for details).
Fortunately they're so dense that they failed to guess that I happened to have a miniature Swiss Army knife hidden between my teeth and my cheek.  As soon as they left I manoeuvered its saw attachment to the front of my mouth and in a trice I was free.  The rusty iron crumbled under the fine Swiss-made steel of the saw, and...'

'Oh DO hurry up and get to the bit where we burst through the iron grille with a carefully-calculated charge of gelignite!' Geoffrey interrupted.

'No.  Not until you fetch me some more Monster Munch.  There's only one bag left and if I don't get a constant supply I'm likely to relapse.'

Geoffrey and I exchanged glances.  We had obtained our Monster Munches from Stormy Petrel along at the Puff Inn.  'That's your lot chaps,'  he'd said.  'All I've got left are some dry roasted nuts and some scampi fries.'
'Till when?'  we'd asked,  aghast.
'Till the next lot comes in to the tunnels of course.  You two know where I get my supplies.'

Of course we knew.  We knew only too well....smuggling,  and shipwrecks....and...

'Tuppence might have to make do with Val Nark's sesame snaps and yogurt 'n' goji berry flapjacks till the next high Springs,' gasped Geoffrey,  'And I don't think he'll like it.'

'Who would?'




More on this later...

Geoffrey and Tuppy talk about defibrillators and biscuits and Death and university.

'People are so boring nowadays.  By people I mean poets.  Not that I know any poets, but...'
'I know what you mean.  I've been dying to talk to you about this all week only it slipped my mind. We were only saying at DebSoc the other night...Tuppy? TUPPY!'
'Yes?  Oh sorry.  It's just when you say 'DebSoc' it knocks me out cold.  I'll just have a quick whiff of sal volatile, and run some silver foil over my fillings, and I should be able to resume my normal level of consciousness - without having to charge up the defibrillator.'
'Oh yes.  Last time we did that, it fused the lights.  And the Fulmars' jacoozy stopped pumping. The rats* strapped to the bikes down at the power station just couldn't cope Tuppy.  They've still not forgiven you for showing them up like that.  Revealing their weaknesses and all.  They like to pretend they're invincible.'
'I know all that and I don't want reminding.  Now please continue with your dreadful tale, if you must.  The sooner you start, the sooner it's over with, and I can go back to thinking about the inevitability of Death, and whether it might be a  good or bad idea to speed its relentless, grinding approach with an over-ingestion of Fox's double chocolate chunk cookies at tea-time - only don't say 'DebSoc' out loud.'
'O.K.'
Geoffrey and I were sitting by the fire digesting our lunches.   I'd had three pint mugs of tea and a five-sausage sandwich with butter, pepper, and brown sauce, and he'd had a thimbleful of buttonberry and ox blood daisy-honey tisane and an aduki bean burger with half a dozen alf-alfa sprouts.
Outside the wind howled and raged like a snarling devil-dog lashed to the gates of Hell and straining at the leash.
'The wind sounds remarkably like a snarling devil-dog lashed to the gates of Hell and straining at its leash Tuppy,' said Geoffrey, picking an alf-alfa sprout out of his upper right pre-molar.
'Yes indeed.  And those flecks of rain could even be hideous slobbers flung from its vast ravening jaws.  Ah well.  Let's put the kettle on again and continue our discussion about Dylan Thomas.  In fact - let's go one better and crack open a fresh bottle of Madeira in his honour.  The sun's well over the yard-arm, I think. Not that I've any idea when or where or indeed what the yard-arm actually is.'
'Me neither.  I'm trying to lay off the drink Tuppy.  Val Nark says...'
'Val Nark can naff off.  Last time I saw her she tried to sell me a blueberry e-pipe.  Ten quid it was Geoffrey. Ten quid!  Think of all the baccy I could get for that.  If I had to buy it instead of steal it, of course.'
'Val Nark wants me to go to university Tuppy.  There, I said it.'  Geoffrey blushed and gulped and looked generally incredibly uncomfortable.  I stared at him over my eye-glasses and tried my best to make him feel even worse.
'University?'
'Yes.  She says I've got potential Tuppy.  She says I can go far.  She wants me to study book-learning,' he blurted.
'You've already BEEN far.  You've gone right round the naffing world**.'
'I suppose so...'
'And who needs book-learning?  We've got a pile of books over there, and we never open them.  Why?  Because we don't need to.  We've got all the knowledge we need right here.'  I tapped my forehead with the leg of my specs. and tried to look convincing.
'She says I could get a degree Tuppy.  In literature or philosophy maybe.  She says I'm bright.'
'Has she got a degree?'
'No.  But sometimes she listens to Radio 4 Tuppy, and that's almost as good,  if not better.'
'Who says that?'
'She does.'


more of this later...............

*the rats power all the electricity Hereabouts, by bicycling on vast numbers of exercise bikes in the tunnels below the cliffs.
**Geoffrey circumnambulated the globe on more than one occasion.
Details of all this and much much more, of course, in the e-books to be found via this link to Amazon  here http://www.amazon.co.uk/Kate-Smart/e/B008MFK3NE/ref=sr_ntt_srch_lnk_1?qid=1414419081&sr=8-1

World Mental Health Day

Geoffrey and I were sitting by the fire enjoying a bacon sandwich and a read of The Bugle.
'Anything interesting today,  Geoffrey?'  I wasn't expecting anything beyond Val Nark's health-food cookery column (hedgerow jam last week), letters to the editor written by the usual whingers, and a review of Grudge Match written by my nephew Tuppence.  Grudge Match is his favourite film.  He says it bears several repeat viewings to bring out the subtle nuances and he's written nine different reviews, or 'exegeses' as he calls them.
I thought there might be a few seasonal used items for sale in the small ads., such as fire irons, fleece dressing-gowns and slippers.   Cherry Fulmar tried to sell Apsley (her husband) last week. Clearly there's desperate trouble brewing in the Old Rectory...
But more of that later.
'There's a feature on World Mental Health Day.' Geoffrey was peering through his pince nez.
'How dull.  Move on. What's for sale?  Any sentient beings this week?  Has Val Nark got another vile recipe in?'
'Not this week.  It's her who's written the feature on World Mental Health Day.'
'Really?  Bore me senseless.
'She does therapy and everything.  And it isn't just the hot stones and the sweat yurt.  She does proper talking therapy as well now. She does counselling Tuppy.  It's only forty pounds an hour. I think you should go.'
'Why?  There's nothing wrong with my mental health.'
'That's because you mask everything behind a cloud of self-medication.  The drugs and pipe tobacco and that.  You're numbing yourself Tuppy.  You're not in touch with your inner self.'
'Opium and laudanum and Madeira and whatever else I can lay my hands on, are not drugs.  They're simple comestibles, like bacon and tea.'
'Val says you're an addict.  She says you need locking up for your own safety.  She says you're a fool to yourself Tuppy, and a bad example to Tuppence and the younger generation.'
'But it's Tuppence who supplies me!  Ooops I mean...'
'Aha!  So you've turned into a grass Uncle Tuppy!   I expected as much.  Fortunately,  I'm clever enough to evade capture - plus, I'm prepared for any eventuality.'
It was my nefarious nephew, and 'supplier', Tuppence.  He stood in the doorway armed to the teeth with a brace of pistols and a bandolier.  Behind him stood two rats, glowering and smoking roll-up cigarettes made with brown papers.
'Are those liquorice papers?' I asked. 'I haven't been able to get those for ages.'
'Don't try to distract our attention from your loose lips Uncle Tuppy.  You've let me down and in a Big Way.  AGAIN, might I add.  No wonder I've had to go to Val Nark for regression therapy.  I've learned loads.  Did you know, for example, that that cup of tea that you're holding is a quarter full, not three quarters empty?  Isn't that a marvellous insight?'
'But it's cold, and I don't want it. Besides, I don't give a flying *insert rude word of choice*.  Put the kettle on Geoffrey, and bring the thumbscrews.  I want to know when and why you were discussing my comestible consumption with Val *insert rude word of choice* Nark.'

More on (most of) this later.

Read more about Tuppy, Tuppence,  Geoffrey, and Val Nark here http://www.amazon.co.uk/Sea-Penguin-Part-Five-Selections-ebook/dp/B00FW19E0Y/ref=pd_rhf_gw_p_img_1

Find more of my stuff here http://www.amazon.co.uk/Kate-Smart/e/B008MFK3NE/ref=ntt_athr_dp_pel_pop_1

TONITE - at the debating society (or DebSoc).....

Not content with Whingers Anonymous,  Geoffrey's joined the local Debating Society, or DebSoc.. 'Any excuse for a gossip and a cuppy,  Tuppy!'  he enthused.  I was forced to tread heavily on his foot in order to relieve the pressure of my feelings, viz. an intolerably horrible melange of revulsion, frustration and disgust.

Tonite's topic is, apparently, 'Softly softly catchee monkee.  WTF does it mean,  and is it not a bit racist?'

'What do you think,  Tuppy?' shouted Geoffrey, as he smashed up some bourbon biscuits with a rolling pin for the base of a no-bake tiramisu.

'I don't know, and yes, probably,' I replied, placing today's free 'Rocky Outcrop' newsletter over my face as I prepared for a snooze. 'I hope those bourbons aren't the stale ones that you left out overnight by the way.'

'They are Tuppy, but you'll never notice due to them being soaked in a hundred and fifty per cent alcohol.'

'Really?  Where did you get that?' I said,  opening one eye and wondering whether it might be worth not having a snooze after all.  Perhaps there might be something more interesting to do, although past experience made me doubt it.

'The rats have started a new Still up on the moors.  At the Old Quarry.  They're giving away free samples.  Free samples Tuppy!'

'Right Geoffrey.  Put that rolling pin down, and fetch your coat. The one with the huge pockets.'

'Can we come too?' begged the underpants. 'We don't like to be on our own.  We might Do Something to Ourselves...and it would be All Your Fault....'

'No!  get back in the woodshed please.'  Geoffrey and I exchanged glances in our usual covert manner. We'd have to get a bigger padlock...and perhaps a flamethrower...

next time....the underpants effect an escape, and we decide to raid the illicit Still... 

Find my Amazon page  here http://www.amazon.co.uk/Kate-Smart/e/B008MFK3NE/ref=ntt_athr_dp_pel_pop_1

Also - online shop with artwork for sale https://www.etsy.com/uk/shop/BlueCoracle

More horror

(Well at least it's not green - yet.)

"You'll have to eat it juiced," smirked the Ghastly Wilson, poking me with a stick.

"Not - ch-ch-chipped, or made into crisps - mashed, even?" I quavered.

"Juiced. Along with a couple of onions, some garlic and a handful of alfalfa sprouts. If you won't take it through the normal channels we'll have to put the tube down again."

How on earth had I come to this sorry pass? Strapped in a chair (with a hole sawed in the seat for my "convenience" in case you're wondering) with the Ghastly Wilson force feeding me vegetables.

"You couldn't bung a sausage in it, could you? I'll pay."

"Ha-ha-ha!" laughed the Ghastly Wilson, throwing his head back and revealing some rather poor dental work, if I'm honest. "But you haven't got any munny! besides - munny's worth nothing Hereabouts."

"You're not even doing this for my benefit. You're doing it for your own sadistic pleasure."

"So what if I am? I don't get much fun out of life. You can't begrudge me this."

And he switched on the juicing machine full blast. "Come on boys - I need more voltage - pedal for grim death!" he shouted at the rats (who were powering up the generator via pedal power - please see previous posts if you don't believe me)

"Not so fast, Wilson," said a suave voice. A claw-like hand reached out and yanked the plug from the socket. There was an overpowering smell of mothballs and half a dozen spiders scurried out from beneath his long black robes.

"Oh for f - "

The flaming Reaper again.

"We don't want him to live, Wilson. We want him to DIE!! I need to keep my quota up, remember? you did agree to help. And now I find you going behind my back and feeding people vegetables to make them healthy. Now stop all that nonsense and fire these under the grill quick-style."

And he produced a family sized BBQ pack of mock chops, Chinese-style ribs, Cumberland-style sausages, fruit pudding, black pudding, smoked sausage, and lard-burgers.

"Hope you've got soem brown sauce," I said eagerly.

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.

The rats drag a moog into the Puff Inn

It doesn't say anything on the blackboard due to the rain having washed it off, but Tuppence is playing a gig at the Puff Inn tonite. I saw the rats dragging in the moog earlier, along with a couple of crates of salty snax 'n' stuff, plus a vatload of absinthe flavrd meth 'o'pops and a couple of stomach pumps. Geoffrey and me are already in the Q - see u Munday!!!

Hours of Fun

Geoffrey and I have had a great time today. We decided to try out our new hooded black cloaks, and so we got up early and went for a walk along the cliffs. It was a blowy day, with a storm brewing "Over there", and looking very much as if it was feeling like heading "Hereabouts".
As we neared the Old Coastguard Hut (see gazetteer)the sky turned an odd pewter-like colour, which put me in mind of my own dear pewter-style mug, which I use for supping madeira.
"Perhaps we should head home to the fireside, Geoffrey, and have a stiffener. After all, it's gone half ten."
Before he could reply, a crowd of rats emerged willy nilly from the tunnel entrance/exit, which readers will recall is located within the Old Coastguard Hut. When they caught sight of us, they ran back in, screaming at the top of their lungs.
"It's the Reaper! And he's got back up!"
Geoffrey and I exchanged glances. "Let's take the long way home, and scare some more people!" I suggested excitedly, enjoying the feeling of power. "I wonder if we can pick up a couple of scythes from somewhere. Let's have a look in the T-G's skip!"
"Don't be selfish Tuppy. Think of the elderly, and the sick. You could tip them over the edge..."

Back at the Outcrop, after we'd rescued all the survivors and helped them on their way, Geoffrey and the T-G gave me a serious talking to, in the course of which I shamefacedly blurted out the details of my gruesome deal with baby orca.
"Foolish animal," said the T-G, who was still waxing stern. "Why worry about a few death threats from a killer whale? he can only harm you if you go into the water."
"Or near it," ventured Geoffrey.
"Indeed," agreed the T-G. "So no more talk about throwing people over the top willy nilly. Tell baby orca to stop throwing his weight about and crack open that barrel of illicit madeira."
Why didn't I think of that? of course I'm safe on dry land! perfectly safe...unless...well, I must admit I'm a little concerned that once he realises I've welshed he will enlist the help of A.N. Other, i.e. a hired assassin, to do me in. Tuppence and the rats, perchance?
They will soon tire of wrecking - too much effort - and I'm sure no activity is too nefarious for Tuppence and his gang - in fact, the more nefarious the better.
The T-G has agreed to lend me a musket, just in case...

Tuppence's hideout

Tuppence has been rehearsing in the tunnels again - the old coastguard hut (see above) looks really small, but the tunnels underneath are vast, labyrinthine and cavernous, so he has plenty of room to create utter havoc with his moog. The rats flatly refused to use the bikes to power it up, so Tuppence ingeniously managed to tap into the Fulmars electric generator (see previous posts) and syphon off some of the supply. This obviously leaves them short, and their security lights keep flickering. The Fulmars are definitely getting the worst of it - on top of the electric problem, with the old rectory being on the cliffs, the noise is causing them sleepless nights and it's all been getting a bit on top of them this past week.
Something will have to be done - we've had our differences with Apsley and Cherry over the years, especially over their security lights ( see previous posts) but the racket from the tunnels is horrendous and we're all very sympathetic to their current plight - the Tupfinder's all for setting up a task force to root Tuppence out of his lair, but that could prove difficult, given the enormity of the tunnel system.
Apsley suggested using the sewage system somehow - as readers might remember, it caused a bit of a mess when raw sewage was accidentally pumped through the Fulmar's jakoosy (see previous posts) - it might just be possible to flood the tunnels with sufficient effluent to flush Tuppence out. HOWEVER - downside is, that the stocks of madeira and korn bif would be at serious risk of spoilage.
We're going to mull the whole thing over this evening, over a glass or two of madeira.

the return of the purple peril

I've had a bit of a head for the past few days, hence no correspondence. Geoffrey's been the same - in fact, he almost lapsed into a coma again. Since Sunday, the two of us have been crouched trembling by the fireside, with tartan knee rugs over our heads, sipping hot madeira. It's all we can cope with.
What happened is this.
We decided to venture over to the Puff Inn, Sunday lunchtime. We were pretty sure Tuppence's gig was off, for reasons described in last two posts, so assumed it would be a case of sitting quietly in the snug with a bottle or two of Stormy's finest madeira and a large bowl of some delicious salty snack mixture. HOWEVER - the ever-resourceful Tuppence, aided by Stormy, who was acting as "road manager" - had managed to rig up a "sound system" and power up the moog at the same time. It worked like this.
Some of the rats, overfond of Stormy's wares, had run up a massive bar tab, and there was no indication that they intended to pay it off anytime soon. Stormy had been worrying about this for some time, but had no means of forcing them to pay up, as they seemed quite oblivious to ordinary threats and coercion. HOWEVER - he noticed that they began to shrink back into the shadows whenever the Reaper appeared. Ergo, Stormy deduced, here was a weapon. Like the rest of us mortals, they too fear the Reaper.
Stormy threatened to use his influence - meaning, that if the Reaper was going to be paid for a gig at the Puff Inn, then technically, Stormy was his employer, and could call himself such - to get the Reaper to move the rats up to the top of his "list", unless they agreed to co-operate with his plan.
Which was as follows. The rats were to obtain a number of exercise cycles, bring them to the Puff Inn, wire them up to the moog, and start cycling for grim death - literally.
And that's exactly what they did. It took a while for them to crank the power up to a usable level, but my goodness, when they did, the sound was amazing - deafening actually. Tuppence began with ELP's Fanfare for the Common Man - he played it with one hoof, and managed to hit all the right notes "but not necessarily in the right order" as someone once said - not my cup of tea, but the rats loved it and it spurred them on to even faster cycling. Someone had to throw cups of water over the wheels to stop them catching fire and the resulting clouds of steam only added to the atmosphere.
Stormy had resurrected the Purple Peril koktale to mark the occasion ( see previous posts for info. re. this lethal meths 'n' madeira concoction) I'm afraid Geoffrey and I succumbed to tempation, hence our current semi-comatose condition.
I don't remember much of what happened next. Obviously we staggered back to the rocky outcrop somehow. Geoffrey put his back out at some stage in the proceedings, we don't know how.
Word from Razor Bill this morning tells me that Spockfingers turned up halfway through Tuppence's act, determined to give his rendition of Sweet Child in Time. There was a terrible shrieking towards the end and all the windows blew in. Then Wilson stormed in, covered in seaweed (see previous posts) in a furious temper, screaming something about them all being utter philistines and that they were besmirching the name of prog. He ripped the electric cable from the exercise bikes and brought the act to a sudden end. Spockfingers offered to crank things up again using his incredible wind power, but it was thought too risky.
Anyway, back to normal now.

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?