Aunt Vom and the Great Feminist Uprising

What a week. Dear Vomica came to visit at Yuletide and never left. She is now a permanent resident of Clopton Mandrill, which is making the locals uneasy. Vom (we call her Vom for affectionate purposes), is the slightly younger, fiesty one that has a habit of being collared by the cozzers. Early on Sunday morning, she clubbed on my front door with the wooden leg of a local man, who happened to be lying unconscious in my garden. I decided I didn’t want an explanation, and thankfully, she didn’t offer one.

Her mood was so foul, I could see it in a fine mist around her, hissing and fizzing as she walked in. It appeared that our local parish council had had a collective conniption fit when she put her name forward to stand as councillor, and issued a letter claiming such an idea was not welcome after a unanimous vote. What had got her emitting blue lights from her bottom was that it was on the grounds she was a woman, despite her marvellous beard and criminal record.

I note that the gentlemen on the council are stuffed shirts and all moustache, but this was something else, and I feared it was darkly connected to our involvement in the theft of the Library Trolley, which is rather brilliantly documented here. It seems the main objector was Mr Stanton St. Bladdery-Bowhurst (below), an unpopular, flatulent, rotund man, feared by the village, and unequivocally hated by most dogs. You can tell the sort – all money but no desire to buy a decent ‘syrup’, instead favouring this dreadful barnet. His main passtimes are lying, penalising decent folk for plain speaking and bloody trousering the rewards. He’d once tabled a motion to reroute the Severn due to a bizarre phobia of eels that flared up during the Spring.

We gathered the Sisterhood of the Library Trolley just after dusk that evening. By lamplight, we spoke in hushed whispers, wrote things on bits of paper, burned them in case anyone found them, then couldn’t remember what we’d decided. We broke off for refreshment, I cracked open some 30 year old Stretched Weasel I’d been saving, and we finished the last of a chicken bhuna. Rolos and half a twix were thrown in for afters. But then, once more, the discussion returned to clandestine matters, and I’d had to swear the toads in, just for total secrecy, you understand. The bats didn’t give a flying fornication and never listen. A quick weapons check was called, and from beneath skirts and fished from within seams in corsets, a splendid array of pointies graced my table. Between just six of us, we managed to gather the following:

9 swords
12 daggers
4 sets of Chinese throwing stars
11 kukris
A stool
3 sets of knuckledusters
2 sets of nunchucks
5 shovels
2 cutlasses
1 sabre
4 sgian dubhs
2 sword sticks
1 wooden leg from earlier in the day
Vom’s forehead (weapon of choice along with the throwing stars)

The council were due to sit that Tuesday evening, so we mobilised and set to training with the forty-eight hours we had at our disposal. We had no time to waste, Vom put herself in charge – a most logical decision since she has been involved in more bundles and bruhahaha’s than most sailors. I correct myself, she has started more.

It went swimmingly, Turdina Scroteman-Smythe (above) found her niche with punching people, which she practised on her local constabulary and the Verger from St Swivel’s church – nobody reported her thanks to concussion and ensuing amnesia. While in the dining room, Ivy Fowlpest’s daughters (below) gave a workshop in swordsmanship, thanks to East Bung College For Young Ladies and their progressive curriculum. We were ready.

By five o’clock on Tuesday, we gathered to form up by the village hall, and waited for the arrival of the council members. Running down the village green tooled up to the nines was not the most comfortable or quiet arrival, we sounded like a one-man-band cast down a flight of stairs followed by a buggered harpsichord. Mrs Fowlpest sustained a mild injury to the left buttock from a throwing star that broke free of it’s moorings. I kicked myself in the shin with the wooden leg. But, I digress.

As the men waffled and plumped their moustache’s at one another, we waited outside the hall. There was much haw-hawing from the men who were sharing a joke about women cart drivers, at which point the mist of rage began to descend on Vom.

As the walrusy men strode around the corner, the signal to attack was given. Mrs Edwardia Flax-Battle shrieked the battle cry while standing by some pants in a nearby garden. She then vaulted the rhododendrons with a stool in one hand and a cutlass in the other, and set on the nearest man. She chinned him with the stool, and the beggar went down like a sack of dung. We all clapped before drawing our various weaponry.

It was thrilling indeed. Never before have I smelled the raw fear of local politicians, cornered. I clouted a junior councillor with the wooden leg, then caught the secretary round the lughole with the foot. Ivy Fowlpest gave a Glasgow kiss to the little shitehawk who wanted to scrap the Women’s Violent History Month on the wireless. Vom had already thrown three chinese stars and was charging the Chairman with the member for Picklehampton-on-Severn Unionists under her arm, using him as a battering ram. She had a personal beef with both, one was the son of an incontinet chisel maker, the other was a thieving git.

I picked up a sabre and challenged the first person I saw, and to my surprise it was Stanton St. Bladdery-Bowhurst in front of me. As I lunged, I tripped over the member for the North Gribley Green Party and accidentally, ever-so slightly, might have snicked his head off. Not really an issue for the area, unless you’re obsessed with cow farts and tofu. And he was the one who proposed the Canal Licence being raised by a thousand pounds for women with beards. Shysters, the lot of ’em.

We heard bells in the distance, which meant the rozzers were coming. We left the bruised, battered and slightly headless council and ran straight for the pub at the end of the lane. The Clown’s Pocket Inn was very empathic toward Women’s Rights and were happy to hide our weaponry behind the bar. Vom downed a pint of Absinthe, then ordered a Vodka Um Bongo to celebrate. I chose a nice stout with a packet of badger scratchings. As the rozzers entered the pub, we turned our conversation to fine needlepoint and fainting, at which point they tipped their helmets and apologised for the intrusion. We’d hidden Vom under the table, no officer in the land hasn’t seen her mugshot, and she’s done some serious bird for something to do with semtex, and kidnapping a circus man and his pyramid of dogs.

Interestingly, a snap election was announced the following day, and saw an overwhelming turn out. Each member we’d fought lost their seats. Curiously, women are now allowed on the local council. Vom and I are both sitting, I as secretary, she as the member for Clopton Mandrill Ladies Combat Party. Below, is the member of the exiting council who was made to swear us both in as an apology. He was also ordered to take his portrait down, paid for by the people, and badly etched by Hercule. Honestly, the arrogance and vanity of these buggers.

My apologies to the member for North Gribley Green Party, Mr. Peregrine Filibuster. I’m sure it’ll grow back. Maybe you’ll think twice about breaking Plague Lockdown rules in future,

And that, my little tunicles, is how this warty old hag, found her way into local politics. I’ll say pip-pip for now, as I’m very busy of late – men’s safety has been mooted at the last meeting for urgent debate. I’m sure they’ll be thrilled – we’re implementing a 4pm curfew for them, and a 25 metre roaming allowance outside the home, enforced by a tethering system. It’s pleasant and satisfying, this ‘delivering change’ business.

Cousin Glabia and the Splendidly Strange Circus Murders

Good afternoon, my little knapsacks, I do hope my followers are in good health, both of you. The weekend proved to be an unexpectedly thrilling time, I was thoroughly anticipating marvels and wonders when I realised the circus was coming to town. My cousin Glabia (pictured above with her late brother, Glevum) has been a circus artist for the past two decades. I haven’t seen her since Hadrian’s Wall FC won the cup, so I was so looking forward to a good natter over a cup of pondweed wine, and a hessian cracker or two.

Late upon a balmy Thursday eve, Philo Oblong’s Travelling Circus arrived in a long convoy of trucks and caravans. I cemented arrangement with my cousin to dine the following day, then attend the circus. We met at The Belching Frog in the village for a modest lunch of stretched turbot, black potatoes, flat nettles and a white wine jou with a dash of spam. Not bad for a Wetherspoons, and the price was thoroughly agreeable. We discussed the sad loss of Glevum two summers ago, he died tragically from a fall from the tightrope. It had been the second time he’d fallen. (Interestingly, Glevum was just a nickname, he’d deviated his glevum after the first 40ft fall onto a juggling unicyclist). Nowadays, Glabia is still firewalking, which is handy, as one of the circus hands is a splendid arsonist when not in the clink. Lovely chap, apparently, very warm manner, with an earthy whiff of charcoal. Glabia enquired about the health of the bats, and asked politely about my hedge. They were also very complimentary about Clopton Mandrill, stating how pretty it was despite the cricketers. Just as we were finishing our meal, we heard a bang so loud, my chair lifted from the floor. It blew the feathers from a startled pigeon on the table. We rushed from the restaurant, and straight through the entrance of the Big Top. The huge crowd inside fell silent and open-mouthed.

A huge splash had just occured in the Pool of Death, a woman screamed ‘MURDER!’, and the hysteria spread around the arena – although Mandy O’Bandy’s Acrobat Trio persevered with their routine. They were not unfamiliar with being interrupted by a spot of murder. The arena was in pandemonium as some fled their seats, leaving others to attack one another with egg whisks and swallowing swords. Smoke was billowing somewhere on my left. Hubert Fartingale and his Pyramid of Dogs were less calm, and one could hear his plaintive wails as the pack of six rottweilers turned on him to attack. The rozzers arrived, and entered through the curtains to a drumroll and a crash of symbols which someone applauded. They weren’t amused. They cordoned off the Pool of Death, and set to placing chalk outlines on the water, which wouldn’t keep still.

Inspector Bludgeon, of Greater Mandrill Constabulary concluded immediately that there it was a double murder, with two suspects, one attempted shooting, one of stabbing. Glabia thought him so clever, but I was not so daft – the chalk outlines clearly showed one figure with a long dagger, and one with a stage pistol. Hardly nuclear physics. I didn’t like this bugger, he’d nicked Aunt Vom several times on her visits, and I considered he needed taking down a peg or five. I noticed he kept saying words like ‘conflagration’ and ‘pamphlet’ in order to make his moustach wobble in a dramatic manner. I had a flashback to the time Dear Vom called him a total cock. Notwithstanding, he summoned eight more uniformed men to keep the chalk outlines from floating to the edge in the breeze.

But what in the name of the Devil’s Nutsack could have gone so horribly wrong? Amidst the brouhaha, I heard talk. There had been no less than four murders.

Well, this….The Flying Drummer. As you may deduce from the photograph, he’s carked it. It seems he had a six month tryst with another performer by the name of Belicca Diddytoe (below, with Titan the Amazing Cycling Poodle). He would write Belicca heartrending love letters twice daily, and shower her with origami dogs, a habit came under the watchful eye of her husband.

Belicca, it appears, was unhappily married to one half of The Flaming Yodellers (below). They consist of Raymondo and Phleb Pyrothwaite from Barnsley. Raymondo would let his brother yodel expertly for seven minutes before dousing him in petrol and setting him alight. They were an absolute sensation despite the singular performance. Belicca and the Flying Drummer hoped it would be Raymondo who decided to yodel in their premiere, but alas, the coin toss fell in favour of Phleb. As Phleb burst into yodelling (and an epic blaze), Raymondo seized his moment. He whipped his stage pistol from the front flap of his long johns (this caused an amorous woman in the front row to lose all fascination in him). While the crowd were distracted by Phleb, who’d fallen and set light to the furniture, Raymondo fired upward to the sound of flying drumroll. His aim was perfect, and there the Flying Drummer hung in the air, silenced for eternity.

Heartbroken at seeing her beloved’s demise in the air, Belicca clutched her bosom, before seizing a cutlass from an escaping nun. She pushed past Phleb, who was still blundering about on the stage, just as he found his feet, he tripped on the bucket of petrol, and I’ll leave that story there. She crossed the floor, and with one swipe of the cutlass, she sliced Raymondo in two. The more senile in the audience who’d not noticed the chaos, applauded loudly. I feel the need to clarify that he was sliced lengthways, as that is what the rozzers were mostly concerned with.

The bizarre twist in the tale is that Raymondo had also engaged in an unsavoury trend of coitus with yet another of the circus performers. For nine years, he had been indulging in his fetish for beaks with this woman – The Terrifying Owl Woman of Saskatoon. As Raymondo lay on the stage, not half the man he used to be, she struck like lightning. Brandishing a dagger, she chased Belicca up the steps to a podium where they grappled for several minutes. Finally, after a stout punch to the bliffin, Belicca’s strength gave out, and the Owl Woman ran her through. Belicca fell over the edge, with the Amazing Titan cycling after her. The blessed relief is that the Owl Woman was arrested immediately. I’d seen her act some years before in Eastbourne. Frankly, it was shite.

So, there are the four murders. The alert among you may only have counted three – the confusion was due to Raymondo being carted out in two wheelbarrows not one. Allegedly, two separate rozzers thought each half was a whole person after spying his sleight frame on the poster. A misreporting that still made the evening news. Glabia is thrilled at the notoriety the whole episode has brought to the circus. The fame has done wonders for business, earning her two shillings a week and a monthly allowance at Madame Planchette’s Tutu Emporium. She is set to wed Philo Oblong at the next equinox while travelling through Norway. They are set to exchange their solemn vows while death diving. I can only think that Mr Oblongs’ considerable wealth may be a factor in this decision.

I am now sitting with my feet up, telling the dangling bats above my head all about the days mayhem. Thank goodness I have not attracted a mate since my late teens in the tudor era – one can only surmise it is a blessing. Now time for a nip of some brandy that Aunt Vom kindly pilfed from Inspector Bludgeon during her last visit. I have a monkshood bhuna blipping away in the cauldron, and a cowpat flatbread drying on the hot stone which should be ready in 5. Pip pip – and never argue with sixteen geese by a post box, you shall find why in my next ramblings.

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!

The Great Accordion Shortage

Good evening my little scallops. I am in my hedge, in isolation. To clarify, I often am due to my interesting collection of aromas, but now some bloke at No.10 has told me I have to. So I’m happily whiling away the hours making a wig of nettles (excellent for protection) and some hemlock pants for my neighbour (the curse of Mars didn’t work, so I’m hoping this will do the trick). This is generally how folk are dressing now, which is taking some getting used to. This is my apothecary, Mr Gavin Codslap. As plague masks are in short supply, he’s prescribed us all to wear a dead stoat on a thong around the neck to ward off infection. Stoats are few and far between, and Mr Codslap was arrested yesterday for selling deceased weasels for fifty guineas a pop, and fibbing about them being stoats. The judge passed sentence from the confines of a beekeeping suit painted with vodka. He’s been fined five pounds and been publicly humiliated by being called ‘very naughty’.

The shopping situation is now beyond ridiculous. Folk have been doing something called panic buying, a concept I was unaware of until I visited the local music shop last week. I wanted a triangle. Well, my ghast has never been so flabbered. One shelf was empty. It seems a rumour has been circulating that accordion music is the most effective way to stay well. Not content with listening to the radio, people have decided they must have accordions in the physical sense, to boost immunity.

The frightening thing about this, is that France is now being targeted by gangs of thieves in an attempt to illegally import them on the black market. Bulgaria and most of the Eastern Bloc are in the same predicament. Morris dancing is now illegal in England. Any person with a folk leaning is being stopped by police and searched, followed by a swift chinning if needs be. Apparently the ones with the hankies are the worst offenders, and really kick off when challenged.

This young man above, is an utter berk. He started the rumour. Coincidentally, he is the deranged child of a local businessman whose company manufactures accordions. The little sod is lining his own pocket. Aunt Vom got wind of this, and decided with the help of Aunt Gourd, that she would sort the little shit out. Unfortunately, Aunt Gourd was of no use whatsoever, and sat in the motor car reciting nursery rhymes to a nearby gull.

While lurking around the premises, Vom spotted the matriarch of the family, Mrs Cressida Tungsten-Girth. There are few who would trifle with her, she has a reputation so volatile that people from Cerney Wick cross over the road to avoid her. There was a rumour that she cut a man in two for looking at her funny. That’s lengthwise, by the way, not across the middle. She was happily playing away in the sunshine, sitting on an old crate, while Vom crept into the house through an open door she’d just kicked in. In no less than 40 minutes, she moved heaven and earth to shift 4,690 accordions onto the front drive. Then, using a small cannon she’d secreted into her underskirts, she fired on the pile of instruments.

It blew a hole straight through the foremost accordion, then all hell broke loose. It caught fire, and spread rapidly to the rest. Bizarrely, the heat surge caused the pile to begin playing themselves for a several minutes, and Vom marvelled at the cacophony of the most ridiculous music known to man.

The upshot was, the matriarch stormed out to see what the commotion was. She used very rude words (far too rude to write them here), and challenged Vom to a duel, saying their family business was legit and run by gentleman. Vom being Vom, didn’t even wait to accept, but twatted her with a garden shovel she had in her pocket. Her parting shot was ‘A gentleman is a man who knows how to play the accordion, but doesn’t’.

The tricky part came getting rid of the evidence. Vom hid the canon back up her skirt, and buried the shovel by digging a hole with a different shovel. When the cozzers arrived she avoided arrest by twatting the copper with the second shovel. She found a third to bury that one in case he’d called for back up.

So the rumour was quashed. No more dead stoats, no weasel mis-selling, and no bloody accordions. The only frustrating part was that by the time Vom got back to the motor car, Aunt Gourd was rattling on about ‘Baa Baa Black Sheep’ and hadn’t noticed the gull had become somewhat fractious. It had crapped all over the car and stolen Vom’s last toilet roll.

Stay safe, my little dung beetles and I’ll keep you posted. Cheers and that. x

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.

Folly – And The Druidic Order…

Well, it’s been an eventful few days, I’m posting this from my temporary hedge accommodation provided by insurance, as we’ve had a little disaster. The company have been very nice, keeping me wrapped up with lovely itchy blankets, and provided a special box for the toads. I get fed three times a day (no hessian crackers here, though, and no Lungwort soup) but it’s better than an iron boot up the arse in thick fog.

It all started two days ago…..

Aunt Bench, in a desperate plea, left a note, pinned to her daughter, on the doorstep of Mrs Coddy, who lives in the village. Bench is suffering episodes of ‘funny ideas’ and ‘wistful notions of sailors’ again. Apparently she is in desperate need of a break. So at six in the morning, yesterday, she put Folly on Mrs Coddy’s doorstep with the note saying ‘Wait here until she opens the door, darling, and don’t be impatient and ring the bell’. Mrs Coddy finally surfaced and opened the door just after luncheon, and found Folly eating the cow parsley. Of course, she was reluctant to take a renowned disaster magnet to her bosom, so she tactfully came to my hedge on the grounds that ‘family is better’. I could have quite cheerfully kicked Mrs Coddy in the colon…but she’ll keep for now. This woman has been the SS branch of the neighbourhood watch for too long. She has been known to scale the facing wall of a home, only to shine a blast of torchlight at bedroom windows in the hope of catching someone with substandard window locks. No villager will bother to look for her under her own patio.

I managed to keep Folly entertained and out of trouble for the first night. While she was distracted in destroying a perfectly good piano with grandfathers’ mace, I had time to hide the matches, flammable liquids, and anything that could be set alight or detonated. Once my task was completed and I’d taken the bolt cutters off her for the third time, I tried to teach her counting, which failed after she ate the flageolet beans I was using for demonstration purposes. I then decided a game of Ludo would be nice, but she’s eaten four green counters and two yellows, and Lord knows where the red one went. So, I switched tack and we watched ‘Snatch’ on my new wooden DVD player that Aunt Weevil made for me. It’s marvellous, a little grainy in the picture, but great for what I need. And Brad Pitt was in his most handsome, refined role….I digress.

The following day, Folly became bored and wandered. It transpires that she stumbled upon a ceremony in a field, and became engrossed in the proceedings. The group she found was none other than the Order of the Golden Woodlice, a local Druid grove, whom I’m cursing with the Square of Mars as they’ve bloody taken her into their fold. Pictured below, is Grand Priestess Elsan and her two sprogs, Tristan and Crispin. There are many others, including a local man, Simeon St. Gribble, a wealthy financier and general shite.

Folly came back after dark, covered in twigs and stinking of Prinknash Abbey incense, claiming to have ‘found her path’ and ‘realised life’s true meaning’. Part of me was encouraged, if this meant she’d stop blowing her feet off while playing with semtex, maybe there was a glimmer of hope? She did appear to be speaking sense for once, harping on about the death of the Oak King and seasonal observance. She even spoke about the value of hemlock in tea for unwanted visitors. Had we finally turned a corner?

It seems I am rather naive. We hadn’t. I went to bed happy……

I slept fantastically, putting Folly’s new found spiritual path out of my mind, and only vaguely remember noises in the kitchen first thing. As soon as my subconscious shouted to me to arise and check on Folly, there was the most almighty ‘BOOM!’, followed by a cold wind and a rushing sensation.
The rushing sensation turned out to be my bed-bound airborne journey from my hedge, across the fields and byways of Clopton Mandrill, and onto the roof of St Crapulent the Martyr’s church in St. Grundy, seven miles away. If I hadn’t looked down on Aunt Vom fighting a bloke outside The Chuffing Nun in the Parish of Stroud, I would have thought I was dreaming.

According to the police, the fire department, and the bomb squad, a unique chain of events happened that defies human comprehension. But they gave it a title, and my heart sank when I read the heading of the report. It just said….’Folly Made Breakfast – NATO Class III Alert’.

Forensics said the damage was caused by three things:

1. Trying to cook a gas bottle in a pan on a gas cooker (she’d even seasoned it with my Jamie Oliver Lemon & Thyme salt mill)

2. Poking dynamite into the toaster.

3. Baking some petrol soaked halibut in the oven at gas mark 8 for 30 minutes. (The fish had a chilli and flat leaf parsley rub, and was garnished with roasted shallots and peppers – all of which she claims were the real culprits).

Apparently, her Druidic experience had an elemental side to it, they said Folly is too ‘Water’, and needs to balance herself with ‘Fire’. I’m mildly curious as to their vetting process. Apparently she’d set fire to two of them with a flaming torch before they’d opened the Quarters, and they still let her in. It just goes to show some groups will take anybody. As for the fire balancing, my neighbour, Mrs Coddy, is still wailing about her eyebrows.

I now have to find Aunt Bench and tell her that Folly is being ‘counselled’ by a nice lady with a big cardie, chunky beads and a tasselled skirt. She’s informed Folly that ‘there are no real Druids’, at which point Folly had to be restrained as she became dreadfully fractious and totally kicked off.

The police have also told me that Folly is a death trap and must not be let out into the community again, at which point I was hopeful, until the social worker whined on about her rights. I was gutted. She’s been released into my custody, even after licking the face of two policemen. This is why I never spawned my own kind. The dear bats are so easy to care for.

Aunt Vom turned up and took her way, thankfully. When Vom got her home, she hung Folly up on a coat peg by the loop in her school blazer, and is leaving her there until the morning. I like to picture her like this, with her little feet dangling below. I’m so grateful to Vom, but furious with Bench. My hedge is ruined, Mrs Coddy is livid as the blast flattened six of her geese. They’re unharmed, but you can only see them when they turn side-on.
Clopton Mandrill has issued a state of emergency, and tens of people are homeless or living in dangerous conditions. The Royal Marines are being called in to clear up the mess. The mess was so scary, the Coldstream Guards ran away and told their Mums.

The Home Secretary and the Ministry of Defense are monitoring Folly, and instructing Aunt Vom on her care. the Russians have already been on the blower to Number 10 and said whatever the bribe is for Folly, they don’t want her. Even Donald Trump, who labelled her misunderstood in his Tweets, now claims ‘America is Full’, and won’t take her. The social worker popped in with advice on sharing and issues. Vom showed her her knife collection, gave her a Glasgow kiss, and the woman retreated with mumbled apologies.

So, no Fawlty Towers omnibus for me, no quiet teas by the canal, no crackly leaf carpet, no more hedge until it’s been checked and sealed by men in plastic suits with ‘creaky things’ that read radiation. I’m only able to write this thanks to the emergency dongle, kindly provided by Major Ponsonby-Goppin, of Her Majesty’s Royal Marines. They play nice music as well. As I was being airlifted off the church, they did a drum display to keep us entertained. We all clapped, except the Vicar, who’d lost a hand in the blast.

Sadly, most of my spiders didn’t survive, but the Marines rescued Peadar, my best spider, and have housed him in a little box of his own. They also rescued Leopold and Erica, the tortoises, although, in their escape they’d only moved two feet in six hours.

I will report more when Clopton Mandrill is a little better restored, and I’m safe in the knowledge that Aunt Vom has nutted Aunt Bench for her stupidity. Meanwhile, any ideas on how to re-decorate my hedge? Do I go rustic again, or street chic? Hedge chic is very fashionable, but I do like to buck the trend. Maybe I’ll go post-modernistic punk/flapper. With cushions. Peep peep to you all, and sleep well, and may your week be filled with really nice upholstery.

The Great Woolrash Outbreak

Hello, my dear tea cosies. I do hope that you are well. Kind gratitude to you, for reading my writings, both of you. Life in my hedge in Gloucestershire is splendid, and I adore the canal activities. I have found a new job at the Alternative Thinking College of Thrupp, where I shall be teaching Shrieking for Spritual Connection, Advanced Hiding, and Pointing for the Unconfident. I’m overjoyed.This week has been a trial. There has been a strange occurrence in our community, people began scratching and itching in a random fashion. I feared my hessian sack dress would soon follow this trend, but no, I am all well. It was a mystery. Farm hands and boat people were rendered incapable of moving machinery and water craft due to the incessant itch. I asked where has this come from? Some agricultural mite? A spaceship? Swindon? (wouldn’t surprise me)?

This is a pictogram, drawn by a local gentleman, Mr Dave Epiglottis. We don’t have cameras in this neck of the woods so he quickly sketched a throng of local boaters clawing at themselves to relieve the dreadful itch. Either that, or it’s an orgy, I’m not quite sure. Most look distraught, but Mrs Enid Rumpeter at the back, has that “look” of a woman in the throws of, well, something.

Anyway. I did some research. I googled itchy things, and no information was forthcoming. So I invoked the Sheep God and asked her advice. Baaarbara. An ancient woolly deity, with eyes the wrong way, and a killer kick. Amid a fog of incense smoke, she told me the itchy plague was wool rash. And….dun, dun, derrr, the root of the issue was a man from Bourton-On-The-Water. A bloody buggery weidron of a man who decided to plague Gloucester so he could step in, render the inhabitants incapable, and absorb the county in his own in preparation for world domination where sheep would be used to herd people into submission. Shocking. But world domination, as we know, often starts in the Cotswolds.

This is he. His name is Rabularia Stanton McFrog. He’s a ruthless git. He really does plan to take our lovely county. I trod the worn floor of my hedge wondering what to do and elegantly wringing my hands in a suitable Jane Austin manner. Then I ditched that and began swearing and cursing him for eternity. However, to curse a man fully, you need to sacrifice toads and have enough mugwort to mug a wort. And I didn’t. And I like toads. Satan once again is a seagull shitting on my breakfast flakes.

So, Plan B. I rang Aunt Vom, on the yoghurt pot telephone. She’d heard the news already, the canal bridges were shut as the bridgekeepers couldn’t keep still. Half the boaters were marina locked for the same reason. The other half were in the nick, for getting lairy and kicking off over substandard wool.

A week later, the writhing, itching population was ordered by sheep to attend a rally, where Rabularia Stanton McFrog was to issue a statement. The crowd were uneasy, as was I, as four sheep walked among the throng and passed us propaganda. The sheep were particularly agressive breed, the Cotswold Lion, which made them look like sheep but underneath was a different story. They emitted roars so loud it made your ribs rattle, and huge claws protruded from their feed. Any soul trying to leave or making seditious remarks earned a swift headbutt to the chibleys, before being dragged off and eaten alive. It was terrifying.

One man saw a window of opportunity, when a gate was left open, and he tried making a run for it. A head sheep, bolted after him and had the man return. We have no notion of what the sheep said to him, but he arrived back, ashen in complexion, muttering about torture. It later transpired that there had been a threat of making him watch Quantum Leap on repeat. Evil, pure evil.

I had no idea where Aunt Vom was, and the blood was beginning to pound in my ears. Is it possible that this regime could have wiped the old girl out? As Rabularia came to the podium, there was a deathly silence among the crowd. Women knitted awful cardigans in protest, children wailed, and men bit their own trousers in anger. Rabularia gave is dreadful manifesto, the Woolrash would be cured in five days, only if we completely surrendered to living picturesque villages of Cotswold stone. Cream teas at 3pm would become law, that drew a gasp or two. He said he would also install little bridges every hundred yards over attractive but shallow rivers in town, and our lovely hills had to be replaced with rolling hills, so they could be moved about easily if he fancied a change.

Just as Rabularia became crazed and began talking about Bibury Trout Farm, there was a commotion to the left of the stage. He ignored this at first, and issued further threats of death at the hands lethal trout, trained in close combat fighting. Then the commotion seemed to surge forward, and an explosion knocked him from the podium. Aunt Vom was here! When the smoke drifted away, she appeared on stage with her crossbow and took him out. One arrow struck him in the stifle, another caught him in the swim bladder, and he died shortly after. We all clapped and cheered, and became joyous again as the sheep bought single bus tickets for Moreton-In-Marsh and were never seen again.

Vom’s on the run but she’s quite safe, I had a carrier pigeon saying ‘All good, in a B and B in Temple Cloud. Quite at home, they’re all mad. Love you lots, don’t tell the rozzers. Love Vom x’.

The rozzers are dubious. though thankful. A county domination has been averted, and the Army has air dropped a plethora of calamine lotion for the itch. We have thwarted his plans, and I do love a good thwart. So all is well again, and I will say goodnight. It’s a schoolnight, and the toads are up past their bedtime. Pip pip, my dears, and may your tunics always be starched, and your coddlers ever be warm.

The Grand Gloucestershire Cheese Roll and the Women’s Anti-Picture Protests

Good morning, my little tuning forks! It’s my birthday this week, and I have been truly blessed with an invite to England’s most prestigious and solemn sporting event – The Cheese Rolling. This splendid tradition dates back to the times of the Venerable Bede, and possibly as far back as a gentleman called Reg, who lived in Morocco, circa 23 AD. It involves a huge cheese being flung off a grassy precipice, followed by people running after it. Those short on wits or secure screws, plummet down the hillside like Catherine Wheels in the slim hope of winning the 8lb Double Gloucester. They also have the opportunity to win a variety of fractures and abrasions, and perhaps death for the unskilled runner. We had a marvellous time.

Aunt Vom entered, and caused an uproar. She refused to enter the Ladies’ Race (for blattidly obvious reasons). On the start line, she heard man call another man a rude name. So she pushed him. Another man pushed her, and called her a rude name. The line up suddenly descended before the signal in a ball of arms and legs, bumping their way to the bottom. I was impressed that during the descent, Vom managed to lamp the original offender and issue a swift kick to the chibleys.

After some debate by the Cheesemaster, it was a contentious issue that actually, more than one woman (even a bearded one) had entered the man’s race. It was agreed that she had no right to the 8lb cheese. While important, waffly men discussed this, Vom nicked the cheese and hid it in her beard. The second woman, pictured below, was still on her way down, wailing that she’d left the iron on. The police were summoned, and she was accosted in the crowd. The tussle resulted in the cheese falling out of her beard and breaking a constable’s foot. No charges were pressed after Vom offered a three-way split with the cheese and a good time in a nearby rhododendron bush.

This altercation distracted me, during which time I lost all sight of Aunt Bench. She’d entered the Ladies’ Uphill race, and didn’t see the finish line. She can be blessedly thick at times. A lone hiker in the Malverns found her babbling about cheese and realised she’d wandered slightly off course. After wrangling her to the ground and reading her name tag, they made contact and all was well.

On an interesting note, the Women’s Lib Movement is just as active within Gloucestershire as in Trebollocks, and I am thrilled. There is a tendency to glamorise women at sporting events, and urge them to look pretty for photographers. In my new county, a group of women have rebelled against this rampant exploitation, by posing for the camera in the style of long dead corpses. We all clapped at this, as one woman fell to the floor just as an oily representative of local the local Rennet Society sidled up for a photo. The ‘death shot’ is to commemorate the lost time that men have stolen from women for hundreds of years. For centuries, women have not achieved their potential in favour of ‘standing and looking pretty’ or fruitless searches in cupboards that men can’t be arsed to look in. I am posting these photos as a testament to their stoic fight against repression and widespread arsery.

After the excitement of the day, I ventured back to my hedge. It’s a beautiful spot and I am feeling very lucky indeed. The bats are enjoying school in Clopton Mandrill, and I am giving a talk to the Frampton W.I. (Witches’ Institute) on the healing and culinary uses of the cow pat. But first, I shall relax at the waterside with a chilled glass of cuckoo spit wine, the ’64 vintage is the best. May the Gods of Unneutered Cats shine upon you all.

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….

Aunt Vom’s Great Library Trolley Theft

Firstly, I must give my sincere thanks to both my readers who most kindly offered me an invisibility cloak after my night of clandestine shenanigans. I finally got back to my hedge at a little before dawn and tried to find the iron, but I’m buggered if I know where I’ve put it. The upshot is, the rozzers called, I didn’t need the iron, and due to my warty ugliness, they think they are looking for a man. Off the hook.

Other breaking news in Trebollocks is that the break-in and disappearance of the letter has caused uproar among lots of important, jowly men at the College. The sisterhood (pictured below) has increased it’s efforts and is now planning disruption and sabotage. You can clearly see the vengeance in Ivy Fowlpest’s face (far left). The sisterhood want a quiet, subtle attack. Surprisingly, Aunt Vom, has been made operations leader….

Then came the call. I was informed, by a muffled anonymous voice, over the yogurt pot telephone, that I am to be outside the Clown’s Pocket at 9pm on Thursday night, and to wear something inconspicuous. I raced back to my valise, and fished out a gown of hessian with something stiff stuck to it, and my shoes made of underpants in case I need to run about. I added a cloak of fake weasel and a cowpat beret.

At 9, I found a group of women in the same costume, sitting outside on a bench (not Aunt Bench), drinking pints of Nun’s Chough. I recognised a few of the leaders, and saw Aunt Vom at the back, mooning at a passing motor car. Ivy Fowlpest hushed the rabble to silence, and we gathered around. This was the plan. Under the guise of weak-willed and silly women, we are to break into the College library again, and steal it’s most coveted and precious item – The Library Trolley.

Gasps flew about the table. The prestige attached to the Library Trolley is without rival. Those entrusted with being it’s custodian, are not only interviewed deeply, but on appointment become a total jobs worth and wheel it around as a way of claiming authority. This would need careful coordination. Aunt Vom is to take out the guards, with some Chinese Throwing Stars that she keeps under her skirts. Ivy Fowlpest will hit them with a pan (if they’re still alive) just in case. We then steal the keys, get in, and remove the Library Trolley under the cover of darkness.

This all sounded splendid, but a few of the sisters needed clarification on several points, which resulted in a two hour discussion. A woman called Urticaria rode roughshod over the conversation, leading around to her suspected pregnancy. She was angry that the doctor wouldn’t prescribe her a toad to wee on for a conclusive result. Another, named Flan, ranted about her divorce proceedings, and the way her husband blames her for setting light to him while he slept. By the time we left, Aunt Vom had had eleven pints and thrown a stool at a man frowning at her, and a woman only known as ‘Squits’ had exactly that. I must admit, I was five sheets to the wind myself, and openly weed in a shrub container in the pub garden. It was only a hebe, and they’re a fairly hardy species.

We arrived at the Library, and all went according to plan, eight armed guards taken out on sight, no hit with the pan needed. Urticaria cut the keys free with a sabre and we were facing the entrance: The Library. There was a huge sign saying ‘Women Forbidden’. Instead of using the keys, Aunt Vom had an illuminating notion and kicked the door in. Our little shoes scuffled across the highly polished floor and we found the Library Trolley. (In case any of you are wondering why I keep writing Library Trolley, and put it in first letter capitals, it is because it’s terribly important and people frown about it and keep a clipboard on it at all times. The phrase is also highly amusing to me. Reverence and Mirth…)

We wheeled the Library Trolley two feet, then realised it squeaked dreadfully. We had to get out before the alarm was raised. A thick mist had descended as the evening made way for night, and the chill set in. Footsteps and torch beams arrived at the far end of the building, so we set of, squeaking across the floor. Squits couldn’t walk fast as she was drunk and reciting lumps of The Lady Vanishes (the Angela Lansbury version, of course). We reached the porch and realised she was a dead weight, none of us could carry her, but we couldn’t leave her behind either.

Vom hoisted her onto the trolley (and hit her with the pan, just in case) and we made a run for it. Unfortunately, at some speed, we hit a pothole halfway down Clunge Hill. Aunt Vom fell, we all let go, and watched Squits and the Library Trolley disappear down the hill into the fog, leaving only her fading wail behind her. Then a crash.

You can’t see her in this photo, but I feel the plaintive note she left is echoed by the fog amid the trees. Squits was arrested, so was Aunt Vom. Urticaria fled the scene, and Ivy Fowlpest decided to have a conniption fit, resulting in arrest. This was made worse by the fact that she’d stolen a book from the library – ‘Rare, Infectious and Amusing Diseases Through The Ages – a Photographic Guide. She will receive 19 years at least. If she’s good, for the last two she serves she might be hung up the right way. To be honest, it shouldn’t distort her current appearance.

I witnessed one of the party’s arrest, a woman I didn’t know but I instantly knew it was her voice on the yogurt pot phone. Every time she was asked a question, she clutched a dead squirrel to her mouth. I like a mystery solved.

I’m still hiding. Today’s papers are full ‘Woman on Flying Library Trolley Reads Book And Causes Mayhem’. Squits has to face a panel of people who will bollock her for hours over the Library Trolley hitting a level crossing at the same time as the 01:35 from East Bumstead and a motor car driven by a man with a stuffed toucan in the back. It goes on to say there’s a warrant out for a man seen wearing women’s finery (?!), and weeing on a hebe in a pot. I need to think of my family honour at this time, be brave and do the right thing. So at this point, I’ve packed the toads, the bats are hanging off the airer, and I’m doing what is delicately called ‘a runner’. The witches in Gloucestershire owe me one, so I’m fleeing. Pip pip, and I shall write again from my new surroundings. Thank Gods for the Gloucestershire Massive.