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!