Good evening, my little chinstrap penguins. This weekend has posed most interesting, with the arrival of a distant relative from Scotland. This is Aunt Agnes of Ecclefechan. She is Grand Witch of the Trossachs, and is well trumpeted within the pagan community of Gloucestershire. She is a fearful woman, and, in all honesty, one does not want to be caught by the Trossachs.

On Friday morn, by the hour of seven, I was carefully stirring my pot of cajun adders, and checking that my hemp stockings were dry when I heard a whooshing sound. As I opened the hedge door, this impressively smart woman landed her broomstick and announced she would be staying. We made small talk awhile, over a cup of pig stubble tea, and chatted amiably about the weather and death. It transpires that she is to perform an exorcism at a local house, where dark things be gathering. (If you know the house, you would be not surprised by this, the family have more ghostly figures floating about than the Tower of London. In addition, the maid doesn’t dust, and I swear on St. Swivel that half these sightings are large cobwebs. They do like to dramatise).

So, on Saturday, we visited the cobweb menagerie in search of ghosts, ghouls and other ghastly apparitions. The first sighting of a ghastly apparition was in the doorway, when Mrs Studley-Constable opened the door. Never have I witnessed a more worthy label of the informal noun ‘munter’ before. Secondly, her husband appeared – Mr Studley-Constable is one that I find unsavoury. He was imprisoned for five years for poking flageolet beans into a hole. The newspapers never stipulated the whereabouts of the hole. We all shuddered. Now he stood halfway up the stairs in his longjohns. I felt my eyes were being murdered when he turned away to reveal the trapdoor still open. I was beginning to regret tagging along, and wished myself home with the toads on my lap, and Strictly via the twigless router. Alas, no quiet night for me, no plantain crackers, and no Bruno Tonioli.

We sat and discussed using a Ouija Board to contact the restless spirit and isolate the issues within the house. There were a couple of locals present, the Reverend from the Church of Holy Frowning sat beside Mrs Studley-Constable. Mrs Prestley-Bismuth was there also, just for the sake of collecting gossip. A vapid woman, with an annoying twitch, brought on by woodworm. Having waited for five minutes, the only thing that happened was a small fart from the Reverend which he failed to cover with a feeble cough. The mood blackened, and Mrs Studley-Constable fell into deep melancholy. When her husband, Wayne, finally entered the room, the table tilted violently, and the spirit spelled out ‘For the love of Mary cover your arse, boy!’. It went downhill from there.

It seems two Aunts from Mrs Studley-Constable’s family, had been wandering the rooms of their home in a state of desperate frustration. Both women in their lifetime were puritans, and became enraged at the sights they never saw when visiting. It seems Wayne would ‘dress up’ for company. Yet, since the Aunts’ death, his arse being bared to them on a daily basis was too much to bear. They’d smashed mirrors, windows, crockery, and glassware. They’d pelted him with trousers during the night. They’d placed sheets over his naked area, resulting in him wandering blindly down hallways and hitting his head on protruding lamps. They’d even managed to mix a Plaster of Paris and poured it into his crevice, to be finally rid of the offending sight. This resulted in him fearing he’d endured the most dangerous wedgie, and we all recalled the night he’d jumped into the canal, blaming his doctor again. (None of us have booked an appointment with the Dr Jenkins since).

Aunt Agnes called to the spirits in a most dramatic manner. She asked of them to be free of the bonds of human existence and free themselves from the shackles of this world. The answer came back ‘Not ’til the house be free of this vision of horror’ After pleading with them further, the reply came back ‘Jog the feck on’. The curtains blew, the house rattled and shook. Mrs Prestley-Bismuth had an attack of the vapours, and the good Reverend cacked himself. Aunt Agnes summoned Wayne and made him put trousers on (with the zip at the front). The house settled.

Just at that moment, three pointy women strode in. Locally known as the Ecclefechers, these three are capable of coping with the most fiesty and dangerous of spirits. From left, Priestess Annunciata of Fort William, High Priestess Tracey of Bristol, and Priestess Morag of Hamilton Academicals. They advanced with wands, pointed towards a gathering mist above the dinner table. I wasn’t entirely sure this was wise, as the spirits were gathering above us, but the good Reverend had broken wind in quite an epic fashion. It is unwise to banish a fart with a wand, there is a spirit in methane than becomes most angry.

Amazingly, they banished the unsettled spirits. Unfortunately, they blew the windows out completely. However, all is well again – Mrs Prestley-Bismuth has plenty of gossip and enough remaining eyebrows to pencil in. The Studley-Constables are happy with their new ‘trousers always’ rule, and something new-fangled called double-glazing. The Reverend is banging on about Ouija boards and how marvellous they are, which has sent his flock flinging themselves at Baptists in hope of salvation. Aunt Agnes and her ladies left after a slap-up tea of toadflax crumpets and henbane scones. I, happily, have found strictly on catch up telly, and recline cheerfully in my elm bark nightdress. Thankyou for reading, dearest followers, may your weekend be blessed with green beans without stringy bits, and may you always have enough cheese. x