Chapter Fifteen: The Song

I cleared my throat.

Alfonso, the small grey beetle (or weevil to be precise), who has made his home on my desk, donned a pair of original Wayfarers, scrunched up his blouson sleeves, and put the recorder to his lips.

The man put his elbows on the table and rested his chin in his hands.

A low, unearthly hum began to sound from the recorder, which made the windows shudder and the chandelier tinkle alarmingly above our heads. It was the kind of sound you only imagined you would ever hear before the end of the world, as the seas drained away, and the mountains tumbled and collapsed into rivers of flame.

"Alfonso!" I said.

"Sorry", he said, "I had some Hubba Bubba in my mouth", removing the offending article and sticking it carefully under the judge's table.

"Let's start again", I said. And we did.

"It was the day of the turkey hunt, the turkey hunt, the turkey hunt,

And oh how it was raining.

It was the day of the turkey hunt, the turkey hunt, the turkey hunt,

And oh how it was raining."

We continued like this for an hour or so, before we reached the first verse. I could tell we held the Judges in the palm of our hand.

"I want to hunt a turkey, to stuff him for my mum

But turkeys are extinct here, so find one will I none"

And so we continued, and the candles dribbled down to stumps, and guttered in their golden dishes, and long shadows crept across the hall, till the sun set behind the distant black horizon, and the grandfather clock in the corner ticked ever on.

Finally, as the first birds of dawn began to prepare themselves for the day, we reached the climactic final chorus

"It was my only child, my only darling daughter

We put her in a turkey suit and shot her by the water"

With a flourish, I removed the giant beak and coxcomb from my head, and Alfonso laid the recorder to rest on the floor with ceremonious grace.

For what seeme like an aeon, there was silence. Then the man spoke.

"That", he said, "Was. Amazing."

At which point the screen collapsed in on itself, disappearing to a tiny white dot, then blackness.

"Alfonso!" I said- "what did you do that for? I was enjoying that."

"Nah", he said, "I really don't like the way they've changed the format this year", stuffing another spoonful of Butterscotch Angel Delight into his greedy mouth, as we sat on the sofa together.

So, dear reader, I squashed him under the hand crafted all-in-one TV/Sky box/microwave remote control, made out of basalt and encrusted with rubies and emeralds, which I had once upon a time conveniently prised out of my late grandmother's already stiff hand.

But he'll be back.