Professor Abacus Gulchett-Bunch and the Mysterious Symbol

Good day to you, my dearest hat stands – it’s been an interesting start to the summer – the local conservation efforts to reintroduce bengal tigers to Clopton Mandrill has had issues from the outset. It’s been largely unsuccessful, due to six of the committee being devoured, but positive attitudes and a roll-up-the-sleeves approach means we’re making headway. There are now many houses unoccupied in the village, which is marvellous for tourists, and the volunteers from the Forest who seem not to mind the unprovoked attacks.

Last month, we noticed a strange symbol appear on a noticeboard, which nobody could decipher. There were many theories being thrown, Aunt Vomica thought it was a secret sect of devil worshippers and was holding night vigils, armed to the teeth with pointy things, Aunt Mary Jaffa took it to mean an invasion of satsuma-wielding assassins and is now hiding in her loft. Aunt Girda made the assumption it’s to inform the public that you’re not allowed to tie a goat to that particular noticeboard, and Aunt Bench thinks it’s a love spell from an amorous sailor. Aunt Claymore said if she cared less about the symbol, she’d pass out. Aunt Blenny says it’s fifth columnists again, and Aunt Turgid has had it tattooed on her arm, irrespective of it’s meaning. Aunt Gourd said it’s a sigil containing the secret ingredients for what the Royal Family season their fish with. Lord help us all.

Now, the only way to be sure is to ask somebody extremely clever. I wrote to an old professor I knew from my days of teaching. It was in Cornwall, when I was head of the faculty, teaching Advanced Hiding and Level 3 Shrieking. Professor Abacus Gulchett-Bunch was a genius, and taught Scribbling and Pensive Thinking – and I was filled with glee when he replied and appeared a week later, asking to see the symbol. His beard was much different than I remember, it looked as though he was trying to swallow a hedge. I found his style of beard curious over the years, as he was at one time engaged to Aunt Vom. She was so deeply in love with him, he was the only man she’d never punch or headbutt, and crafted her own beard to match his. But I digress.

He cast a keen eye over the symbol, ummed and ahhed, frowned and looked suprised, then snapped his fingers, mumbling something about the library. I got on the yoghurt-pot telephone and called Aunt Vom, and we followed with haste, finding him in the occult section, browsing through a book on Toad Rites by Dr Eamon Grillip.

‘Bernard, my dear!’ he cried, ‘I have found the answer. This is no love spell, or an invasion, or even a deterrent for goat tethering. Behold! This is the symbol of the Cerney Wick Toad Licking Circle. I have a suspicion that they are gathering again since the Great Sneezing Plague diminished easy access to their suppliers of hallucenogenics. The symbol heralds the founders of the society, Airin and Egidin. Note the strikeout in Dolob’s name, 15 years ago he took the society down a rather dark path and began branching out into tasting other amphibians. The South Cerney Newt Sniffing Fellowship took an extremely dim view of his behaviour and totally kicked off. In a typically British style, they frowned, tutted, and scribbled out the Cerney Wick team name on the Annual Inter-Society Clog Cobbing trophy. They recieved an ominous letter in return, with the phrase ‘Kind Regards’ scribbled out, which all Britons know is akin to a death order. This, in turn, upset the Quedgeley Toad Balancers, who were utterly sick of South Cerney lot lording it over everyone and promptly set fire to their headquarters while large men played bagpipes. Interestingly, it sparked the movement of Toads Against Being Balanced Among Other Things – which marched down Clopton Mandrill Village Green urging toads of all age groups to seize their rights once and for all. For the most part, it was successful, apart from one toad called Ian, who was very happy with the way things were. And there’s the story.’ He sighed with satisfaction and placed the book back on the shelf.

I was thrilled beyond measure – I could coax Aunt Mary Jaffa out of her loft, stop Aunt Bench thinking about amorous sailors (again), and tell Aunt Vom there was no more need for a night vigil. I wasn’t too concerned about correcting the others, apart from informing Aunt Turgid she should save for tattoo removal in case of violent reprisals.

I invited Professor Abacus Gulchett-Bunch to tea, along with Aunt Vom who hadn’t seen him since they parted ways over a misunderstanding about a hole. I made spam and duckweed casserole and put on my best sack dress. We sipped on cuckoo spit wine and reminisced about the old days, when I noticed something odd. When he called her Dearest Vomica several times, she blushed and I noticed her toying with her shuriken throwing star in a provocative manner. Since he’d arrived, she hadn’t punched anybody, including the librarian who raised an eyebrow at her need to take an axe and a sword into the library unsheathed. Before Professor Gulchett-Bunch left, he vowed to tidy his affairs in Trebollocks, and rent a townhouse in Clopton Mandrill, in the hope of rekindling the romance. Aunt Vom became quite docile and girlish, even removing her knuckle-dusters before taking his hands in hers. Could this signal eternal happiness for my violent and deadly dear relative? One hopes in earnest to see her walk down the aisle, tooled up to the nines, with her beard adorned with flowers. So, until next time, my dear readers, I wish both of you a pleasant summer. And remember, if you see an accordionist, don’t forget to laugh. Toodle-pip!

Apothecary for the New Era

Good Evening, my little blennies, I trust the Yuletide season has treated you well and is passing without event. I felt I was blessed this year, for upon Christ’s Eve, there was no invitation from strange family, nor announcements of arrival from the even stranger arms of family. My lucky binman’s shoe had done the trick – I thought myself free. Then on the day they call Boxing day came a rapping knock on the hedge (more a rustle actually), when I flung back the shrubbery, I saw Aunt Mary Jaffa standing in a quivering state.

I think I have mentioned before, her unexplained terror when confronted with the satsuma. No doubt her arrival meant an overload after repeated Christingle services over the Christmas calendar. Nonetheless, I was armed and ready. My dear friend, Mrs Fuschia Cowdung-Bletchley gifted me the most marvellous and intriguing book. I’m thrilled, it’s all about local Gloucestershire remedies from the canal and riverside plants. I’ve been aching to try them.

Aunt Mary Jaffa clearly has a case of the Tetters. In my tradition, it the book states she needs a soothing with a balm of wattle yeast, stewed gin and the nasal excretion of a fine sheep. I tried to harvest this with difficulty. I know it’s Veganuary, but Mr Sheep was getting rid of it anyway. Good friends of mine who communicate with the secretive Sheep Nation (a thing I am not initiated into), told me this was acceptable. Sheep gribly is at a premium, yet does not hinder the beast, and they are grateful of a nose blow on a chilly morn. All is well. Or so I thought.

It didn’t work. The Tetters persisted, and the toads became unruly and petulant with the upset.

I went back to the drawing board. I’d been hanging the boiled roots of a Loss Adjuster for hours over the Yuletide period, but they have little substance, and fall apart when you try to hoik them out of the pan. Yes, hoik, it’s a word, you know. I gave up on that and realised I needed wisdom. I visited the Fretherne Apothecary, run by Mr Gavin Codslap, a very tutored man. There is simply nothing he can’t cure, and he’s quite a dish with the ladies.

I ventured in and asked him some questions about satsumas, shaking and general gubbins. He is so handsome and so clever, he made me blush, even the wart on my chin quivered a moment. Apparently, I need to make a salve to calm Aunt Mary Jaffa’s privities in case hollow fistulas ensue wreaking havoc with the tunicles of her brain. I also need to beware of using Calendula as it may upset the balance of her clefts to the fundament, I must use Violet instead. She may have hot swellings to the matrix, for which Violet is a marvel, yet the fistulas must have Teasel applied to them (not whole, I feared, as they are prickly, and the woman must not face a satsuma for a period of nine moons). Then onto the nerves, for which Senna procures the mirth (it certainly did in Carry on Cleo), followed by a fumitory which loosens the liver and spleen. Last on the list was Old Man’s Beard, to be rubbed on the earlobes thrice daily for calming effect and to encourage equilibrium within the soul. Hat on Biccy! All is simple!

Alas…..The last ingredient I needed was the sweat of the most diligent chimney sweep in the county. Gods! Is there no end to this labour!

After five exhausting hours following two of them near the canal, I pounced with a cloth of muslin and wiped their brows. The woman sweep was a mite annoyed as she was getting ready to venture out, and in fairness, looked lovely in her finery. The man was deeply frustrated as he was practising the violin, while waiting for the bathroom. I was sent off on my way with an interesting volley of comments and the most expressive eyebrows.

I finally got home to find Aunt Mary Jaffa sprawled on the moss bed, watching something suitably gloomy on Netflix. I was annoyed, she probably had not considered a thing called data allowance. I only have a twig router, which restricts me to five minutes of Upstart Crow per evening. The bloody woman had not only eaten this up, but no doubt incurred a massive bill. It didn’t surprise, really, Jaff was outside her bundle at birth. Note to self, find more twigs in the morning and bypass the connection.

However, I concocted my brew, adding and stirring while the bats nodded their appreciation of my efforts. The toads rubbed their webbed hands in glee as it poured into the mould to cool. I chanted over it while it cooled, and let the full moon shine through upon the whole process. It was epic.

Unfortunately, although the mixture was marvellous, I had another visitor that evening. Mr Fogus Brap, an unruly individual who sells fruit and veg at the market. He’d noticed Aunt Mary Jaffa and cat called her earlier in the day. She’d apparently smiled and they’d struck up a rapport – him calling her ‘totty’ and her smiling coyly. Match made in heaven…

As I walked in with my stinking salve, he was holding her hand promising her a proper life, with stolen bread, diamonds and a share in a wooden leg company. I strode forth trying to stop his babble of riches beyond her comprehension. But, to my horror and relief simultaneously, he produced not an engagement ring, but the luxury of a satsuma.

She went off on one good and proper.

And that is when, for the first time, I called Aunt Vom….

Wishing you all a Very Happy New Year. I’ll post again after the rozzers have left….please don’t worry, I have a good left hook, and my nose is alright.

Clopton Mandrill Inventor’s Extravaganza

My dear coal scuttles, I do hope you faithful readers are hale and hearty (both of you). It’s been a while since I posted, but a great deal has happened. I have had the plague, but recovered with the assistance of some new fangled inoculation and the sweat of a black toad in my morning tea. Folly is safely contained in, well, a container (Aunt Bench has restricted her movements to an underground bunker for the good of the community). Aunt Vom is in the nick again, the dear woman decided to pick a fight with her local MP. We’re unsure why, but apparently it kicked off after the rugby and a heated argument about expenses.

Well, exciting news! Clopton Mandrill is a hub of boffins. There are many bearded clever folk here, not including the women in may family. We are hosting our annual inventors extravaganza, and people from as far as Murmansk and Dursley are coming. It really is the most thrilling thing, as you will see from the photographs, we are at the forefront of technology in Gloucestershire.

On the shortlist for a prize is Professor Gaston Seagull-Trumpet. He has invented the ‘Rocking Bath’. It’s the most marvellous idea, though he is unable to deliver his pitch to the crowd as he’s repeatedly having his sinuses drained from the backwash. When he sneezes, a cacophony of scents from the Body Shop fly from his ample nostrils at a speed previously unrecorded.

Our next idea (one that I’m quite fractious about), is the Square Tandem, invented by Wayne Trismegistus and his pious assistant Annunciata Copulata. This, in my humble opinion, is not an invention. Firstly, it offers nothing to improve the bicycle. The unique selling point is that it may be parked on Coopers Hill and not roll away. The pair are dreadfully thick and deserve no platform for their nonsense. I’ve pleaded for their disqualification, but my shouts are unheard, in favour of ‘reality novelty’. Odd really, neither has had a relationship with reality for years. Not after a talking cowpat apparently related secret information from the Chinese Government regarding the strict law on sock pairings and the use of egg whisks resulting in immediate death.

Mr Todd Bunce from Shurdington (I still think that sounds like a dog dragging it’s arse across a carpet), has invented a quaint little quadracycle with a mounted gun. He claims this is for the good of mankind, when faced with aimless wanderers on something called ‘cellphones’. This is a man of the future. He has visited the cathedral, and been observed shopping in West Gate Street. Mr Bunce says that people have these communication devices in their hand, and dare to wander without looking where they venture, bumping into all and sundry. These folk are often too dazed by technology to apologise. The shocking gall of this astounds me. Well, his invention is able to mount a small missile which he can launch into oncoming bellends. There is room on the apparatus to store five of these missiles – this is ample within Gloucestershire county boundaries. I worry, however, that if he ventures into Bristol, that he may need many, many more.

Next we have Culloden St.Michaelmas Trout-Farm. This bugger has ideas above his station. His proud invention is locally known as the ‘Roundy Thing’. It’s a unicycle of sorts, but the bounder is too lazy to pedal it sitting up. If it wasn’t for the starch in his shirt, he’d be horizontal. The son of a wealthy landowner, his principal duties have included the receivership of a manicure, and picking out his own outfits, with Mummy’s help. However, he dresses down for these occasions, and pretends to be a self-made man. That is, until Dowager Countess St. Michaelmas Trout-Farm arrives and brings his sandwiches and favourite clothie. Note the rugged angle of his nose – Aunt Vom’s handiwork.

Last, but by no means least, is the invention of Aunt Mary Jaffa. The Anti-Methane Mask. So offended by the stench of others breaking wind in the workplace, she came up with this clever idea of a full head mask and breathing tank. The darling girl wants to campaign on parliament to have these installed in every work environment containing a woman. This has been booed dreadfully in our village, since most of the female workers belong to the Flagrant Buttock Society and are immensely proud of their heritage. I do not wish to damage her dreams, but I do wish she’d stick to worrying about satsumas.

So, there is the line up. I will report the winner when it is announced. Frankly, the festival poses a marvellous excuse to don my best woad, put on my twig couture and hobnob with the elite. Since I am feeling better, I may try my new hair preparation, made from seagull guam and the phlegm of an old boater. It holds in the highest wind, I tell you.

Good night for now, sleep tight and wishing you dreams of the best cheeses and really soft socks. And above all, avoid the traffic cones, in this county, you really never know where they have been.

Madame Widdershins Beltane Prediction

Saints preserve us! Not content with a simple Wiccan ceremony this Beltane, my elder sibling has insisted that this swaying, rolling-eyed, seventh-daughter-of-next-door’s-dog-of-a-psychic is foisted upon us all.
Aunt Gourd (pictured above) has gone extremely wispy and mystical at the first sign of a fat moon, and decided that she shall follow in the footsteps of our witch clan. She became all premonitious on Wednesday, and went to see Madame Widdershins McMunter (pictured below with Uncle Nancy, reading his palm and telling him he’s got Buckley’s chance of finding a bird unless he shapes up and moves out of his mothers). Shrieks and wringing of hands claim that the woman is a marvel and totally accurate. (I’m not so sure, as the neighbourhood urchins say – chinny reckon…)

Not content with this spectacle, Gourd invited her to my hedge, along with a plethora of others for a group reading. I shall be truthful, this was foisted upon me and I was not pleased. My plans involved ped-egging my chin, a good nettle bath and getting ready for my simple ritual. I’d settled the bats down to watch ‘Live at The Apollo’ via my twig router, while I made a modest feast for my seasonal observance. I gathered a fresh brew of goats rue tea, and a fresh weasel flatbread (straight from Jamie Olivers’ ‘Ritual Recipes and Hedge Cooking’), but my ritual evening was not to be. In fact, that idea has been utterly buggered. I’ve stepped out of the excitement to post this as I’m bored and frustrated, so my readers are carrying the great weight of being my comfort in time of stress. That’s both of you, by the way, so don’t either of you sneak off.

It started at six, when they all arrived. Aunt Vom reckons the whole thing is bollocks but she filed in with the others and took her place on the bench out of sheer amusement (not on Aunt Bench, I might add). Folly is blessedly quiet at the moment, I’ve given her some hemlock and some dead stag beetles to play with. If she likes them, I might make her a gift of it for her 34th birthday next month. Bench has told us we’re not to purchase any flammable gifts or weapons grade explosives.
Aunt Turgid is cross, as she couldn’t bring her lizards in, apparently lizards interrupt the mystical signals and attract negative deities. The lizards seem oblivious to this, but didn’t mind waiting in the motorcar.
Aunt Mary Jaffa is perfectly calm this evening, there are no satsumas (I won’t even recall the Christingle service episode).
Aunt Bench is sitting worrying about whether she’ll ever have another child. God help us….
Cousin Girda isn’t here. She said, if they psychic was that good, she’d have known she couldn’t make it and would have sent her a telegram with any relevant bits.
Aunt Claymore is not impressed, and boycotted the event under allegations of ‘wickedness’ and ‘horror’.
So dear friends, my simple ceremony of offerings, blessings and a little feast, has been hijacked and turned into a circus. The only genuine witch at the table is despondent, bored and can’t wait for them to go.
The toads are fed up, too, and are quietly playing ‘snap’ in the corner with my special edition ‘007 Quantum of Solace’ playing cards. They are so well behaved when Mummy’s busy.
Madame McMunter started by getting us all to place a personal object on the table that she could grope in the slim chance of finding any vibrations. I doubt this charlatan would find any vibrations from certain catalogues, but never mind. In my opinion, she’s all jingly bangles, rings, a woolly barnet, gin breath and bugger all else.
I went first, and put my wooden teeth on the table. Apparently, I am a woman, I live in a hedge, and I have a predisposition to living in draughty places. My two children are ugly (I suppose you could count the toads). My three lovers are warring for my affections (!), and I am about to win the lottery. I have a strong connection to ‘Albert’ (a bat who lives locally) and a yen for chicken bhuna. I hope she doesn’t know it was my bhuna that killed Folly’s tortoise, but she then lost credibility when she said I would be on the cover of Marie Claire having beaten Lea Seydoux as the prettier option. Hmmm.
Aunt Vom put a set of nunchucks on the table, and the mad psychic said she is about to be repaid for her kindnesses to the community, she is viewed as an angel amongst sinners. I suffered difficulty with this explanation, and nearly peed my sack dress – Vom’s only just out of the nick for nutting a copper.
Aunt Mary Jaffa put a thimble down, and it was said that she is ‘special’. Well, we knew that.
Aunt Turgid put her bicycle on the table, which really ticked me off as it’s leaking oil. She is about to get a degree in astrophysics, and pioneer research into the function of the nostril. Actually, I could believe anything where that woman is concerned.
Aunt Bench put a Wankel Rotary Engine on the table, and the woman got lots of messages from it. Unfortunately, they were all for ‘other people’ except one that stated she is to only have the one child (we all clapped at this bit). Sad for her, but when Folly starts setting fire to your feet under the table, this is no joking matter. What made me laugh was Aunt Gourds ‘ooohs’ and ‘aaaahs’ when Madam McMunter voiced quite accurately that the spirits told her that her name is Gourd. (It was on her name tag).
The upshot is, after a lot of guessing, and waving and wailing, was that the woman is a fraud. I did have a premonition when she arrived, which has proved to be correct. That was a hard earned £50 down the shitter.
I’ve booted them out, I’ve missed ‘Live At The Apollo’, but my ugly children are on my knee and we’re watching ‘Murder, She Wrote’. It will have to do.
Bugger the prayers and blessings, I’ve got a weasel flatbread on the hot plate…..thankyou Jamie.

(By the way….Madame McMunter’s premonitions are not that good it seems. On leaving us in a clapped out motor decked with all manner of pentacles, gods, goddesses and owl talismans, she failed to predict an oncoming steam roller at the Trebollocks M5 roundabout and was promptly flattened. Rescue workers peeled her off the road, intact, and tucked her into a giant jiffy bag to be posted to the lab for investigation. With the postal strike, I doubt she’ll get there before next Wednesday.)

Beltane blessings to you all, and may your gibbon snibblings be fruitious for the coming Summer….

Christening And Other Joys

Well, the day went off without any arrests, no ambulance and dear Ruprecht Widdy St. Vitus was named. Aunt Vom and I were a little crestfallen, to tell you the truth, it was a rather stuffy affair with ridiculous bonnets and snakes-bum-in-a-sandstorm smiles. So, to water down my ascerbic tone, I’ll describe the christening in verse. And hopefully it will come out sounding as though I am ‘nice’.

Are we not the happiest bunch,
All dressed in black and grey?
All clipped and preened and washed and plucked
For a happy, jolly day.

Aunt Bench conditioned her little beard,
And I ‘Ped-Egg-ed’ my chin.
Folly brought along a dead hedgehog,
Which Aunt Bench placed in the bin.

Aunt Mary Jaffa fainted at once,
Aunt Turgid read books to some dogs.
And Cousin Girda threw an absolute fit,
When Vom pelted the Bishop with clogs.

Aunt Claymore thought the whole affair seedy,
Aunt Gourd did not come at all.
‘It’s the work of the Devil’ she cried down the phone,
And folded her arms in her shawl.

I’d finally pilfed the christening robe,
Made of stuff of which I am vexed.
It’s all lace and silk and embroidery things,
I swear to god we’ll be hexed.

We walked to the barn with the phoney priest,
A one-man-band led the way –
Playing ‘Lip Up Fatty’ on harmonica,
And an excerpt of ‘Whip-Crack-Away’.

When the childs name was first read out,
A snigger came forth from Aunt Vom.
Then Aunt Blenny spun round glaring,
So she quickly sat up with aplomb.

Amazed I was at the Godmother –
Folly’s name was called out by the priest.
What possessed this lunatic pair?
Entrusting her with their young beast?

Uncle Truss was snivelling proudly,
Wiping his nose on his wife.
And worst of all, on their family side –
Scrofula is awfully rife.

Mrs Stiff Black Hat with her earrings,
Cried “Decorum!”, with one finger jabbing.
A knife then appeared from under Vom’s skirts,
What bash doesn’t end with a stabbing?

At the end of the day, the photo’s were done,
But we were not asked to join in.
The pious-clan gathered together in black,
Looking like they’d all sat on a pin.

Back to my hedge for some drinkies,
And their noses turned up at the door.
They didn’t approve of my hovel,
Or Vom’s friends lying drunk on the floor.

Stiff Black Hat hates cuckoo spit wine,
And ‘the hessian crackers weren’t nice’.
But the Old Earwig’s Reserve went down lovely,
And stopped their complaints about mice.

After six dreadful hours they all left,
Ruprecht was screaming away,
His beloved moustache was shaved off,
He’d pined for it most of the day.

My patience, I feared wouldn’t last,
Thank Heavens they chose not to linger.
As their car drove off down the lane –
Us girls held up one middle finger.

(For those unfamiliar with the product, a ‘Ped-Egg’ is the cheese gratery thing you use for extra hard skin on your feet. No affiliation.)

A Newborn In The Family – Ruprecht.

This is what happens when two people are attracted to one another from opposite sides of a crowded room…….
Last week, the yogurt pot telephone was ringing it’s string off, only to convey the cheery news (really?!) that there is a new addition to the St Vitus clan. This means I must walk into John Lewis again and nick another christening robe. After the problems I’ve had with the filth, I fear they have a bloody cheek asking.

Aunt Blenny and Uncle Truss (pictured), met two years ago at a Wasp Hiding Course in Hemel Hempstead. Apparently, their eyes met and, after his spastic colon pains subsided and Blen stopped singing, they got on like a house on fire. They married in a coal-hole three weeks later, overseen by fifty-six chimney sweeps (St. Vitus has the highest population of chimney sweeps per square foot, rivalled only by Frampton-on-Severn with seven every twenty yards). I was allowed to be bridesmaid with my bestest brown sack cut on the bias, and pretty wooden shoes. I even had some goose grass fashioned into a lovely Sticky Bob ball to hold, and a plantain in my hair. It was rather sickly affair, the bride and groom are both a bit wet to be blatantly truthful. And there is nothing manly about Truss.

They had a bloody baby. A boy. They’ve already got one boy, Dimity Ariel Simba St. Vitus – a child with far too much snot, in my opinion. And now we have Ruprecht Widdy St. Vitus. Aunt Vom nearly choked when they announced the name, then cacked herself laughing. Aunt Mary-Jaffa thinks it’s sweet. I don’t know what Aunt Turgid made of it all, she was faffing about with her lizards. Aunt Weevil reckons the baby will turn out to be a deviant….? I must ask her on her reasons behind that thinking. Aunt Gourd thinks it’s unnatural, as there was no presence of a bread van to deliver the baby – thus, she’s written the whole affair off as the work of the devil and shan’t be attending the christening.

Great Uncle Colobus will be pleased as he often said marital couplings should involve BOTH parties.. He thought Truss wouldn’t produce a child, as he always did it on his own so that Blen wouldn’t have to down tools (pardon the pun) and cease cleaning.

The family are coming over from Crackton-on-Butt in the next hour, I’ve got 62 baps to butter and a vat of Old Earwigs Reserve. It will simply have to do. Aunt Bench is feeling broody apparently, and spent a lot of time at the docks in hope of something called “jiggy-jiggy”. My palms are slick with dread at the thought. Just as I asked if she could cope with another one, Folly managed to blow her feet off in the garden after playing with some cotton reels and some old gelignite. I rest my case. The only time Bench ‘rode the hobby horse’ with anyone, she became infatuated, wrote him six love letters a day for three months, and followed him everywhere until the rozzers told her off. And that was thirty-two years ago.

But I couldn’t let you go without seeing Ruprecht. The little darling. We will be welcoming him to the town, by marching in a line behind a one-man-band. Then when we get to the barn, the backstreet bishop will perform the service. He’s not a real bishop, but he’s good at fishing, and Uncle Colobus slipped him a bit of bunce for his troubles. Ruprecht takes after his mother, with a fine moustache already in place.
Born at three years old, he can already tie his shoes (which he came out wearing), and is a marvel with quadratic equations. In anticipation of being asked to babysit, I’ve filled my spare hedge-room with wood and purchased a hemlock plant for the front garden.

Aunt Vom’s Poem From Worthing Nick

This is Aunt Vomica. She’s the next sister below me. I am posting on behalf of her as she has been writing poetry to pass the time in Worthing nick after an altercation with an MP. We’ve always been close, but her behaviour is volatile and trying at times. Vom doesn’t like our youngest sibling, Aunt Mary-Jaffa. Her distaste is due to Mary-Jaffa being weak-willed and delicate – and she has a huge satsuma phobia. So Vom pelts her with them at Christmas and loves hiding them in her stocking. Mary-Jaffa faints, and the only thing that can bring her round is the smell of satsumas. Well, on waking, and being faced with a satsuma, she faints again. This goes on for months sometimes. It’s a pain in the arse quite frankly but we love her dearly, you see. However, I digress, the altercation came about as a local MP asked her for a certain kind of ‘favour’ in relation to a grand townhouse in Flange Street with lots of ‘benefits’. Vom kicked off, and left him with a flat bugle.
Anyway – this was the poem she sent me, apparently it’s called ‘MP Scum and Violence Pays’.

I’m stuck in Worthing nick,
After lamping an MP.
His way evoked sharp anger
So his knackers got my knee.
He wanted special favours,
He got a Glasgow Kiss,
He also got a shooing,
And a crossbow bolt that missed.
Notwithstanding I was cross,
As he called in the Fuzz.
They dived and pulled us both apart,
I got an amazing buzz.
‘Shut yer mouth , yer poncy twat’
‘Who checks your expenses’, When rozzers are on your tail, however,
You run and jump some fences.
I pulled forth a chinese throwing star,
From underneath my skirt.
The constable didn’t clock it,
And fell and hit the dirt.
But here I am in Worthing Nick,
Paying dearly for my crimes,
But I’m breaking out at midnight,
As soon as the town clock chimes.
I’ve got some rope and semtex,
I have a blade or two,
I’ll be on my way to Bumstead,
And in Thrupp by half past two.

She is a marvel, isn’t she? So eloquent and stylish. Aunt Gourd, however, disagrees strongly. She keeps sending her gifts wrapped in pages of the Bible, in the hope the highlighted sections will instill some moral fibre in her. Gourd also feels that taking part in the Easter celebrations in East Bumstead will do her the power of good. They make you take your shoes and socks of and carry a full size granite statue of Jesus up a tall hill, then make you run back down while a training member of the clergy kills your soul with constant criticism and another batters you with a shinty stick. I’m sure it’s all good clean fun in the Vatican but it’s not Vom’s scene.

Right, I must away and check my traffic warden spleens that are drying on a sunny branch. With any luck, they’ll be ready by evensong and I can begin making my time-slowing pouches for the W.I. stall. I’m sure they’ll be glad, parking outside the hall is at a premium.

Pip pip, and may the Sun’s rays warm your bare thrackles, always.

Aunt Claymore’s Visit

Oh rapturous Joy! A family visit! This is Aunt Claymore. Yes, she is as vibrant and jolly as she appears. I have to keep my face a picture of elation on the yoghurt-pot telephone when she tells me she’s coming or she knows I’m secretly thinking ‘bugger’ and kicks off.
Clay is a quandary, she’s the only woman in Thrupp with a Queen Victoria obsession that, frankly, has got out of hand. The woman is never amused. She’s evaded arrest twice for knighting people in a public place and almost decapitated a third. It cost me two and six to get her out, which I never got back.

The cause of her visit was to inform me that the wider family are concerned about Aunt Mary Jaffa (you’ll meet her later). They have petitioned her to see a hypnotist as her fear of satsumas is about to ruin her career as a taxidermist. Apparently there is an expert ‘squirrel stuffer’ who eats satsumas regularly which results in Aunt Mary Jaffa hurling salt lamps at him. After two verbal warnings, she faces the sack. Uncle Colobus feels she should be given a stern talking to, while Aunt Bench reckons it’s a phase brought on by man’s oppression and emotional labour. Folly doesn’t give a rat’s arse, apparently, and Aunt Vom fears a swift punch may do the trick. My presence at a family meeting has been requested, so naturally I wish the power of sudden invisibility.

My own thoughts are perhaps the seeking of some satsumic Shamanic journey may be in order. She could connect with it’s essence and adopt it as a Spirit Fruit. The woman is very segmented and makes your eyes sting when she sings, so they should get on. I found the address of Clementomancy Del Monte, who runs courses on such things for 15 guineas a day in Clacton-on-Sea. This man is legendary, he can read future events by gazing at a dog’s bottom by candlelight.

Anyway, I digress, I’ll keep you posted on the satsuma situation, until next time, toodle pip!