Mrs Coddy – Mad Aunt Bernard’s Tortoise Poetry

I do not usually approve of such things as diary entries (in case one reads anything highly alarming or rude), but I thought I should include one today. My father never approved of diaries, thinking them crass and obscene items to be banished along with the egg whisk. This week has been a horror! My laptop is playing up, the socket at the base of the tree I use has blown a piffle-fuse, I’ve had raging Piddock Flu, and it seems my sister, Bench (above), has forgotten to come and collect her daughter who arrived for a week – over a month ago. I have written her a letter, and I’m posting the response I got this morning.

Dearest Bernard,
I am so glad you wrote, dear! Poor Folly! I’d had this nagging feeling that I had mislaid something. It was only when I read your letter that I realised that it wasn’t the pinking shears I’d lost, but my own darling child. Do send her back, dear, and I am so sorry to have been such an imposition.
You know it’s been a trial for me since she was born, and I honestly thought now she’d turned thirty that things would get easier. Tell me, has she grown much?
I await her return eagerly,
Warmest love and deepest apologies,

Bench

Well, I became a little exasperated of her at this point. Bench is a terribly selfish creature, and gets so absorbed in the Weasel Stretching Foundation that she doesn’t give a second thought to others. But I’m not entirely unsympathetic. Folly (pictured) is a treasure, but she’s dreadfully thick for a girl her age, and playing with traps and poisonous spiders in the garden is asking for disaster. Only yesterday, she set fire to her own shoes then pushed them into a letterbox (the public one – so you can imagine I’m wondering if my letter to Bench has been collected at all) Well, I can’t do much more about it this evening, so we’ll have a pleasant dinner before I take the spiders out for a last wee. I’ve got an adder or two left in the freezer and some chicory that needs polishing off so I’ll create something Marco Pierre White would be in awe of. Perhaps.

I received another letter from Bench this morning, dated two days (!) after Folly’s departure. The cheek of the woman exasperates me so I apologise for the clipped tone of this post but I really am as dreadfully mad as a cut snake.

Why she comes to me I know not, perhaps I am a soft touch? Are the luxuries of my draughty hedge-home too inviting? My hessian crackers and gin breakfasts too tempting? Whatever it is, I shall stop at once. My mother once said – Family are the most precious things, Bern, but remember they won’t ALL fit under your patio. Dear woman, rest her soul.

This is the letter…..

Kindest Dearest Bestest B,
I need to ask a favour, dear. Folly is really trying my patience – I’ve had to call in some lumberjacks to tie her to a dining chair as she’s had one of her heads on. To cut a long story short, she’s poured custard into all my shoes and hidden small incendiary devices all over the house. Aunt Weevil and Doctor Prong have suggested I get away, so I will come to stay if the idea does not rankle with you?
Notwithstanding, it is quite doing my nut in, dear. I can’t go to Aunt Vom as she’s still in the nick, and Mary-Jaffa is still. So I’m coming for a few ——– (typically, this part was illegible). As the carriage journey is so long, I’ve written this six days before I leave so I should be with you in ten minutes.
Folly is being observed by our neighbour, Mrs Coddy, a dear soul. She can see our house from hers, since Folly stole the 7ft hedge last month. Well, see you shortly, pop a gin in a glass for me and I’ll bring the hemlock shortbread.
Pip pip, and tatty bye
-Bench

The woman is absolutely the limit. Folly should have been encouraged to move out now that she’s finished playgroup. For a girl of thirty-two, she should be doing normal things – vandalism, fighting and shrieking. I will write to Aunt Vom in Worthing nick – she is the fiesty one and will know how to advise. She sorts out a lot of her problems with something called Chinese throwing stars and Colt.45’s, and swears by them. Perhaps she can put one in the post.

It’s a pity about the mix-up with the cozzers, she’s so unlucky – it’s the eighth time now. Well, no doubt it well get sorted out, they’ll find she was pushed to her actions, and the MP’s flat bugle will….puff out and…possibly resemble a nose once more. He shouldn’t have put in that £3,487 claim for a platypus sanctuary that doesn’t exist, anyway. Bleeder.