The man took a long draught of his milk and champagne cocktail, and launched into a lengthy description of a Weevil Calling Ceremony.
He had just begun to describe the famous incantatory dance, where participants jig up and down around a circle of hot rocks, all the while chanting the words which have been handed down from generation to generation of Weevil Callers-
"Ohhh Roger Moore-oh! Ohhh Roger Moore-oh! Ohhh Roger Moore-oh!
Safari suit and a martini! Safari suit and a martini!"
- when Chet put a paw up to signal him to stop.
"Sorry", said the man. "Am I boring you? A lot of people find that's their favourite bit."
"Oh no", said Chet, "Quite the contrary. You were being most entertaining. But I think I've heard quite enough."
The man flushed, and a jolt of electricity seemed to pass through his eyes.
"Enough? But I haven't told you anything yet- not about the calling ceremony going wrong because my father hadn't brought the right Katchagoogoo mix tape, the Weevil escaping- "
Chet smiled, and twiddled his gold pencil idly. A small motto ran down the side, reading "To Chet - The only real top cat in my life XXX Dibble".
"You have told me more than enough." He looked down at his notes. "You told me about crows which how, when they clearly do nothing of the kind - they caw. You described beetroot wine as red, when it is always a deep kind of purple, or beetroot colour in fact. And you gave your father yellow eyes, when no-one has yellow eyes, apart from cats." And he flashed his, by way of emphasis.
The man folded his arms, a little belligerently, Chet thought. He was good at noticing things like that; he was after all, the best cat detective in the world.
"Are you critiquing my story telling style or my facts?" he demanded.
"Both", said Chet. "I will gladly give you a written report of my full analysis, for just £19.95, but first- why don't you tell me who you really are?"
TO BE CONTINUED...
Monday, 20 April 2009
Friday, 17 April 2009
THE CASE OF CHET MILLERBY AND THE MISSING WEEVIL: Chapter Three
The man began to speak, but was so nervous that his lips and tongue had quite dried out, and he found himself struggling to get the words out.
“Perhaps I could offer you a drink”, suggested Chet, the cat who was also a detective. “I’m afraid I only drink milk or champagne, or if you really want to push the boat out, I could make you one of my milk champagne cocktails.”
The man gratefully accepted the offer of the latter, and while Chet busied himself with a gold champagne whisk (the handle of which was engraved “To Chet – Every time I get in a kayak I think of you XXX Pinky”) and his churn of fresh Jersey milk, his guest began to talk.
“I was born in a small village in a country you will never have heard of. We lived on the side of the mountains, at the edge of a dark wood, and my father was a woodcutter. It was a simple life which we shared with a few pigs and goats. The very first day after I was born, my mother decided to dandle me on her lap while she sewed a tapestry depicting an ancient turkey hunt. The legend on the tapestry was a song, which went-“
“When I said tell me your story”, said Chet evenly, sipping on his cocktail , and beginning to regret ever letting this ludicrous figure into his office, “I meant the relevant parts, Mr- I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name?”
The man told him his name, and Chet scribbled something down on a pad, but still it made no sense.
“I’m sorry- to cut to the chase. It was the morning of my seventeenth birthday, the traditional coming of age day in our country. The sun was not yet up, but I was woken by the crows howling outside my window, and my father pushing open the bedroom door, only a fraction of his grizzled face illuminated by the sickly tangerine light of the dying candle grasped in his hand. ‘Come’ he said, ‘it is time.’ I did not question him, but hurriedly pulled on my boots and followed him down the stairs. Outside he thrust a staff into my hands, and we set off up the muddy track into the forest. It had rained during the night, and the earth beneath our feet was moist, and as we brushed against the spiky fir branches, they showered a thousand droplets over us, and by the time we reached the top of the mountain we were both soaking wet. My father did not say a word for the entire walk, but occasionally passed me small crusts of bread torn from the loaf in his knapsack. We emerged from the narrow path onto a small plateau, still encircled by shadowy dense pine trees, although a faint winter sun was beginning to break over the horizon. My father sat down and patted the rock next to him, but still being the obedient son, I squatted in the dirt at his feet. He took a flask of red beetroot wine out of his sack, and pouring a stream onto the ground, rinsed his hands in it as was the tradition, then blessed me three times. Then he fixed me with his old yellow eyes, which had seen so much, and said – “Boy, do you know of the Weevil?”
Here the man paused for a restorative gulp of his curdling cocktail, and Chet paused scribbling for a moment. “Is all this of any use?” the man asked.
“Oh yes”, said Chet, “of great use, of very great use indeed.” And he smiled his distinctive grin, which was not like the grin of the Cheshire Cat, him being a Siamese , but narrower, and much slier.
The man pressed on. “I confessed that I had heard the tales in the school yard, and had often wondered what the primitive tattoo of a small grey beetle on his inner left wrist could signify. My father grunted in satisfaction, and with his stick, drew a circle in the sand. The Weevil Calling Ceremony had begun.”
TO BE CONTINUED...
“Perhaps I could offer you a drink”, suggested Chet, the cat who was also a detective. “I’m afraid I only drink milk or champagne, or if you really want to push the boat out, I could make you one of my milk champagne cocktails.”
The man gratefully accepted the offer of the latter, and while Chet busied himself with a gold champagne whisk (the handle of which was engraved “To Chet – Every time I get in a kayak I think of you XXX Pinky”) and his churn of fresh Jersey milk, his guest began to talk.
“I was born in a small village in a country you will never have heard of. We lived on the side of the mountains, at the edge of a dark wood, and my father was a woodcutter. It was a simple life which we shared with a few pigs and goats. The very first day after I was born, my mother decided to dandle me on her lap while she sewed a tapestry depicting an ancient turkey hunt. The legend on the tapestry was a song, which went-“
“When I said tell me your story”, said Chet evenly, sipping on his cocktail , and beginning to regret ever letting this ludicrous figure into his office, “I meant the relevant parts, Mr- I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name?”
The man told him his name, and Chet scribbled something down on a pad, but still it made no sense.
“I’m sorry- to cut to the chase. It was the morning of my seventeenth birthday, the traditional coming of age day in our country. The sun was not yet up, but I was woken by the crows howling outside my window, and my father pushing open the bedroom door, only a fraction of his grizzled face illuminated by the sickly tangerine light of the dying candle grasped in his hand. ‘Come’ he said, ‘it is time.’ I did not question him, but hurriedly pulled on my boots and followed him down the stairs. Outside he thrust a staff into my hands, and we set off up the muddy track into the forest. It had rained during the night, and the earth beneath our feet was moist, and as we brushed against the spiky fir branches, they showered a thousand droplets over us, and by the time we reached the top of the mountain we were both soaking wet. My father did not say a word for the entire walk, but occasionally passed me small crusts of bread torn from the loaf in his knapsack. We emerged from the narrow path onto a small plateau, still encircled by shadowy dense pine trees, although a faint winter sun was beginning to break over the horizon. My father sat down and patted the rock next to him, but still being the obedient son, I squatted in the dirt at his feet. He took a flask of red beetroot wine out of his sack, and pouring a stream onto the ground, rinsed his hands in it as was the tradition, then blessed me three times. Then he fixed me with his old yellow eyes, which had seen so much, and said – “Boy, do you know of the Weevil?”
Here the man paused for a restorative gulp of his curdling cocktail, and Chet paused scribbling for a moment. “Is all this of any use?” the man asked.
“Oh yes”, said Chet, “of great use, of very great use indeed.” And he smiled his distinctive grin, which was not like the grin of the Cheshire Cat, him being a Siamese , but narrower, and much slier.
The man pressed on. “I confessed that I had heard the tales in the school yard, and had often wondered what the primitive tattoo of a small grey beetle on his inner left wrist could signify. My father grunted in satisfaction, and with his stick, drew a circle in the sand. The Weevil Calling Ceremony had begun.”
TO BE CONTINUED...
Thursday, 16 April 2009
Chet Millerby And The Case Of The Missing Weevil: Chapter Two
Chet Millerby, the cat who was also a detective, narrowed his eyes.
Without taking them off the man in the lederhosen, he pulled open the top right drawer of the desk, slid out a packet of Sobranies, lit one with his heavy gold lighter (engraved “To Chet- Here’s To Madagascar! XXX Tabitha”), and took a long, cool drag on it.
Nobody spoke. The smoke made the man want to cough, but he suppressed it. Upstairs, they could faintly hear the sound of the painter/professor tripping over the dead potted bamboo on the landing, which he did every day, and cursing, which he also did every day.
Time passed. Chet took another drag on his cigarette, and looked at his claws.
“A weevil, you say?”
“I didn’t steal him!” The man began to bluster. “He found me of his own accord. I just came down to breakfast one morning, and there he was, bold as the new born day, tucking into some broiled eggs and Welsh coffee - right on my laptop, would you believe!”
“You know weevil smuggling was outlawed under the United Nations declaration 103a?”
“Yes, but, I didn’t-“
“You know that weevil smuggling carries the highest possible penalties?” Chet stood up. He really was a very big cat- for a Siamese. “You know, that as a licensed cat detective, I am obliged to report all illegal weevils found on the mainland to the authorities?”
“I know all this, but I swear to you- I know nothing. He just turned up. They never even heard of weevils in the village. I have never even met a wood demon. I don’t even know how to transport a weevil in the silk lining of a top hat. I swear!” He began to tap his leather clad thighs nervously with the feather from his loden, whistling a grim folk tune of Bavarian provenance for comfort. Chet let him hang. The man took out a stick of wild boar bratwurst from his satchel and began to chew chunks off like his life depended on it.
“You’re not from round here, are you?” said Chet.
“Damn, you’re good”, said the man, with his mouth full. “Is it that obvious?”
“To a trained cat detective, nothing is obvious”, said Chet. “Eliminate all the possible theories, and then start with the impossible. It’s always bound to be the answer.”
“Listen”, said the man in the lederhosen, with tears in the corners of his eyes. “Just find him. If you find him, then I promise to come clean, and file the necessary paperwork. Or do time, whichever is quicker. But you must find him!”
Chet put out the cigarette, and went to the window, yanking up the blind with a noisy flourish. It was the same view, as ever, an unlit concrete wall. But that was what you got with a secret underground office in someone’s cellar. That was just the way it was, and he knew that. He was, after all, a cat detective. And the best one.
He spun round. “Well, it looks like you’re in luck. It seems nobody wants to steal diamonds or stab heiresses this week, so I might just have an opening for a missing weevil investigation.” The man threw himself at his feet, but Chet shook him off.
“You’d better start by telling me your story.”
TO BE CONTINUED
Without taking them off the man in the lederhosen, he pulled open the top right drawer of the desk, slid out a packet of Sobranies, lit one with his heavy gold lighter (engraved “To Chet- Here’s To Madagascar! XXX Tabitha”), and took a long, cool drag on it.
Nobody spoke. The smoke made the man want to cough, but he suppressed it. Upstairs, they could faintly hear the sound of the painter/professor tripping over the dead potted bamboo on the landing, which he did every day, and cursing, which he also did every day.
Time passed. Chet took another drag on his cigarette, and looked at his claws.
“A weevil, you say?”
“I didn’t steal him!” The man began to bluster. “He found me of his own accord. I just came down to breakfast one morning, and there he was, bold as the new born day, tucking into some broiled eggs and Welsh coffee - right on my laptop, would you believe!”
“You know weevil smuggling was outlawed under the United Nations declaration 103a?”
“Yes, but, I didn’t-“
“You know that weevil smuggling carries the highest possible penalties?” Chet stood up. He really was a very big cat- for a Siamese. “You know, that as a licensed cat detective, I am obliged to report all illegal weevils found on the mainland to the authorities?”
“I know all this, but I swear to you- I know nothing. He just turned up. They never even heard of weevils in the village. I have never even met a wood demon. I don’t even know how to transport a weevil in the silk lining of a top hat. I swear!” He began to tap his leather clad thighs nervously with the feather from his loden, whistling a grim folk tune of Bavarian provenance for comfort. Chet let him hang. The man took out a stick of wild boar bratwurst from his satchel and began to chew chunks off like his life depended on it.
“You’re not from round here, are you?” said Chet.
“Damn, you’re good”, said the man, with his mouth full. “Is it that obvious?”
“To a trained cat detective, nothing is obvious”, said Chet. “Eliminate all the possible theories, and then start with the impossible. It’s always bound to be the answer.”
“Listen”, said the man in the lederhosen, with tears in the corners of his eyes. “Just find him. If you find him, then I promise to come clean, and file the necessary paperwork. Or do time, whichever is quicker. But you must find him!”
Chet put out the cigarette, and went to the window, yanking up the blind with a noisy flourish. It was the same view, as ever, an unlit concrete wall. But that was what you got with a secret underground office in someone’s cellar. That was just the way it was, and he knew that. He was, after all, a cat detective. And the best one.
He spun round. “Well, it looks like you’re in luck. It seems nobody wants to steal diamonds or stab heiresses this week, so I might just have an opening for a missing weevil investigation.” The man threw himself at his feet, but Chet shook him off.
“You’d better start by telling me your story.”
TO BE CONTINUED
Wednesday, 15 April 2009
A New Chet Millerby Case: The Missing Weevil
The Case of Chet Millerby and The Missing Weevil
This is a story about a cat called Chet Millerby, who - like most cats, was also a detective. You see, when your cat disappears, and slips out through the cat flap, or prowls away off along your garden wall, you no doubt think he or she is off hunting for little voles or sparrows who are slow off the mark. Well, that is sometimes the case, but mostly you would be wrong. For mostly they are off solving a case which has proved too difficult for the Metropolitan Police. The Metropolitan Police are the best police force in the world, without a shadow of a doubt, but sometimes even they are stumped. And when they are stumped, they turn to the cats. And when they are most especially, expensively and utterly stumped, they turn to Chet Millerby.
Chet Millerby lived in a tumble-down sort of a house at the top of a hill in North London. His owner was a painter or a professor of some kind, perhaps a bit of both, and he doesn’t concern us much, only that he was beardy and absent minded and left half opened cans of cat food all down the stairs; which suited Chet just fine. The painter/professor mainly lived on the upper floors of the house, where the curtains remained ever drawn, and he sketched furiously under a solitary lamp, or pored over dusty books in a very deep chair with the springs hanging out. On the ground floor was the kitchen, a scene of total neglect: old milk cartons standing on wet newspaper all along the sills, a sink which was home to stacks of dirty plates with fish bones dangling out (again much to Chet’s liking), and great snowdrifts of unopened post - some of which dated back to 1953- covering the floor.
But between the dishwasher which had never worked, and the tottering grandfather clock whose hands had been at quarter to six for as long as anyone could remember, there was a small door. And that small door led down to the cellar. The painter/professor never went into the cellar, and if he ever thought about it (which he didn’t), he probably thought it was full of packing cases, a bicycle gathering dust and yet more unopened boxes of books he was never going to read. It wasn’t. For behind the kitchen door was in fact another door, with frosted glass, and the words “Chet Millerby, Cat Detective” engraved very neatly on it. And behind that door was some stairs, and at the bottom of the stairs there was a very large desk, and sitting behind the desk, wreathed in a cloud of smoke from his favourite kind of Turkish cigarette, was the world’s greatest sleuthing mind.
“I don’t do missing persons”, he said. “Missing persons never end well. Rubies and diamonds I can get back for you. Definitely dead persons I can find who twisted the knife. I even once discovered who was trying to poison the Prime Minister’s parrot, which wasn’t as satisfying as it sounds. But when a person goes missing, it’s usually because nobody’s found the body yet. And that’s not the kind of Easter Egg hunt I enjoy, I’m afraid.”
He leaned back, and stubbed his cigarette out in the large gold ashtray on his desk. It depicted a female cat in a bathing costume, taking a very coquettish pose, above the hand inscribed legend “To Chet - We’ll Always Have Padstow XXX Kitty ”.
The man perched uncomfortably on the stool opposite, dressed (eccentrically, Chet thought) in traditional Tyrolean yodelling garb, took off his feathered loden and wrung it between his hands.
“I don’t you think you quite understand, Mr Millerby. I’m not talking about just a person. I’m talking about a weevil.”
TO BE CONTINUED
This is a story about a cat called Chet Millerby, who - like most cats, was also a detective. You see, when your cat disappears, and slips out through the cat flap, or prowls away off along your garden wall, you no doubt think he or she is off hunting for little voles or sparrows who are slow off the mark. Well, that is sometimes the case, but mostly you would be wrong. For mostly they are off solving a case which has proved too difficult for the Metropolitan Police. The Metropolitan Police are the best police force in the world, without a shadow of a doubt, but sometimes even they are stumped. And when they are stumped, they turn to the cats. And when they are most especially, expensively and utterly stumped, they turn to Chet Millerby.
Chet Millerby lived in a tumble-down sort of a house at the top of a hill in North London. His owner was a painter or a professor of some kind, perhaps a bit of both, and he doesn’t concern us much, only that he was beardy and absent minded and left half opened cans of cat food all down the stairs; which suited Chet just fine. The painter/professor mainly lived on the upper floors of the house, where the curtains remained ever drawn, and he sketched furiously under a solitary lamp, or pored over dusty books in a very deep chair with the springs hanging out. On the ground floor was the kitchen, a scene of total neglect: old milk cartons standing on wet newspaper all along the sills, a sink which was home to stacks of dirty plates with fish bones dangling out (again much to Chet’s liking), and great snowdrifts of unopened post - some of which dated back to 1953- covering the floor.
But between the dishwasher which had never worked, and the tottering grandfather clock whose hands had been at quarter to six for as long as anyone could remember, there was a small door. And that small door led down to the cellar. The painter/professor never went into the cellar, and if he ever thought about it (which he didn’t), he probably thought it was full of packing cases, a bicycle gathering dust and yet more unopened boxes of books he was never going to read. It wasn’t. For behind the kitchen door was in fact another door, with frosted glass, and the words “Chet Millerby, Cat Detective” engraved very neatly on it. And behind that door was some stairs, and at the bottom of the stairs there was a very large desk, and sitting behind the desk, wreathed in a cloud of smoke from his favourite kind of Turkish cigarette, was the world’s greatest sleuthing mind.
“I don’t do missing persons”, he said. “Missing persons never end well. Rubies and diamonds I can get back for you. Definitely dead persons I can find who twisted the knife. I even once discovered who was trying to poison the Prime Minister’s parrot, which wasn’t as satisfying as it sounds. But when a person goes missing, it’s usually because nobody’s found the body yet. And that’s not the kind of Easter Egg hunt I enjoy, I’m afraid.”
He leaned back, and stubbed his cigarette out in the large gold ashtray on his desk. It depicted a female cat in a bathing costume, taking a very coquettish pose, above the hand inscribed legend “To Chet - We’ll Always Have Padstow XXX Kitty ”.
The man perched uncomfortably on the stool opposite, dressed (eccentrically, Chet thought) in traditional Tyrolean yodelling garb, took off his feathered loden and wrung it between his hands.
“I don’t you think you quite understand, Mr Millerby. I’m not talking about just a person. I’m talking about a weevil.”
TO BE CONTINUED
Wednesday, 8 April 2009
Chapter Eighteen: You're My Wingman
The balloon drifted off into the high blue skies, and as our city faded from view, I asked Alfonso (the small grey beetle – or weevil, to be precise – who has made his home on my desk), if he knew how to actually fly the thing.
To my astonishment, the little fellow was already in full US regulation olive green overalls, and as I spoke, snapped the visor down from his helmet and started flicking switches in the control panel which had just materialised above his head.
Black screens started sliding down out of the balloon over the basket, filled with rotating luminous green data fields and diagrams. A control tower rose out of the wicker floor, and with a soft hiss, machine gun emplacements slowly emerged from either side of the ballast sacks.
“Alfonso!” I protested. “What are you doing! This is not that kind of adventure! I want us to be looking at little village church spires, and the green fields dotted with sheep, a line of deer racing across the brow of a hill, a solitary fisherman on a sheltered lake, and perhaps some villagers dancing merrily yet sinisterly with horns on their head!”
But Alfonso merely said into his helmet mic-
“OK Ice, this is Maverick, over - I’m taking the lead, let’s identify him..”
The balloon suddenly swung violently to the left and I grabbed onto one of the support ropes for dear life. The radar screen on the picnic hamper started bleeping violently, as it tipped over, and tubs of homemade wild boar pate and bottles of rose rolled towards me.
Unperturbed, Alfonso continued into his helmet-
“We have a bogie, over, I repeat a bogie... I can’t get them off my tail goddamit!”
“Alfonso” I said, “I ‘m not enjoying this game any more.”
And then I peeked through one of the gaps in the screens, and saw violently screaming towards us, a battered red Mig fighter jet, with smoked glass windows – which looked oddly familiar...
TO BE CONTINUED
To my astonishment, the little fellow was already in full US regulation olive green overalls, and as I spoke, snapped the visor down from his helmet and started flicking switches in the control panel which had just materialised above his head.
Black screens started sliding down out of the balloon over the basket, filled with rotating luminous green data fields and diagrams. A control tower rose out of the wicker floor, and with a soft hiss, machine gun emplacements slowly emerged from either side of the ballast sacks.
“Alfonso!” I protested. “What are you doing! This is not that kind of adventure! I want us to be looking at little village church spires, and the green fields dotted with sheep, a line of deer racing across the brow of a hill, a solitary fisherman on a sheltered lake, and perhaps some villagers dancing merrily yet sinisterly with horns on their head!”
But Alfonso merely said into his helmet mic-
“OK Ice, this is Maverick, over - I’m taking the lead, let’s identify him..”
The balloon suddenly swung violently to the left and I grabbed onto one of the support ropes for dear life. The radar screen on the picnic hamper started bleeping violently, as it tipped over, and tubs of homemade wild boar pate and bottles of rose rolled towards me.
Unperturbed, Alfonso continued into his helmet-
“We have a bogie, over, I repeat a bogie... I can’t get them off my tail goddamit!”
“Alfonso” I said, “I ‘m not enjoying this game any more.”
And then I peeked through one of the gaps in the screens, and saw violently screaming towards us, a battered red Mig fighter jet, with smoked glass windows – which looked oddly familiar...
TO BE CONTINUED
Tuesday, 7 April 2009
Chapter Seventeen: A Mysterious Note
Alfonso, the small grey beetle (or weevil to be precise) who has made his home on my desk and I were painting the lower study this afternoon when we heard a strange noise from the garden. It sounded like a "ffflump", rather like someone had taken all the sheets off my bed and thrown them over the bannister again, but that hadn't happened since the reform school. At this disruption to our labours, I noticed with dismay (but not surprise) that Alfonso had departed from the strict colour scheme of Valencia Lemon Wash, and had chosen to cover his wall in a series of narrow, oblique red, white, blue and grey stripes of varying lengths.
"What kind of colour scheme do you call that?" I asked Alfonso.
"Eighties BHS Duvet Cover", he replied, wiping the brush clean on the new fitted carpet as he did.
There really is nothing that can be done about certain weevils.
Before anything untoward happened, I suggested we venture into the garden for some fresh air and to investigate the "fflump" noise.
The entire garden, including the antique pouting faun, and the prize winning thistle collection, was covered in a rumpled landscape of stitched cream canvas. Alfonso and I hoisted it up and walked underneath it, like a collapsed marquee. Only it wasn't a marquee, it was a hot air balloon, and the basket was resting on top of some recently deceased ornamental blowfish in the pond.
"They're not very ornamental any more" said Alfonso, peering into the murky depths.
"Why don't you do something useful, like fill the balloon with hot air?", I grumbled, opening an envelope attached to the side of the basket. Inside was a scrawled note, in handwriting which seemed vaguely familiar, and which read "FLY ME".
I left Alfonso to the balloon and went inside to study the note. I decided to compare it to the handwriting on the package which had contained the old conch. Carefully I laid the two pieces of parchment side by side on my patented TransVectorgram (or TV for short), which looks like an overhead projector, but is actually a sophisticated handwriting analyser. It flashed and buzzed and whirred for some time, and then spooled out a length of graph paper - which contained no new or surprising information, and certainly not the answer I was hoping for.
Alfonso was standing in the doorway. "Why don't you?"
"Why don't you what?" I said.
"Why don't you switch off that TV and come and do something less boring instead!"
"Like what?"
"Like fly this hot air balloon".
The TV continued to chatter and churn out paper, as I strode out blinking into the bright sunshine, accepted my little friend's helping hand as I half clambered, half fell into the basket, and righting myself, leant over to release the guy rope that was tethering us to earth. Alfonso let a quick burst of air from the burner into the sun bleached dome above our heads, and we began to float up, and the garden and the cottage, and the mysterious note just fell away like empty clothes.... Another adventure had begun!
TO BE CONTINUED
"What kind of colour scheme do you call that?" I asked Alfonso.
"Eighties BHS Duvet Cover", he replied, wiping the brush clean on the new fitted carpet as he did.
There really is nothing that can be done about certain weevils.
Before anything untoward happened, I suggested we venture into the garden for some fresh air and to investigate the "fflump" noise.
The entire garden, including the antique pouting faun, and the prize winning thistle collection, was covered in a rumpled landscape of stitched cream canvas. Alfonso and I hoisted it up and walked underneath it, like a collapsed marquee. Only it wasn't a marquee, it was a hot air balloon, and the basket was resting on top of some recently deceased ornamental blowfish in the pond.
"They're not very ornamental any more" said Alfonso, peering into the murky depths.
"Why don't you do something useful, like fill the balloon with hot air?", I grumbled, opening an envelope attached to the side of the basket. Inside was a scrawled note, in handwriting which seemed vaguely familiar, and which read "FLY ME".
I left Alfonso to the balloon and went inside to study the note. I decided to compare it to the handwriting on the package which had contained the old conch. Carefully I laid the two pieces of parchment side by side on my patented TransVectorgram (or TV for short), which looks like an overhead projector, but is actually a sophisticated handwriting analyser. It flashed and buzzed and whirred for some time, and then spooled out a length of graph paper - which contained no new or surprising information, and certainly not the answer I was hoping for.
Alfonso was standing in the doorway. "Why don't you?"
"Why don't you what?" I said.
"Why don't you switch off that TV and come and do something less boring instead!"
"Like what?"
"Like fly this hot air balloon".
The TV continued to chatter and churn out paper, as I strode out blinking into the bright sunshine, accepted my little friend's helping hand as I half clambered, half fell into the basket, and righting myself, leant over to release the guy rope that was tethering us to earth. Alfonso let a quick burst of air from the burner into the sun bleached dome above our heads, and we began to float up, and the garden and the cottage, and the mysterious note just fell away like empty clothes.... Another adventure had begun!
TO BE CONTINUED
Monday, 6 April 2009
Chapter Sixteen: An Unfortunate Omission
I knew I had forgotten something by the way Alfonso, the small grey beetle (or weevil to be precise) who has made his home on my desk, was behaving over breakfast.He was dawdling over his broiling mug of Welsh coffee and blackened skillet of eggs “Hungarian Style”, a combination he normally wolfs down with aplomb.
The back of the Alpha Bits cereal packet, with its forty year old competition to win a pair of olive coloured elasticated slacks “Perfect for lounging! Perfect for gardening! Even for that special occasion!” barely held his attention in the way it used to.“Alfonso”, I said finally, “what’s wrong?”
He mournfully looked up at me, and in the puddle of milk at the bottom of his bowl that was fast filling with the colours of a thousand different sugary dyes, pushed the remaining soggy fragments of puffed rice about to spell:
“X-Y-G-R-F-Z”
“Well, it’s certainly a very high Scrabble score” I said admiringly, “but I have no idea what-“- and then like a fool, giving my forehead a slap for extra emphasis, I realised. It was his secret code, only to be used on very special occasions, for: “YOU’VE FORGOTTEN MY BIRTHDAY, YOU UTTER SPAZ”
I wasted no time in making amends.
“Right!” I said. “We’re going out into that high street this instant, and you can have anything you want. I mean it. If your heart’s desire is in a shop window out there, it’s yours”.His spirits seemed to lift a little, although he muttered something about “So much for Alfonso the Weevil’s Day Off” – and off we set.
As soon as we reached the High St, however, I realised I had made another catastrophic blunder. In my head, we would have gone for a cheery stroll, doffing our caps at the parson and the McClintock sisters out for their daily constitutional, before drooling over the hand baked jammy rings and cream buns in Sam The Baker’s window, perhaps getting Alfonso togged up in a special birthday waistcoat at Morris & Son (Tailors), and finally settling on the lovingly crafted wooden toy train set made by Professor Guiseppe in his workshop, the paint still lick fresh on the green engine, the white haired old master craftsman oblivious to the sea of shavings at his feet.
However, I had forgotten that we actually lived in our neighbourhood, in our city.
“Right, Alfonso”, I said rather bleakly, surveying the rain lashed multilane highway, infested with railings and one way signs, “It’s a Chicken Cottage boneless bucket feast for 8 or a recently deceased lollipop lady’s windcheater from Sue Ryder. Take your pick, you lucky weevil”.
Alfonso pulled one of his most lugubrious faces, and said
“It is days like today that make me realise that there is almost no point to life. That existence is one giant, never-ending practical joke of which I am the constant beneficiary, and that it would really be better for all concerned if we called it a day. I cannot see the point of me, and I certainly cannot see the point of you.”
So dear reader, I obliged him, flattening the merry quipster under a giant fibreglass gnome, which I had stolen from our local garden centre for this very purpose. But that’s me – always thinking ahead.
I suspect, however, that he’ll be back tomorrow.
The back of the Alpha Bits cereal packet, with its forty year old competition to win a pair of olive coloured elasticated slacks “Perfect for lounging! Perfect for gardening! Even for that special occasion!” barely held his attention in the way it used to.“Alfonso”, I said finally, “what’s wrong?”
He mournfully looked up at me, and in the puddle of milk at the bottom of his bowl that was fast filling with the colours of a thousand different sugary dyes, pushed the remaining soggy fragments of puffed rice about to spell:
“X-Y-G-R-F-Z”
“Well, it’s certainly a very high Scrabble score” I said admiringly, “but I have no idea what-“- and then like a fool, giving my forehead a slap for extra emphasis, I realised. It was his secret code, only to be used on very special occasions, for: “YOU’VE FORGOTTEN MY BIRTHDAY, YOU UTTER SPAZ”
I wasted no time in making amends.
“Right!” I said. “We’re going out into that high street this instant, and you can have anything you want. I mean it. If your heart’s desire is in a shop window out there, it’s yours”.His spirits seemed to lift a little, although he muttered something about “So much for Alfonso the Weevil’s Day Off” – and off we set.
As soon as we reached the High St, however, I realised I had made another catastrophic blunder. In my head, we would have gone for a cheery stroll, doffing our caps at the parson and the McClintock sisters out for their daily constitutional, before drooling over the hand baked jammy rings and cream buns in Sam The Baker’s window, perhaps getting Alfonso togged up in a special birthday waistcoat at Morris & Son (Tailors), and finally settling on the lovingly crafted wooden toy train set made by Professor Guiseppe in his workshop, the paint still lick fresh on the green engine, the white haired old master craftsman oblivious to the sea of shavings at his feet.
However, I had forgotten that we actually lived in our neighbourhood, in our city.
“Right, Alfonso”, I said rather bleakly, surveying the rain lashed multilane highway, infested with railings and one way signs, “It’s a Chicken Cottage boneless bucket feast for 8 or a recently deceased lollipop lady’s windcheater from Sue Ryder. Take your pick, you lucky weevil”.
Alfonso pulled one of his most lugubrious faces, and said
“It is days like today that make me realise that there is almost no point to life. That existence is one giant, never-ending practical joke of which I am the constant beneficiary, and that it would really be better for all concerned if we called it a day. I cannot see the point of me, and I certainly cannot see the point of you.”
So dear reader, I obliged him, flattening the merry quipster under a giant fibreglass gnome, which I had stolen from our local garden centre for this very purpose. But that’s me – always thinking ahead.
I suspect, however, that he’ll be back tomorrow.
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