Chapter Seventeen

Directory of Humor Blogs

The Flight of The Lozenge

Owld Misther Bucket and Olivia Spider were not best pleased, not with events as they were unfolding, and certainly not with themselves. What had started out as a delicate manoeuvre, in essence, to fly across the bog in search of Tiny Rumpus Libbedy, had ended up a complete and utter fiasco. Somehow, possibly in a fit of exuberance, Olivia had thrown out far too much silk, with the consequence that Owld Misther Bucket had become completely swaddled in thread and quite lost control of his spin. Instead of being a sleek projectile (much like The Concorde) the two now resembled a wobbly suppository, and were headed inexorably in an unknown direction to an unknown fate at an unknown destination. On top of this, The Twinkle Faerie on duty that afternoon was one who had not as yet passed her final exam. She had, you see, a mere provisional licence (second class) and should not have been operating heavy machinery on her own, much less a Mark IV MegaBlastomatic V10 999cc Faerie-Dust Dispenser. In a moment of panic (her mobile phone had rung very loudly and with a frightening ring tone she could not remember having downloaded), The Twinkle Faerie flipped more than the recommended number of switches at the same time and, with a mighty “PFSAAAT,” blew most of the fuses. Quite naturally, the sky was immediately plunged into a darkness deeper than the deepest black (without even the tiniest hint of grey), and all the stars (and just think of the poor, hapless planets who didn’t have any electrical fittings whatsoever) started bumping about and colliding with each other and using up a whole month’s supply of bad language in less than a single second! Is it any wonder that the two inhabitants of the Wondrous Lozenge were confused? Not only were they being hurled through space and time at an unreasonable speed, a speed far in excess of the legal limit, but they kept running into objects which were not only spiny, but uncommonly rude. It was, therefore, no small relief when they landed with a soft ‘whooof’ in a downy pile of dust.

Almost immediately, they were addressed by a kindly and deeply plumy voice, asking if they were all right, to which Owld Misther Bucket replied, “I rather think I’m not exactly sure.”

“Take your time, have a good look,” answered The Voice. “It is not as though I am going anywhere.”

At that precise moment, Olivia Spider became aware of a great many tiny feet tiptoeing (or perhaps shuffling) hither and thither on her person. It was disconcerting, to say the least. However, because of the (trainee second class) Twinkle Faerie’s little mishap, she was completely unable to see a thing. One or two voices, pleasant and well meaning (although certainly not as agreeable as the plumy one, which had now either fallen silent or decided to go somewhere after all), became more audible. From what she could make out (there was a great deal of unexpected noise, all of it of the unnecessary variety), whoever it was marching about on them had been conducting some sort of detailed forensic analysis and were trying to decide whether or not the large, white, fuzzy, cocoony object was harmless. Perhaps, the voices ventured, it should be tied up with string as a precaution. One could never tell whether even a harmless looking object might behave in an objectionable manner. “Yes,” chanted a chorus of voices, “we must bind it with string,” after which they broke into a discordant and ill-written song (to a tune reminiscent of so many others).

Oooooooooo, There is a fuzzy wuzzy uz-uz
Zoomin’ through da skies.
Eatin’ bugs and woollen rugs
And warthogs baked in pies.
(Chorus)
Bind it up with string-ing,
Bind it up with string.
It’ll suck yer nose and snog yer toes,
So bind it up with string.

Ahhhhhhhhh, It is so round and full of puss
And not so nice to smell.
It makes the moon turn inside out,
Your sister it will sell.
(Chorus)
Bind it up with string-ing,
Bind it up with string.
It’ll suck yer nose and snog yer toes,
So bind it up with string.

Eeeeeeeeeeee, What are you doin’ you filthy rat
You makes me want to barf,
I’m well brought up and not like you,
Who wants to binge and snarf.
(Chorus)
Bind it up with string-ing,
Bind it up with string.
It’ll suck yer nose and snog yer toes,
So bind it up with string.

The song continued for many generations, but because of the ghastly dwindling of its quality, no one cared to remember the lyrics, prompting Dwaine Zipple, the live-in butler to great great uncle Horatio Wellington Luna (known in some quarters as “El Magnifico”), to lament the state of contemporary song writing. “Perhaps,” he mused despondently, “We are truly doomed to end mankind on a sour note. Such a pity, and I was so hoping…” at which point he was seized by a coughing fit and wandered away in search of a chemist’s shop.

“He is always doing that,” hissed his younger brother Dweedle. “In all the years I have known him, he has never once finished a sentence. I find it irritating when I realise I will possibly be eaten by a snake before I ever learn what he is talking about.”

“Stop it this instant!” commanded Old Lavinia Sprockit, Horatio Wellington Luna’s first cousin once removed. “Stop singing at ONCE! And stop shilly shallying about! Are we to be devoured by this…THING…simply because we would rather waste time than save our lives?

The crowd instantly fell silent, and then just as instantly blushed crimson, cast their eyes to the ground (remembering, of course, to snatched them up again before Groveller Termite and his brothers stole them away for their elevenses), and looked as mortified as possible. “What do you suggest we do, Missus Sprockit?” ventured a tremulous voice from deep in the crowd.

“Why, kill it, of course,” she thundered, smacking the earth with her cane. “Is that not what our forefathers would have done? Furthermore, is that not the usual course of action when our personal safety is at stake?”

At which the crowd immediately joined in with a rousing, “KILL IT! KILL IT!”

This was, quite naturally, a response that Olivia Spider, bound inside the lozenge as she was, found extremely vexing, utterly irritating and too churlish for words. Most certainly, had one of her own children been present, and had it been thoughtless enough to express similar sentiments (she was not a believer in mob slogans, whether they be positive or negative), it would have been sent to bed without its next seventeen suppers. How frustrating it was to be so helplessly wrapped up in a bundle of her own making, a situation made even worse by the miles of string her fellow denizens had so zealously used to pacify the mysterious cocoony object of which she was such an integral part. “Surely,” she thought, “I shall die in here and everyone will think it’s a good idea.”

Fortunately for her (and, of course, for Owld Misther Bucket, her fellow passenger), Olivia Spider was not required to continue along her downward slide into depression, gloom and despair, for at that precise moment, her thoughts were interrupted by the, by now, forgotten Plummy Voice. “I hardly think such extreme action is necessary. My dear Piedmont,” it intoned somewhat intelligently. “Why don’t you run along and see if you can locate a fuse box. That’s a good lad.” The lad, Piedmont, thus distracted and filled with gung-ho excitement, duly ran off to do the voice’s bidding.

“Now then,” continued the voice, this time addressing the gathered throng. “Not much anyone can do until we can shed some light on the subject. Shall we all adjourn to Mrs. Begonia Throttle’s for tea and crumpets and damson jam?”

There followed several minutes of agreeable chatter from the formerly distraught denizens. The voice interrupted them with a kindly twinkle, “Run along. I shall remain here to guard the beast and will summon you when the time is right.” And since everyone obviously held The Plummy Voice in great esteem, they all trotted over to The Tea Cosy as one man, without a single whine or dissention. Indeed, they all seemed particularly thrilled at the prospect of fresh crumpets and damson jam, a thrill which had quite obliterated all memory of a horrible horrible weapon of moss dehydration.

As soon as everyone else had gone, the first thing Plummy Voice did was turn his full attention to The Fuzzy White Lozenge and cock his head to one side. “Now,” he said, speaking very much like an archaeologist considering an ancient and unplundered tomb, “what do we have here?” And with that he tap-tap-tapped the offending object with a stick. Almost immediately, Lorenzo de Luna, assuming the guise of a wise sage who was nothing if not practically professorial, grabbed the stick and motioned for his companion to be silent. He then reached out with his maroon-tinted gloves and touched the lozenge with a forefinger. Addressing the object in a voice of great authority, he asked, “Is anybody in there?”

“Please don’t do that,” replied Owld Misther Bucket almost immediately. “I promise to do your bidding, whatever that may be. But please stop thumping me on my ear. It is causing me unbearable pain, O! Wise Alien Life Form (whoever you are), will you not cease and desist? I really am becoming very cross indeed and feel unbidden rudeness approaching.”

Looking aghast, Señor de Luna drew back two full paces. “I am so frightfully sorry,” he wept. “I was under the impression (for which I beg your forgiveness) that you were one of those meringue eggs I have heard so much about, and was hoping you would be filled with chocolate, butter and brandy cream. Never in a million billion years did I suppose a living being would dwelling inside such an imposing, arresting and august structure.”

“There are two of us in here,” interrupted Ould Misther Bucket, correcting the wise de Luna, “not one, and we would be very grateful if you could get us out of here as quickly as possible.”

“Don’t you dare!” shouted Olivia Spider, causing the lozenge to quiver, and in the process completely unnerving both Plummy Voice and Lorenzo de Luna. “We must speed home with all impossible haste to The Bog and save my sweet little Libbedy, or she will meet a savage and horrible fate. I repeat, speed is what we need. If we are unwrapped we shall cease to be aerodynamic. We shall burn up on re-entry. “FWAAAP”! Just like toast!”

“Oh dear, oh dear oh dear, what should we do?” cried The Plummy Voice.

“Perhaps,” replied Owld Misther Bucket in a reasonable tone, “you will be good enough to tip us over the edge of wherever we are (it feels like a plate, or perhaps a large current bun. Am I correct?), so that we may drop down to earth.”

The Plummy Voice hesitated for a moment, obviously perplexed. “I’m really rather in over my head here, and it is so vexing. I read classics at university. Could you please repeat your request, only this time in ancient Greek?”

“If I might interrupt,” interjected Señor de Luna helpfully, “I think they are asking us to roll them over the cliff.”

The Plummy Voice was simply aghast. “But… but… that is suicide. One can be sent to prison for a very long time, if not forever or even longer, if one even contemplates the taking of one’s life!” He blotted is forehead with a rather large, green paisley silk handkerchief and exhorted the rather enormous lozenge (which by now had started to tremble in a most menacing fashion). “Are things so very desperate, O! Mighty Alien Life Form, that you must contemplate such a drastic and despicable act?”

“What are you talking about?” roared Olivia Spider impatiently, “I want to get home. Didn’t you listen? Are you deaf? Have you curdled wax in your ears? You are sounding more and more like a near neighbour of mine. Are you related to him? He is also an idiot with wax in his ears. Perhaps you know him. His name is Lorenzo…”

Owld Misther Bucket muffled her with his nose and cut her off. “Please allow me to handle it, my dear.” He then addressed de Luna and The Plummy Voice. “What she means is, your planet obviously got in our way and we crashed into it (no hard feelings, it is bound to happen sooner or later). According to my calculations (I spent many years studying physics before I joined the civil service and became an authority on water conservation), our home should be directly under yours. I am fairly certain that if you will be so good as to tip us over the edge of the nearest cliff, we shall be home, safe and sound, in no time at all. Dost thou think you can manage that?”

Señor de Luna rolled away (for his shape was very like that of a garden pea, only brown) and returned a minute or so later with a large barrow. “If you will be so kind,” he said to the lozenge (which was now quaking furiously), “as to bounce up into the air and into my beautiful yellow barrow, we shall take you directly to the cliffs and tip you over the edge.”

“Oh, thank you thank you, sir,” blubbed Olivia Spider, greatly relieved. “You are so very kind. You see, my little daughter (who does not always think things through) got herself…”

At that moment, the sun was ignited once again and everything was flooded with light. “What a relief!” whooped The Plummy Voice. “And WHAT a good boy you are, Piedmont! Here is tuppence three farthings for your troubles. And may I say…”

Piedmont, who was standing by proudly with a huge smile on his face, scorched hair and smoke coming out his ears, took the proffered coins, said “Thank you very much, sir,” and ran off in the direction of the video arcade.

“Such a good boy,” said The Plummy Voice. “Remind me, my dear Lorenzo, to send a telegram to his poor widowed mother commenting on his manners. So unusual, you know.”

Señor de Luna, who in all the excitement had lost his ear trumpet, completely ignored The Plummy Voice and Piedmont’s great bravery in switching on the lights, and continued his conversation with Olivia Spider. “Are you quite certain, he suddenly beamed, a good idea having just occurred to him, “you wouldn’t like something to eat first? I have with me a lovely Stilton, not to mention a flagon of tea and a bundle of fresh treacle buns.”

“Thank you so very much, you are so very kind,” replied Owld Misther Bucket, speaking slowly and at the top of his voice, in an effort to be understood, “but we ate a lovely cream tea with Cornish pasties for afters just an hour ago at dear Mrs. Begonia Throttle’s little establishment. It would never do to be greedy.”

And with that, Owld Misther Bucket and Olivia Spider took an exceedingly deep breath and leapt as high as they could, safely coming to rest dead centre of the barrow.

“Isn’t it amazing,” mused The Plummy Voice to himself, “that Beings from Outer Space have come all this way for one of Mrs. Begonia Throttle’s cream teas!”

Chapter Sixteen

Directory of Humor Blogs

The Lozenge-Shaped Object and The Great Rubbery Creatures

Less than two and a half minutes after Peveral Murkin and Ermentrude Pinkley and Daff Maud Bunkum departed the library in search of a refreshing cup of tea at Mrs. Begonia Throttle’s Tea Cosy, a giant, white and fluffy, lozenge-shaped object was seen zigzagging through space, bound for the moon. As usual, it was Old Lorenzo de Luna’s middle son, the one they called Piedmont (but whose given name was Alphonse) who saw it first. He ran to alert his father, for the old man lived for calling in tips to newspapers and collecting rewards, thereby depriving widows and children of their two seconds’ of fame and pocket money. And as usual, thanks to Piedmont’s bright eyes and quick reflexes, Old Lorenzo de Luna was the first to ring the editor of The Daily Bog Dirt, for which won the customary Free Bowl of Soup for One at The Sunday Buffet operated by Miss Gwladys Wimple’s Bountiful Udder Public House (located behind The Miss Havering’s Bog Mosquito Hatchery and Sweatshop and accessible only to consenting adults).

It was not the first time unidentified and interfering fuzzy projectiles had flown over Miss Havering’s Bog, and while none of them had ever caused irreparable damage (if you disregard the several incidents involving rumoured weapons of mass destruction from an Unknown Enemy during The Great Bog Massacre), not one denizen was in favour of inviting uninvited and mysterious objects to land, much less to remain long enough to snack on little children. However, a majority of the more adolescently inclined did think flying objects to be well cool, and not nearly as boring as the usual Saturday night at the disco. For this reason, these ‘juvenile delinquents’ (which is how Ms. Delilah Zonker and her sister Bedelia and Missus Ridglet-Grassworm referred to them) scandalised their betters by proposing that the frequently defeated Bog United Football Club (Motto: Victory is Fleeting, Mud Eternal) adopt, as a new mascot, one of the more interestingly mysterious of the Unknown Unknowns. According to eyewitness accounts, this particular UFO was seemingly comprised of a large number of hamsters in a net, all of whom hissed very loudly as they passed overhead. On its forward proboscis was a flashing sign proclaiming, “Be Afraid. Be Very Afraid.” As it turned out, this turned out to be no more than an infantile prank on the part of the ‘juvenile delinquents’, and not for one minute did the instigators think there was anyone naive enough to take it seriously. However, as to be expected, they reckoned without the usual stalwart majority among the older and crankier denizens, especially those who met every afternoon at Donacia Beetlebum’s Public House (also known as ‘The Blackened Gargoyle’, for reasons best known to MacTavish MacTurf, the absentee Landlord). “There ought to be law against those dastardly flying monsters. Dash it all, they look like chamber pots, and you know where THEY have been,” was their accustomed rant whenever the mysterious objects were brought up in conversation. After which they would happily whinge on and on, but being who they were, none among them quite agreed if action should be taken to solve the crisis. “What if we do something and it comes back to haunt us? Dash it all, what if the opposition is voted in and council estates are built next to our piggeries?” they argued. “Idle chatter and such is all very well, but action could get a chap injured for life.” Such was their considered opinion in all matters to do with Miss Havering’s Bog, and it was not for nothing that the current Lord Mayor, Sir Horatio Nipple and his redoubtable Deputy, Mrs. DaFarge, had campaigned under the slogan, “We Shall Ignore All Problems Until Hell Freezes Over And They Disappear”. And it was also not for nothing that they were annually re-elected for life plus twenty-nine years.

Still, a threat posed by any invader from without the boundary walls was something to be taken seriously, whether it came from white, fluffy objects flying through the air or from the horrible and foul-smelling rubbery creatures that every so often destroyed everything in their path. “What if,” gasped miniscule Gazondia Sawfly, quaking under her green and black mouldy rooflet, “it’s them dreadful sisters, the Welliffomething-ffomethings, flying up there in that great white bloaty sluggy thing and be coming to bash us intae the slurry pit! What if it be poisoning our Jam Sponge Orchards? What if it be wanting to hover over us ‘til we’s took by apoppleplexy?”

As The Chronicler has already stated (categorically), very few of the denizens had actually seen the horrible and foul-smelling rubbery creatures. Two of the few who had were Olivia Spider and her Rumpus and Raucous (and now missing) daughter, Tiny Libbedy. In an interview televised throughout the bog by the BBC (Bog Broadcasting Corporation) several months previously (or it may have been the day before the incident concerning Owld Misther Bucket’s holes), both mother and daughter had agreed that, as the hideous creatures had stomped their way through the bog, they seemed inclined to leap and jump or otherwise lift themselves to a very great height, although never at the same time. Furthermore, although the sisters mood could only be described as ‘extremely baleful’ (as befitting horrible and foul-smelling rubbery creatures), the actual leaps and jumps seemed, in actual fact, to have cheered them considerably. This in spite of the great effort they were forced to expend every time they moved as much as two inches. Olivia recalled that they actually celebrated each jump, and there certainly was no denying that their progress was a most commendable and hilarious accomplishment (at least in their own considered opinions). However, to observers (specifically Olivia and Rumpus Libbedy) it was spine-chilling to stand by helplessly and watch as the ancient gumboots kicking their way through the Luna family’s carefully laid out dust garden, a paradise which had in years past had been awarded silver gilt medals at Chelsea. Thanks to the sisters’ incursions, it was now irretrievably ruined. On an even more ominous note, it was apparent that they knew whose garden it was, for they were heard to refer to the owners as “Those Moons”. Smirky, smirky they were, as though implying that they, themselves, were far too superior to speak in a foreign language, and that to enunciate the word ‘Luna’ was both a solecism and an affectation too far.

At the time of the broadcast, there had naturally been lengthy discussions over numerous pots of tea in Mrs. Begonia Throttle’s Tea Cosy concerning this horrible vandalism, and it was eventually decided that the rubbery monsters had been none other than fiercely competitive gardeners, rivals of the Luna family in the Royal Horticultural Society’s ‘Small Garden’ category. Perhaps by destroying Old Lorenzo’s lovely and perfectly formed dust garden, they thought they would have a chance, after years of defeat, of winning a medal themselves. Perhaps even a Gold!

What mortified the Lunas more than anything else, which was saying something since they were a most litigious family and given to funding charitable foundations under the protection of The Society for The Prevention of Cruelty to Solicitors, Barristers and Funny Wigs, was that the horrible, beastly, smelly Rubbery Monsters persisted in sticking a strangely sharp pole with a metal spike on the end into the most sensitive region of their water feature (which had as it centrepiece a statue of intertwined golden salamanders cavorting in a lavender-scented bed of dried vermicelli). This aforementioned stick, although extremely long and extending to a nearly impossible height (its top end and no-doubt decorative knob having vanished into a vast, dark cloud), appeared to have no other function other than to savage the countryside. There was certainly nothing aesthetically pleasing about its base (and what was the reason for existence if one was ugly?), but the mere fact that the upper regions were not visible to the naked eyes of Bog Dwellers prompted much speculation as to its possible merits and demerits. Perhaps (providing it had an upper end and wasn’t simply endless) the upper regions of the staff were extremely gaudy and with appended tasteless something-or-others. If that were the case, then perhaps whatever they were had been affixed for the purpose of attracting fish (known to be gullible and slightly uninteresting creatures at the best of times, and quite unable to carry on even the most one sided conversations). If that were true, then perhaps the stick was, in fact, a great snout, and the metal point at the end of it a tooth. Was the ghastly and ominous cloud hovering above in reality the body of the beast on the top of the tooth, and were the horrible horrible smelly rubbery monsters, the vile sisters Wellingffomething-ffomething their hounds of Hell?

The family of Lorenzo de Luna had yet another theory, as did several of his near neighbours and the little old pensioner ladies living under the tea caddy behind his compost pile. They asked themselves if, perhaps, the wombley monster wasn’t simply terribly terribly hungry? Could it be using its primitive fishing lures in hopes of attracting a moonbeam? And were the evil, vile and urgently smelly sisters Welliffomething-ffomething in actually fact his slaves? Whatever they were, it was obvious to all that they were hopelessly inept, an opinion which was almost immediately confirmed when one of them gave a stump speech to the gathered assembly. “Why, they are nothing but politicians,” snorted Filigreena de Luna, Lorenzo’s much older sister (who was nothing if not wise beyond her ears). “Politicians on the hustings,” roared the crowd, which to a man hurled a great many canapés on sticks and buckets of prune dip at the hapless sisters. It really was most annoying! The Luna’s dust garden was not even a marginal constituency, nor was it anything like an election year (or it might have been, given that politicians and other such primitive creatures campaigned most of the time, thus preventing them from getting any work done).

What it really boiled down to was that the destruction of their prize-winning garden was a most disagreeable experience, the merest memory of which set the collective Lunas to fuming. ‘Luna’ their name was. Not ‘Moon’! Nothing whatsoever to do with some great round cheesy object, even if said cheesy object was, in actual fact, The ‘O! Mighty and Omnipotent Controller of The Tides and Women’s Personal Bits and The Unforetellable Moods of Grandmamas’.

Chapter Fifteen

Directory of Humor Blogs

Peveral Murkin and Ermentrude Pinkley and Daff Maud Bunkum and the Dreadfulness of Assistant Librarians

“Look here!” shrieked Peveral Murkin, suddenly and without warning. “Look what it says in this book,” an outburst which prompted Ms. Delilah Zonker, The Assistant Librarian (and widowed Lithuanian sister-in-law and permanent paying guest of Mrs. Begonia Throttle) to retort with one of her marvellous “SHHHHHs”, a retort she managed to punctuate with a look guaranteed to curdle the best clotted cream and wilt a dozen red roses, expressing (as it did) a combination of the very deepest disappointment, personal horror and High Dudgeon, all at the same time. “What a good thing it is,” she thought to herself, “that dear Mrs. DaFarge is not here to witness this abomination. It most certainly would have given her the vapours, if not a terrible apoplexy. I must make every effort to suppress this outrage so that news of it never comes to her ears.”

The Assistant Librarian then returned to the project at hand, which was to plot the overthrow of the current regime and her superior’s possibly fatal demise. She thought (not for the first time) what a good thing it was that she had, that very morning, laid out her new “Head Librarian” ensemble, for one never knew when inevitable promotion would fall upon one, forcing one (against one’s will, of course) to take up the breach. Noticing Ms. Delilah Zonker’s inattention to duty, Peveral Murkin, Ermentrude Pinkley and daff Maud Bunkum (still flushed the colour of beetroot from their scolding) quickly gathered up the pile of assorted books and scholarly publications and newspapers (including the one which Peveral Murkin had been reading at the time of his outburst) and scuttled into an adjourning room, shutting the door behind them.

“We should be safe in here, at least until the silly old cow discovers we’ve closed the door”, whispered Peveral Murkin in a hoarse whisper. When the others did not respond, he pointed to a sign on the door which bore the legend “DOOR TO REMAIN OPEN AT ALL TIMES, SIGNED, THE LIBRARIAN, MRS. DAFARGE.” “However, THIS,” he said, waving the newspaper, “might be very important and we can’t take the risk of being overheard by the wrong pair of ears.”

There was an awkward pause, during which all three of them tried to imagine Ms. Delilah Zonker’s ears stuck to the door. Peveral Murkin then blew his nose and Ermentrude Pinkley spied a tiny purple mite making a home in her shoelace. Not wishing to share her shoelace with anyone not specifically invited, the mite was instantly removed to Ermentrude Pinkley’s mouth, and from there to her stomach. “Bloody cheek,” grumbled Ermentrude Pinkley under her breath. Meanwhile, Peveral Murkin, quite forgetting himself, examined the contents of his handkerchief (second best muslin, stained orange from being washed in pumpkin soup) before cleaning it with his tongue. He then cleared his throat, quite oblivious to any embarrassing social solecism he may or may not have committed, and continued. “It says here on page fourteen, under ‘Strange Local Events of the Past’, that the vile and non-biodegradable Welliffomething-ffomething sisters were sold to a silent order of nuns (The Dreaded Sisters of The Order of St. Mingus The Tongue Yanker) by a person or persons unknown, shortly after the great storm of 1838 and have not been heard from since. At the time, suspicion lay heavily upon the head of General Lord Havering’s youngest sister, the demented Doña Maria Consuela de la Oblongata, but nothing was ever proven.”

Daff Maud Bunkum shook her head violently, dislodging her left ear and causing it to be flung across the room, where it came to rest on volume three of ‘The Collected Works of The Earthworms of Ghent’. “They cannot have been St. Mingus Nunnies,” she exclaimed. “None of them have working tongues, and we hear the sister’s voices coming over the wall every time it rains, complaining and moaning and carrying on. It makes my blood run cold every single time I hear them. I will swear on my mother’s grave that it is them!”

“THEY,” corrected Peveral Murkin. “You will swear on your mother’s grave that it is THEY. Your grammar really is appalling. Have you been watching television again?”

“Never you mind about that,” Ermentrude Pinkley said crossly. “It is neither here nor there and has no place in this conversation. Now, think carefully, my dear Maud. Perhaps you were mistaken.”

Ermentrude Pinkley paused for a moment and examined examining the contents of her handbag (three sausage rolls, a pound of gravel, four spoons and a large yellow budgerigar). Mortified that she may have been guilty as charged, Daff Maud Bunkum grew very red in the face. Seeing this, Ermentrude continued speaking, her voice cautious and full of reason. “It has happened before. Remember when you thought we were about to be invaded by a train and it turned out to be Missus Ridglet-Grassworm having a sneezing fit? In any case, you can’t swear on your mother’s grave. I know for a fact she was eaten by a bat, and everybody knows you cannot swear on one of those, not even if you can find them, which you can’t. Besides which,” she added for good measure, “you mustn’t be disrespectful of the dead or your nose will fall off and be served up with toasted cheese.”

Daff Maud Bunkum took a deep breath and sat up very straight. And when she spoke, her voice trembled with indignation and ire. “Do you honestly think I could forget their voices,” she croaked, “after what they did to us?” She clamped her mouth shut and glared at her friends.

The room fell silent. Then, simultaneously, they all drew breath. Peveral Murkin turned to open the door. The only thing no one can deny is that we shall never accomplish anything by remaining in this room a minute longer. And further more, we can hardly be expected to think clearly on empty stomachs. I, for one, am famished. Faint, even, from starvation. May I propose that we put aside our rancour, which was undoubtedly brought on by a most severe vitamin deficiency, and set sail for gastric salvation? Let us take these books back to The Librarian’s Desk, avoiding, if possible, that dreadful woman (I do so detest mealy bugs), and adjourn to Mrs. Begonia Throttle’s charming Tea Cosy for sustenance?”

“Were you referring to Ms. Delilah Zonker?” asked a bemused and still out-of-sorts daff Maud Bunkum. “Are you sure it is terribly nice calling her ‘that dreadful woman’? She is a most respectable lady and the only reason she has been placed in the back row of the church choir is because of her hideous voice.”

“Not to mention her flatulence,” added Ermentrude Pinkley, somewhat wistfully.

But before either Daff Maud Bunkum or Ermentrude Pinkley could continue with their digression, Peveral Murkin hustled them out the door. He sat them down on a large, embroidered Chesterfield, which just so happened to be napping behind a Doric column, and carried all the books and journals and learned periodicals back to The Librarian’s Desk. Ms. Delilah Zonker, who was busily rearranging her face in the looking glass and practicing her ‘Severe Head Librarian’ turn of phrase, addressed her reflection in the sternest possible terms (as though it were a mere Library Card holder), “Your book is unacceptably late. You must pay the penalty. Forty farthings per day plus a thrupenny bit for breathing. And how dare you think when I am speaking to you.” She was, quite naturally, far too busy to acknowledge Peveral Murkin (who was, after all, a tedious bore who insisted on checking out books every half hour and creating a great deal of work for the already over-burdened Almost Head Librarian In All But Name). She did, however, scribble a somewhat severe note (as befitting her new position, even though it wasn’t yet hers) and shoved it under his nose.

When he returned to his friends he was purple-faced and even more annoyed than usual. “SHE,” he fumed, “ordered me to pay a late fee. Four minutes late, the book was. FOUR MINUTES. And then she had the gall to charge me a ha’penny out-of-town fee for taking the books into the next room, plus,” he thundered (under his breath), “a half crown for closing the door!”

“Never mind, Peveral,” cooed Ermentrude Pinkley, “I’m sure Mrs. DaFarge will straighten in all out when she returns from her tea break. She is quite used to Delilah and what she gets up to the minute her back is turned. You’ll get your money back, you’ll see.”

“It is quite intolerable,” sobbed Peveral Murkin, wiping his nose on the doorknob.

While Daff Maud Bunkum picked him up off the floor and brushed him off, Ermentrude Pinkley gave her oldest friend a reassuring pat on one of his hands and blew in his ear. “All you need is a nice cup of tea. You’ll be right as rain in a minute,” she cooed.

Two fresh tears appeared in Peveral Murkin’s eyes and his eyes misted over. Nevertheless, he managed a smile.

Chapter Fourteen

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Rumpus Libbedy and The Dreadful Pit

Tiny rumpus Libbedy Spider took refuge in the furthest recesses of her new home, snuggling inside the puffy coat she had made from the wisp of gosling down she had purchased from a family of ants (who ran a bring-and-buy stall in one corner of their sweat shop), and very happy indeed that she had thought to fill her hot water bottle before the storm set in. Had she been any other spiderling she might have daydreamed, imagining a life filled with all manner of spidery activities, such as web weaving and trapeze acts, trapdoor engineering and food preservation. However, since she most emphatically atypical of her kind, she conjured up her air guitar and banged her way through the latest stylings of The Full Knickers (whose most recent concert at the leisure centre had provoked such angst among the over 60’s that they had devoured the lead singer and four of the roadies, among them the son of the notorious mad-murderer and crime boss, Guppy-Da-Shredder). “The Full Knickers is da shit!” Libbedy liked to say (or, at least, had liked to say before a painful encounter with Great Aunt Dorabella’s flying slipper of retribution).

After a couple of minutes of warm cosiness and doing what she loved more than anything in the whole world (next to eating her mother’s treacle pudding and playing with her brothers and sisters), Rumpus Libbedy Spider told herself how very lucky she was, safe and sound and with plenty of good things to eat (how fortunate it was to have a mother who had taught her how to cook). There was, of course, a quite dreadful pit in her heart waiting to be filled by her family when they were returned to her, but Libbedy had no doubt whatsoever they would be reunited in the fullness of time, if not before. As she put it to herself, she may have been the one who’d gone away, but (as in the case of all little children) it was everyone else who was lost.

Chapter Thirteen

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Evil Days and The Horrible Horrible Horribles

While Peveral Murkin and Ermentrude Pinkley and Daff Maud Bunkum were busily rushing off to the Lending Library to look up the evil sisters, simply looking up at anything at all was something the sisters themselves wished they could do. Instead, it was very much a case of “scrunch scrunge podge splaack sploock,” noses first, into and through the muck and the slop. “Just you wait!” rasped the eldest, the lovely Muffin, before being thrown into an even deeper puddle. “Argh, murgh mooeagh…” she gargled as she spat out a good three gallons of cow spillage, “Whooomever is responsible is (gasp) going (gasp) to be very very sorry! They’ll wish they’d never been… gruggle murphl spaack” shouted she, taking in another copious mawful.

“Oh, I don’t know,” gurgled her younger sibling after politely clearing her throat, “at least we’re not being taken into the Larder like before! Remember the sound and stink of thim hogs being rendered in the caldrons, and how Herself didn’t put them to sleep first because it was too much bother? And remember last December, when…” at which point she was plunged into a particularly succulent pig wallow and quickly (and just the teeniest bit too late) closed her mouth.

A moment later, there was the ghastly sound of something exceedingly heavy and unnaturally old (being The Miss Havering Ma’am Mountain Monster) dragging itself over a stile, at which point the evil sisters Welliffomething-ffomething were plunged down into the upper end of the greater of four bog pools, directly in front of Mr. Jerushaleh Worm’s garden gate.

“NOT AGAIN,” sounded the alarum, clear and ear-piercing, from young Bart-the-Snipe, as he shot up into the air with a mighty flap-flap-flap-flapping of wings. “THEY’Z COME!” he whistled and blew his trumpet. “EEVUL DAYZ IZ HUMPONUS!”

And with that, a cloud descended upon the sweet, ancient bog, and a horrible horrible gale swept in from the sea.

Chapter Twelve

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Peveral Murkin, Ermentrude Pinkley and Daff Maud Bunkum Remember What They’re About


Peveral Murkin and Ermentrude Pinkley and daff Maud Bunkum had by now got terrible terrible fat, inflating (for all practical purposes) and bloating (rather like garden slugs after they have been feasting all night on unmentionable lumpy bumpies in your favourite pony’s paddock) until they exceeded the dimensions of jam jars. They had grown this preposterously enormous from eating their way through the entire contents of Begonia Throttle’s excellent establishment, starting with the food and then systematically devouring the pantry (including the nasty bottom shelf), followed by (in descending order) tables and chairs and best bone china and (finally) silverware, before sprinkling salt and pepper on the doormat and dividing it equally amongst themselves. It was after enjoying the final morsels of the latter and washing them down with a Jeroboam of sweet elderberry tea, washing up liquid and a basin of ginger beer, that they quite lost track of their feet.

“Weren’t we supposed to be doing something this afternoon?” groaned one of the three to the others.

“Quite probably,” came the reply, “our lives are, after all, full of purpose and good works.”

“But can you remember what it was?” demanded the first (they were so very fat by now they couldn’t tell each other apart).

“Not in the least,” said one of the others.

“Even if we could,” interjected the one slightly larger than the others, “what difference would it make? If one takes in the bigger picture, would history even notice our epic task, or would it be simply be yet another unobserved and forgotten moment in a sea of missed opportunities?”

“That is hardly something for us to concern ourselves about,” interrupted the slightly shorter one, “being neither philosophers nor historians.”

“In any case,” interjected the other one, in a voice redolent of hopelessness and postmodernism, “haven’t we more immediate concerns?”

“Such as…?” one of the others (the impatient one with the bigger ears) demanded to know.

“Never mind all that,” interrupted the one with the most reasonable voice, “why don’t we simply return post haste to the lending library. Once there, if we sit in exactly the same comfortable chairs and do exactly the same things as we were doing before…”

“Weren’t we mostly sleeping?” interjected whichever one it was who had eaten slightly less than the others and, therefore, was already contemplating the dinner menu.

“Never mind about that,” squeaked the impatient one. “For your information and speaking personally, I most definitely was NOT sleeping, and I resent the innuendo. I happened to be on the verge of solving a highly complex mathematical equation)…”

“And I,” boomed the other, “was practicing a violin concerto.”

“You were doing no such thing,” screeched the one with the ear trumpet and the pet mite on a lead. “You wouldn’t know a violin from a mud puddle.”

“But if I did know, I would play it very well indeed. In fact, I am quite certain that both Mozart and Paganini composed their most dramatic concerti especially for me.”

This discussion was followed by a moment of silence, several extremely heavy sighs and (on the part of two of them) great honkings as various noses were blown into monogrammed paisley silk handkerchiefs (presented to them by an aged aunt to commemorate a long-forgotten battle in which her great great uncle had ignominiously met his end).

“My dear friends,” said the most sensible one in a very quiet voice, after a long pause, “aren’t we forgetting ourselves? We were speaking, were we not, about returning to the lending library and, once there, retracing our thoughts and activities of this morning.”

“And pray tell,” snapped the impatient one, “how, seeing as our feet have quite disappeared, are we supposed to get there?”

It was at that moment that Mrs. Begonia Throttle waddled out from behind her counter (looking very much like a duck, only much, much smaller and blacker; in fact, had it not been for her lively personality and feather beret, she might have been mistaken for a dung beetle). She proceeded to clear such tables as remained, a task she accomplished by blowing very hard until all the plates and cups and saucers and leftover cakes flew off in all directions. Each table then commenced to shake itself vigorously and bark loudly for several hours (or until Mrs. Begonia Throttle succeeded in whacking it sharply fifty times with yesterday’s newspaper). Then and only then did the tables calm down, after which they braced themselves in a most dignified manner for the ceremonial draping of their fresh table cloths. Miss Throttle, it must be said, has always been widely praised for the quality of her faux hand-embroidered linen, whose abilities included flying through the air (as might jellyfish, had they been made of onion skin), and then floating down again, all clean and pressed and fluffy. Of course, being Irish Linen, their progress would be accompanied by much bickering, backstabbing, going to funerals and set dancing, but eventually they would arrange themselves (in a dainty fashion) onto the table of their own choosing (and they were, indeed, extremely choosy indeed). The Selection of The Tables (as it was known) took several hours, or even days, as the individual cloths were known to take umbrage if the very best tables were occupied or otherwise engaged. Violent fights were common and would break out between tablecloths and the police would have to be sent for. For this reason, the tables were normally cleared and re-set in the middle of the night, long after the denizens of the bog were asleep in their beds and out of harm’s way. Not only was it less upsetting to customers, but since Mrs. Begonia Throttle was scrupulous about putting out the lamps the instant the sun went to bed (so as not too keep him awake), the café would be darker than the inside of a cow. Without the benefit of light, the tablecloths could no longer tell which table was which, and would have to settle for whatever they could find. It was, of course, highly unsatisfactory as far as they were concerned, but since they themselves had no matches with which to relight the lamps, there was little they could do (save for complaining at the top of their voices, which they did until it was dawn and they fell asleep).

It goes without saying that the linen was compensated in various ways during the daylight hours when the café was open. Many of Mrs. Begonia Throttle’s most loyal customers were either very very old or very very young. In either case, they tended to drool, spill or otherwise splash their tea and treacle about with great vigour (or, conversely, forgetfulness), which meant that the tablecloths were fed a diet of tea and biscuits and soup and bread and little cakes and marzipan more or less continuously from dawn ‘til dusk. It was indeed a saving grace as far as the linen was concerned, and the only reason the cloths never ran away.

But back to our tender narrative. After Peveral Murkin and Ermentrude Pinkley and daff Maud Bunkum had spent a good three hours trying to fit through the door and were in the process of eating one of the window frames, Mrs. Throttle (still unattached, as she had been since the spring of her youth, when she had mistaken her one and only true love for a tasty grub - which, in fact, he was, only it had not occurred to his betrothed how very tasty he was until the first night of the honeymoon), put down her magazine and yelled “’Ere”, in her best tea lady voice. “Make up your mind if you’re coming or going. I’ve got new cakes wot wants to be eaten, and if you’re standing in the door, customers can’t come in and oblige. And while we’re on about it, I’ve got better things to do than serving the likes of you.”

“As a matter of fact,” snapped Ermentrude Pinkley (who had grown a great deal smaller and, as a result, could see who she was), “you don’t.”

Mrs. Begonia Throttle stopped scuttling about and, nesting her chins on several of her forelegs, fell into a deep cogitation. When this proved insufficient, she tilted her head on to one side (much like a cat who had spied the cream) and beamed up at Peveral Murkin (who was a great deal taller than she, or, for that matter, than everyone else by a good length and a half). “As long as that’s settled,” she twittered, all honey and chocolate Hobnobs, may I get you anything else?”

“Yes, you may,” barked daff Maud Bunkum in her itty bitty voice, adding somewhat doubtfully, “I would like another pot of tea and a plate of salted sprats and three toads in a hole.”

“I don’t think much of that,” commented Peveral Murkin and Begonia Throttle, more or less simultaneously, ‘and neither will Professor Toad and his Missus.”

“Well,” conceded Daff Maud Bunkum, already confident that she had lost the argument, “they do have ever so many children (of all shapes and sizes), and it’s not as if they will miss the odd one or three. I dare say they are forever running away and getting into trouble, so we’re probably doing them a favour by taking the most obstreperous ones off their hands!”

Peveral Murkin suddenly sat up very straight, banging his head against the ceiling and putting a large dent in it. “It was about the sisters!” he announced triumphantly. “That was why we went to the lending library! To look up the sisters!”

Ermentrude Pinkley was about to issue a brisk denial, and had started to say, “I do not care how evil they are, I will not be a party to looking up their skirts,” when she was distracted by a rather large tray of bilberry tea cakes which had escaped from an unsympathetic hostess trolley (the one with the squeaky wheel), and was now flying round and round her head like a bowl of peas.

Chapter Eleven

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The Horrible Travails of The Evil Sisters, or, What They Were Put Through

In the mudroom of Havering Hall, as far as the vilely evil sisters Welliffomething-ffomething were concerned, yet another “bleedin’ awful day”, the one in which (at long last) the world would be finally sucked into the abyss, was underway. One thing was certain, and that was that things couldn’t get any worse, not even if they tried. So frightfulfully miserable was it that the both of them were sorely tempted to scream into the perpetual Atlantic gale (the one which never ever got bored with its stupid tricks and never went away), “do your bleedin’ worse, then, fill us full of mud and finish us off for good!”

Once again they had been subjected to the first and second of the many indignities to be heaped upon them before they had even had a chance to finish their morning tea, a situation which pushed their already foul moods to the breaking point (“if you cannot start your day with a nice cup of tea you might as well find a toad and bite off its bottom”). On top of that, the first indignity and shocking occurrence had been heaped upon them before the dreaded and ominous squeak of the barometer, which meant they had not had any warning whatsoever!

The Horrible, Weighty Footie Smell Engines had been jammed into the backs of their heads, scuffling them this way and that and pressing their noses into the worst unwashed crevasses of the entire floor. And before they could catch their breaths, they were shuffled about even further (something awful, it was), being (as they put it in their memoirs) “most cruelly used.” And if this wasn’t bad enough, the outer door of the mudroom was yanked open by an unseen hand and all manner of nasty things blew in. Dead leaves and muck and dead animals (the little ones were the worst, because they got stuck in your nose and eyes), old bits of rubbish from the rabbit warrens at the bottom of the kitchen garden (“Such a slum they lived in! Children everywhere, always a dozen new ones popping out, and each one joining gangs and wreaking all manner of havoc”). Thoughtless, ignorant creatures! A right burden on society they were and, to look at them, they couldn’t give a toss! In addition (as if that wasn’t bad enough), there was a new supply of rain, far too much for well-bred clouds to contain (how would you like it if you were obliged to let in any and every foul breath of sea and swamp gunk that knocked on your door), as well as ghastly, icy gales of a violence never experienced when there’d been an Empire to deal with it!

A mood of deepening blackness (and if you’ve ever had such a thing, you’ll know such a thing is possible) descended upon the vile sisters Welliffomething-ffomething, and it got so terrible that the only escape was to whip themselves into a blind fury. Mind you, they really did enjoy a bit of blind fury now and again (and what well-bred ladies don’t?) and so, all things being equal, the morning was not a complete loss. For it certainly did make it possible (just) to face was what likely to be a truly unspeakable day.

The outer door skracked open a few more inches, and the indescribably evil sisters found themselves being heaved through the air (though not at the same time) and immediately smacked down to earth with a scwoogy splat in an extremely muddy and derelict puddle. It really was quite an impressive spectacle. First one sister (the splendidly irascible Muffin) was lifted far into the sky, accompanied by a deep, infernal grunt from the Hideous and Massive Mountain wobbling on the upper end of The Smell Engines. And then, when she had landed all of a twaddle, the whimpering and terribly unpleasant Wambledy-Jane was promptly put through the same exercise, only usually landing, not in a puddle, but on a sharp rock, thus bruising her bottom and loosening her teeth.


“Why can’t we wait until it’s drier?” complained Wambledy-Jane in an unpleasant and unnecessary simper, not because she was expecting an answer, but because she was more than a little dim (and annoying, which made you want to kick her). However, those looking on (and who’s to say there were not a great many tiny unemployed insects and rodents with nothing much to do, whose lives were generally improved and made more bearable by watching the misery of others), witnessed this more foolish sister bursting into tears in the middle of her question and getting a mouthful of sludge for her pains, an event which provoked a long and enthusiastic round of applause from the cheaper seats.

Almost immediately, dear Wambledy-Jane’s sizable mouth contorted into a huge vase. Her lips trembled violently (rather like a blancmange on a kangaroo’s head), and she emitted a breathtaking series of sobbing mewlings, some lasting for the better part of a week.

“Stop that this instant!” scolded her sister. “Or I shall box your ears! I will not tolerate one more second of your whingeing and crying and blubbing and sulking!” She paused for a moment to catch her breath, and then continued. “You were the one responsible for our predicament in the first place, not I, and I will not put up with your infernal complaints!”

Wambledy-Jane’s blub erupted into screams, whereupon Muffin raised her voice to a thundering crescendo, totally drowning the sobs. “They’ve opened the box, I said. We can make a run for it, I said. They’ll never catch us, I said. We’ll live rough, I said, just like in romantic novels, I said. But YOU were all cosy and warm. ‘Who’ll take care of me?’ you snivelled. THAT was all you cared about. Being safe and sound and…and… SPOILED. Clean and shiny…and… FREE OF MUD! Thinking it would last forever. ‘Please,’ you grovelled (until I thought I’d go mad), ‘please stay with me. It’ll be all right.’ ‘IT’LL BE ALL RIGHT?!’ That’s what you said. What was I thinking, staying behind with you, knowing my life would be ruined? I am so tired of your constant snivelling, your…?

“STOP IT!” shrieked Wambledy-Jane, “I know what you think of me, and I’m sorry. You don’t even try to understand, do you? I CAN’T HELP BEING WHO I AM!’.

“You’re not even a ‘who’,” glowered her sister crossly. “You’re a ‘what’. Now shut up and watch where you are going! If you stumble once more, that’ll be the end of us.”

And with that, the two vile sisters Welliffomething-ffomething were, in turn, plunged deeper and further and further into the mud and ooze and morass of first the kitchen garden, then the stable yard and finally the pigpen, their strident invective growing louder and louder with each step, and the wind (who had nothing better to do) carrying their insults across the home farm and bog, and finally out to sea.