Thursday 27 December 2012

Trumper's Eucris . . .

10 Forsythia Grove
Outer Hamlet
CORSETTSHIRE  ZY6 4GT
 
My Dear Ralph
I have just returned from a 3-day sojourn with my former 'oppo', Dorian, down at the coastal resort of Cherrington-by-Sea.  I had a most pleasant, incident-free, rail trip which is certainly refreshing in this day and age isn't it?  In fact, I arrived several hours too early, emerging from the railway station into a plethora of herring gulls munching away on the contents of a station bin.  Then I beamed over a text message to let dear Dorian know I'd arrived one or two moments prior to anticipation; there was always the hope that he might also be in town!  My luck was in pet!  Said 'oppo' eagerly relayed three messages straight back to me, which more-or-less took the form of, 'Where are you??'  Well I didn't actually know.  One stretch of beach looks pretty much like another to me and the bay certainly did curve in an unending vista of donkey rides, big wheels, ice cream parlours and trampoline netting.  However, there is only one bus station and it is there we eventually managed to coincide after only one or two shirty messages.  These were certainly not from me for, as you know, I am the veritable personification of patience and charm.  But dear Dorian can run on somewhat of a short fuse and, in person, the glowering brow and saturnine visage might have intimidated a lady not accustomed to standing her ground - not to mention keeping her nerve - in threatening situations.  Anyway, we were soon licking away on one or two ice lollies and enjoying the bracing sea breezes from our seats in the esplanade shelter.  The first topic of conversation that Dorian chose to embark upon was the rage management medication he had been prescribed at the local GP practice!  'Oh really,' I said, 'That sounds most helpful dear.  Perhaps it will be good for your blood pressure?'  It was then that I happened to notice the rather eye-catching blotchy rash (purple in hue) which was covering the below-neck parts of Dorian that extended beyond his clothing.  'Oh my dear,' I said, 'that looks absolutely horrible.  Have you considered longer items of summer wear, or the application of a cosmetic bandage?'  Now, I do appreciate pet, that said remarks may have been slightly tactless.  However, dear Dorian turned a sort of dark beetroot colour and positively shouted, 'NO I HAVEN'T!  THAT'S JUST THE SORT OF STUPID REMARK WHICH MAKES A CHAP FEEL LIKE GETTING OUT HIS GUN AND SHOOTING YOU WITH IT!'
Well, of course, given that I actually wanted to survive the holiday (and had left my own gun at home) I decided to make free with the profuse and abject apologies and change the subject.  The change of subject I decided upon took the form of an enquiry into the type of dispenser that Dorian used to store his medication in.  I had just embarked upon one or two recommending remarks about those rather natty geriatric medication trays used for said purpose nowadays, when I noticed a certain twitching of my chum's trigger finger.  'No?' I said, 'Perhaps for a gentleman of style and breeding, such as yourself, a signet ring with a high hinged lid is required?'  I don't actually think a ring could accommodate sufficient of the size of capsule that Dorian was demonstrating but, having honed my diplomatic skills for so many years, I decided that these were what were required - especially if one is in need of food and lodgings for at least one night! 
It is always the case that, when one is at the seaside, that one begins to contemplate a morning bathe in the sea.  And I had brought my very own costume pet - only slightly held in by a whalebone style of corset at the midriff.  (I must say that I have been very fortunate on my retention of the ideal feminine shape, with barely a bulge at the middle!)  So Dorian kindly suggested a walk down to Deepwell Cove, situated some two miles away from his own premises, albeit mentioning the possible icy chill of the waters.  'Nonsense,' I retorted.  'The sea here in the UK is well-warmed by the Gulf Stream; I am sure it will be most inviting'!  I am also not sure I would have suggested a bathe, had I known anything about the precipitous descent to this inlet!  I don't know if I have mentioned my new varifocal lenses to you, have I dear?  Well these are most definitely unsuited to the descent of steep, cliffside, paths - owing to the fact that one has to gaze through the bottom of the lenses, looking down, in order to get any sort of visual purchase on the path at all.  And the bottom of the lenses, as you may know, are actually tuned into the reading of a book situated about 30cm from the end of one's nose!  I am amazed I didn't sustain a fracture of the tibia at the very least.
The sea temperature did, as was earlier intimated, turn out to resemble that of glacier melt water and I could certainly feel one or two ice crystals forming in my blood at around ankle level!  However, one hardly likes to back out, does one pet, and I looked around me for inspiration.  And, over on the other side of the cove, I noticed a muscular gentleman of similar years to myself, perched on a rock in his bathing trunks.  I think he'd been perched there for quite some considerable while, presumably deciding whether to risk diving in himself!  In fact, he seemed to have a large white tub of something or other stationed on a nearby slab.  Whale grease perhaps?  I could also see the head of a most elegant young lady, projecting from a roll of tartan blanket, as she also reclined on the coastline.  I wondered if he was hoping to impress her with his derring-do?  I stood and watched him for,  if he could take the plunge in such biting conditions, then so could I . . .   I just thought I'd wait to make sure that, upon immersion, he actually re-emerged alive.  I did not have to wait long dear.  In he went and I gaily remarked to Dorian that perhaps he might never come up!  Well how right can you be pet!  We watched and we watched and, as far as we could see, he never breathed fresh air again!  It certainly did not seem quite the moment for my own dip, as you can imagine.  And God only knows when his girlfriend woke up to the fact of his disappearance because, looking more closely, she appeared to have fallen asleep behind her sunglasses!  We ourselves decided to tiptoe back home - incognito so-to-speak!
As for yourself nephew, are you absolutely sure about your intended purchase, and application of, Trumper's Eucris?  Said hair pomade, dating back to days of yore, is just that and will not - in any way - stimulate a recovery of your lost follicules (or youth for that matter)!
Yours
In the prime of la jeunesse
Aunt Agatha   

Saturday 22 December 2012

Aqueous cream . . .

10 Forsythia Grove
Outer Hamlet
CORSETTSHIRE  ZY6 4GT
 
 
 

My Dear Ralph
The weather is altogether inclement here in Outer Hamlet this morning and I have been sloshing along the pavements attired in my galoshes and yellow souwester (complete with chin strap).  I called in at the ophthalmologists, en route to the postal box, with a request for them to adjust my pince-nez.  These items are all very well for the purposes of private reading - reports and so on and so forth - but, out of doors, they can blow off in any slight gust and also tend to slide down my features should I have occasion to perspire.
I must admit, actually dear, that I also tend to avoid wearing them out upon the street because I think they may lend a certain old-fashioned look to my face.  And one is still trying to look at least slightly a la mode when seen out and about in town!
I did call round to see my chum Maxwell yesterday evening (he with the partially-dismantled long-range telescope) and there got involved in a rather seamy set of manoeuvres.  It transpired, during the course of our conversation, that he has been suffering from a discomforting itch upon his back.  And there, upon the kitchen work top, were one or two large tubs of cream which he needed to apply to said portion of his anatomy.  So, without actually thinking the matter through . . . I announced that I, myself, was a positive genius in the sphere of therapeutic back rubs.  Indeed pet, I may have imbibed one or glasses of vin rouge by then and was possibly not seeing things through a normal set of lenses.  Now, as you know,  I do tend to approach all of my activities in the most professional manner possible.  And the first thing that struck me, having laid Maxwell down on a row of sofa cushions in front of the fire, was that - to apply the fullest necessary stroke - one does require access to an individual's coccygeal bone.  This bone, last evening, was unfortunately quite some centimeters beneath the waistband of my chum's trousers.  'You're going to have to take those down you know' I gurgled (in vino veritas so to speak).  Really dear, I should have thought to ask for a bath towel to cover his posterior regions and I honestly can't think why I didn't.  Anyway, the actual massage was a raging success and Maxwell positively waxed lyrical upon the strength of my palms and my all over foot trampling skills!  And, after some twenty minutes of 'cat strokes,' 'side-skin twists,' and 'knuckle presses' he was strongly importuning for a repeat visit at my earliest convenience!  In retrospect I suppose, problems only arose when it was his turn to give the techniques a go and I, myself, finished up prone upon the cushions in similar style myself.
Still, it was fun pet, and one doesn't realize how one's back muscles become contracted throughout life and are in thorough need of a good trouncing from strong hands and size ten feet!
Yours
Aunt Agatha

Sunday 16 December 2012

The prototype . . .

10 Forsythia Grove
Outer Hamlet
CORSETTSHIRE  ZY6 4GT
My Dear Ralph
I have just achieved some considerable success in adjusting my new phone, delivered up to me - for professional use only - by 'Q' section last week.  Wonderful though it is to have access to advanced technology (way beyond the reach of the average citizen at large) I have been rather galled that electronic mail from my latest correspondent - one 'Wings Afloat' - has been blocked by the purists back at 'Q.'  And I have been deliberating upon how to outwit them . . .  Eventually, and with some long application of patience, I accessed the 'incoming server settings' and tweaked the required controls.  So, now, unless the 'Q' surfers are on to me, Wings Afloat and I are able to relay one or two messages.  This individual dear, you may be interested to learn, is a retired champion skier from Macedonia!  It is certainly a miracle that he took up ski jumping as his own speciality, for I am not sure that this particular region of Greece is renowned for its quantity of snowfall!  Also, dear, he is 45 years old . . .  I know I am only 62, but there are moments (if only occasional) when I fear he may be too young for me?
I am also pleased to relate that Pom-Pom has finally exited (alive) from No Return District General Hospital and is ensconced in one of the Care of the Elderly wards in Inner Hamlet hospital.  I motored over there yesterday and was relieved to see that he did actually look clean, and fairly comfortable, in a four-bedded unit with an overhead TV facility.  I do sometimes wonder, however, if they should employ some kind of "welcomer" person (responsible for radiating "warmth of heart") who could humanize what is, after all, a stark and impersonal environment.  Even a former operative can quail somewhat and feel dogged by feelings of insecurity and insignificance when entering a clinical setting of this type. 
I did also notice that there was a note, addressed to me, sitting on Pom-Pom's bedside locker.  It turned out to be from a social worker, going by the name of Letitia Nettcup, and seemed to be a request for me to get in touch.  I did phone up this person upon return from my visit and it transpires that dear Pom-Pom has fallen out with his daughter, the redoubtable Xanthe!  And, from the tone extant in Letitia's voice, it did rather appear that relations with the social work department are also somewhat on the strained side.  I was cheered to learn, however, that Pom-Pom has nominated me as the next best person to discuss his situation, and future, with (although I can well imagine that Xanthe will be grinding her molars at her own demesne should she get to hear of it).  Letitia is, apparently, trying to get Pom-Pom moved into the WOPA home just down the road and - on the face of it - this is good news.  My next plan pet, is to arrange a visit to WOPA in order to assess the character of the manager and associated facilities.  I do hope I will not have to pretend to be an actual blood relative in order to achieve this!
Yours
Aunt Agatha

Saturday 15 December 2012

Secret Service: EPISODE 95

10 Forsythia Grove
Outer Hamlet
CORSETTSHIRE  ZY6 4GT
 
My Dear Ralph
I have been having one or two hours of sober reflection pet, quite possibly due to my having been 'on the wagon' for at least 24 hours now.  In fact, I do seem to be more than usually connected to my own self - a change manifested in a rather more elegant selection of attire.  Would anyone really recognize me (have I wanted to be recognized?) in this cream linen costume, complemented only by the most subtle of ornaments, and Lily of the Valley perfume?  Or without lashings of mascara and layers of face powder?  My dear.  I would stand revealed; the grey of my eyes would be clearly seen. 
For so many decades, I moved at the centre of intra- governmental powers, exercising my own formidable powers - sending the people who are agents deep into 'the field,' making decisions which, after all, resulted in life or death, and sifting intelligence with all the forensic logic afforded to my own brain.  And all this was underpinned by the attempt to apply the integrity and values that any human being - and especially one empowered - should (in my view) be developing their whole lives long.
Now dear, upon retirement (albeit semi),  it has been hard to create an identity which has the same integrity and identified purpose.  I have become an almost ghost, both part-revealed and part-concealed.  What will I become?  Where will I end?
Yours
'C' 

Wednesday 12 December 2012

A sort of silvery light . . .

10 Forsythia Grove
Outer Hamlet
CORSETTSHIRE  ZY6 4GT
 
My Dear Ralph
I don't know whether I am being unduly suspicious pet,  but you recall your recent suggestion that I call round and see my old school chum Jocelyn?  I believe we have all met up, once or twice, on the cross channel ferry?  I can't quite recall whether we were travelling together, or separately, but perhaps it was the latter as I have a faint recollection of your hiring a white Transit van and perambulating around deck with a sack trolley.  Whatever the case dear, I fear I may have been led in Jocelyn's direction with the proverbial ring through the nose.
Since my last visit to Jocelyn's town premises, in Carpool, he has made one or two changes to the back garden - viewed through a rather splendid set of double-glazed patio doors.  The most notable feature, of which you may be aware, is his new 'fish pond' (3m x 3m x 1.8m).  The 1.8m dimension refers to the breeze block wall which raises the water above ground level.  Well dear.  I certainly spent quite some minutes admiring the tumbling water feature, water lily, and tens of goldfish swimming round in the depths.  Jocelyn even went into some rhapsodies about thermal insulation blocks, the sunken pump, and a recently-installed filtration unit.  Furthermore, a most delightful rippling shadow effect was cast upon the water by the presence of a Paper Bark Maple and a Sweet Bay tree.
However, these most natural of effects were dissipated somewhat when Jocelyn enquired whether I'd like to observe an additional subterranean feature.  He went inside for a moment, pressed a button, and - hey presto - the whole pond suddenly levitated some centimeters and, grinding somewhat, slid sideways across the grey Yorkshire stone paving slabs.  My dear!  I was hard pressed to keep both of my jaws vestigially attached to each other.  Now I am not especially knowledgeable about such subjects but, it did seem to me - as I craned my neck into an electrically lit 'basement' - that ensconced within was a printing press of quite impressive girth.  And it did seem to be operating at that very moment.  It was ejecting what appeared to be rectangular, mauve, pieces of paper which reflected a sort of silvery light and had the features of that well-known personage, HM Queen Elizabeth II, on them!  Honestly pet!  I suddenly saw the purpose of the tumbling overhead water feature through a whole new set of lenses.  'So,' said Jocelyn, beaming beneficently at me, 'We wondered if you'd like to 'come in' with us?'  We?  I suppose that means you, favourite nephew?  And before I had time to take breath and utter my thoughts on the subject, he launched into a description of my proposed role as national carrier in this venture.  I am not a pack horse you know.  Quite apart from my significant moral objections to this venture, I am no longer able to carry heavy loads around the country in my rucksack!  Naturally, I puffed out my bosom to its fullest extent, and declared to Jocelyn that he'd have to look for a more disreputable lady than myself.  After all, I am a lady of breeding - albeit one who likes to present their equipage from within a scoop neck Lycra top!
What would my 'cut' have been, by the way dear?
Yours
Aunt Agatha

Saturday 8 December 2012

Testament of love . . .

10 Forsythia Grove
Outer Hamlet
CORSETTSHIRE  ZY6 4GT
 My Dear Ralph
 Well here I am dear, outfitted in my new stripey mini dress and ankle-length suede boots, supping upon a Hot Chocolate in the WiFi cafe.  Thankfully the toilet door locks seem to be working this week and I have not got locked in.  Also, I believe I have detected one or two admiring glances from gentlemen on adjacent tables.  I have not reached antiquity - and retirement - from the (mixed) pleasures of romance  quite yet!
I received a telephone call from dear Pom-Pom last night.  He relayed the news that he was about to be moved to (yet another) ward and said, "I am afraid we are going to lose touch with each other."  And so we may if the redoubtable Xanthe has anything to do with it!  Is it really alright, do you think pet, to be trundling patients about the hospital in the middle of the night?  I appreciate that this may well be the quietest time in which to accomplish this, but one has visions - rather sinister ones - of hundreds of elderly people being shunted through semi-lit corridors in a manner which is distinctly behind the scenes.
He also told me a most distressing tale of how he had been got out of bed in his latest ward, only to collapse to the point where an ECG technician had to be urgently summoned.  This is the kind of thing that happens when patients aren't on a ward long enough for the nurses to become familiar with their recent history and level of capacity.  He has been lying in bed for so many weeks now that his body must have adapted to functioning in a semi-prone position!  If I was on the relevant committee pet, I would endeavour to establish a minimum period of time that a patient was required to spend on each ward.   This would give the patient some hope of equilibrating with the conditions and - as importantly - give the staff time enough to equip themselves with a deeper understanding of the needs of those in their care.
And then, this morning, I received another call from him in his new situation.  He sounded bewildered.  He said, "I wish that I could swallow my tongue and die" - and that he hadn't had anything to eat or drink, for 24 hours, because this seemed to be the only way to achieve death.  This all sounds terrible.  Would any of us like to be so old and possibly dying under these circumstances?   And all I can do dear, is listen, and pen my memoirs so that his suffering - and the suffering of those like him, does not go unnoticed and unrecorded.
Yours
Aunt Agatha   

Thursday 6 December 2012

Out cold . . .

10 Forsythia Grove
Outer Hamlet
CORSETTSHIRE  ZY6 4GT

I am not sure that I am feeling altogether lucid dear and I may not be up to the reporting of yet another incident.  I ran out of milk yesterday, and even individuals afflicted with swollen salivary glands have to make the occasional cup of tea/ingest a morning bowl of cereal.  So, well swathed in my stripey python neck scarf, I set forth along Outer Hamlet's alleys to Economy Fare.  En route, I was utterly riven with abdominal spasms - to the point where I actually had to stop to let them wear off.  Foolishly however (as is my wont) I decided to repair to the Beetroot Inn for a nip of something fortifying.  This was a big mistake for, just as I was stretching out my hand for the requested tot of rum, my vision started to fade and I realized that I was about to lose consciousness.  It is altogether ghastly dear when one keels over - in public - and ends up prostrated on the floor surrounded by a crew of onlookers.  I managed to veto someone's suggestion to call an ambulance (denying any suggestion that I was afflicted with either epilepsy or diabetes) but it was a full ten minutes before I could attempt to stand.  And, when I did, I didn't last long before I had to repair to my position on the floor again.  Also, I had the very nasty feeling that, if I didn't reach a convenience, that I would soon be experiencing the humiliation of a full-scale attack of dysentery in front of a whole ensemble of strangers!  The 'ladies' was, of course, upstairs - and the staircase to it minus a set of bannisters.  I didn't dare attempt to ascend to said facility in the state I was in.  Fortuitously, however, I was able to prevail on a couple of gentlemen to carry me to the 'gents' located on the ground floor.  This premises did at least have a cubicle with no-one in it, but was entirely lacking in toilet paper.  Not even a cardboard roll was present!  I had to shout, 'Yoo hoo dearies!  Could someone pass a roll of paper under the door for me?'  Dear me.  One spends much of life trying to avoid making a gigantic spectacle of oneself and, on this occasion, I was a spectacular failure!  I have spent the past couple of days wondering what could have been behind this misfortune.  And I think that the gift of an anonymous box of chocolate liqueurs - thrust through the letter box while I was out - might be responsible.  It is just possible that I may have acquired an enemy of two as a result of my activities 'out in the field' and that someone has tracked me down!  Crab meat toxin is almost invariably fatal and I feel that it was only immediate liquid efflux, whilst ensconced on the pot at the Beetroot Inn, that saved me.
I'm not sure I can write much more pet.  I am feeling a little peaky and not even the (undoubted) joys of sticking snowflakes on my sitting room windows, and wrapping maroon and green ribbons round my wall candelabras, can replenish my sapped reserves. 
Yours
Auntie 

Monday 3 December 2012

Blow it up after dark . . .

10 Forsythia Grove
Outer Hamlet
CORSETTSHIRE  ZY6 4GT

 My Dear Ralph
I am somewhat in the doldrums today pet.  Somehow, God knows how, I seem to have acquired a case of the mumps.  And, now that I reflect upon the matter, it was probably when I was riding around in the Banger 0.9L with Pamela's two nieces.  I don't know dear.  I feel rather long in the tooth for said affliction - but at least it is not Dengue fever or some similarly fatal condition.  My face has swollen to the size of a pumpkin and it is very difficult to separate one jaw from another.  I think I may have to resort to sucking today's repasts through a straw!
I have been trying to think of ways to cheer myself up and so have attired myself in that lovely lacy burgundy negligee you so admired recently.  I am also having one or two nips from an amber-coloured bottle containing 70cl of Southern Comfort (through the straw).  This is such a comforting beverage pet, with a most flavoursome aroma and a taste which tangs perfectly upon the tongue.  There is really something quite sensuous about the curvature of the neck of said container and, on any number of occasions, I have taken one to bed with me instead of my floppy rabbit, Horace.  It is rather looking as if I will be reaching the bottom of this bottle before noon, and so perhaps we may retire together to the bedchamber for a little nap.  
In the mean-time, I think perhaps I will clean my revolver - that rather weighty Smith and Wesson I think I mentioned to you in a previous epistle?  This, again, has the most appealing of convexities.  Maybe it would like to come to bed with me too?  Do you know anything about gun cleaning dear?  It really is most straightforward.  All one has to do is remove any bullets from the chambers and unscrew the centre.  This then swings out and one can sweep up and down the barrel using a bronze wire brush.  The denouement of said sequence of activities comes when one dampens a lint-free cloth with gun oil and polishes the metal until it glints.  I am not altogether sure I should be telling you all this however.  I know how alert you are to any possibility of acquiring additional equipment for your own brand of undercover activities.   And I don't think it would really do for you to be seen brandishing a Smith and Wesson at any government animal experimentation centre!   Confine yourself to simply letting the poor creatures out dear.
Well, time is motoring on and I do believe I have glimpsed my next subject for study from the sitting room window.  I don't know if I have ever mentioned it before, but I have a rather large Sycamore tree stump cluttering up the back garden.  It is really most annoying to keep catching my petrol-powered mower on its buttress roots!  I wonder if you could possibly research the topic of explosives for me on the internet?  What this item needs, as far as I can see, is one or two sticks of gelignite (also known in the trade as 'gelly').  It may be somewhat of a hindrance that I am residing in the Outer Hamlet Conservation Area - but we will have to be enterprising and blow it up after dark!
Yours
Aunt Agatha

Saturday 1 December 2012

Secret Service: EPISODE 90

10 Forsythia Grove
Outer Hamlet
CORSETTSHIRE  ZY6 4GT
 
My Dear Ralph
I have just spent quite some minutes trapped inside the toilet at the local WiFi outlet.  It is unlike me to panic, as you know dear, but the lock simply wouldn't - despite several hefty tugs - slide back into the 'open' position!  Naturally, I stood in the stall, cogitating, and it seemed to me that I was either going to have to shout (loudly) for help or actually climb up over the sides, throwing my bags before me!  In the end, I stood on the closed toilet lid and aimed a Tae Kwondo-style kick at the lock's knob slider.  It opened, thank heavens, and I am once more supping upon a Hot Chocolate in my seat in the sun.  Hopefully, the rest of the day will not be quite so stimulating!
Over at the Hoppe Valley Hotel yesterday morning, the temperatures at 8am resembled those found in a Deep Freeze style of environment.  And I was greeted by the news - delivered up by the head gardener Twinkle - that Sir Hoppe has acquired a Python Tower Ladder so that we might embark upon the annual pruning of the Jasminum nudiflorum (currently obscuring nearly all of the hotel's second floor windows).   This ladder has four extensible legs and my own opinion, dear, is that said mechanism is not at all safe - particularly in the absence of some kind of secure basket at the apex!  Twinkle and I had quite a conversation about who was going to get up there first and we, both of us, had quite significant personal objections.  He is currently on medication for his tennis elbow and this apparently makes him liable to dropping objects held in the hand.  And I seem to be having bouts of dizzy spells quite possibly related to a life of quite prostrating loneliness.  Certainly I do not wish to spend my remaining years, in splinters, over at No Return District General Hospital - especially with no-one coming to see me! 
I did, however, eventually agree to climb up a more normal type of extensible ladder and - with one hand clinging on to the rungs - deployed my secateurs in the removal of several thousand shoots of the afore-mentioned climbing plant.  The advice given never to look down is certainly sound, believe you me, especially when one is eyeball to eyeball with the roof guttering and one or two pigeons' nests.  In fact, it was at this particular moment that Sir Hoppe rounded the corner of the building and - his eyes alighting on the (assembled) Python Tower Ladder - he immediately frisked to the top.  I gazed down at him from my perch, while he swayed in the crows' nest of his own piece of equipment, and then I made some remark or other to the effect that the male of the species was obviously designed to swing about at height!   Well pet, he beamed up at me and announced that, 'In fact, dear lady, this is because us males tend to be rather dim and can't actually imagine outselves splattered all over the forecourt.'  I did rather snigger at this as, of course, he is most certainly correct!
Yours, both feet planted firmly on terra firma
Aunt Agatha

Wednesday 28 November 2012

Bone paste . . .

10 Forsythia Grove
Outer Hamlet
CORSETTSHIRE  ZY6 4GT
 
 
My Dear Ralph
I am so glad you are out pet; I feel released back into the freedom of more 'ordinary' confidences! 
Here in rural Corsettshire, we are about (thank God) to exit the season of leaf sweeping and enter that of shrub pruning.   I must say that leaning on, and pulling against, that rake seems to have been responsible for my latest bout of spinal extremis.  Not that this summer's experience of weeding has been all that much better.  I have practically worn my knee joints into bone paste extracting Hairy Bittercress from the borders over at Sir Murgatroyd Hoppe's.  Have I mentioned this personage to you before dear?  I think he may have entered my life when you were off the scene, so to speak.
Some months ago, when I was perusing a local website, I just happened to notice that the Hoppe Valley Hotel was seeking additional aid in the form of summer weeders in their landscaped gardens.  So, of course, I immediately decided to motor over and apply for said position (concealing the Banger 0.9L behind a handily-located Cedar of Lebanon).  And I was on time pet!  However, there was absolutely no sign of Sir Hoppe at his residence just inside the gate pillars.  You'd think said individual would have the decency to turn up promptly wouldn't you dear?  Well I hovered about inside the vestibule - even at one point thumping loudly (several times) on a giant brass knocker I could see stationed on the exterior of the front door.  Silence.  Eventually, I resorted to phoning him up on the telephone installed on his own reception desk!  The result this produced was that a rather puce-faced Sir Murgatroyd Hoppe whipped open the door and demanded why I hadn't actually used the door bell!  Well, I don't know dear.  I hadn't actually seen it, concealed as it was behind several thousand Wisteria sinensis stems to the left of the paintwork.  And then, just to add insult to injury, he called to his wife from the hall, 'Do you know Annabel, we've actually got someone here who doesn't know how to use a door bell!'
Hmmph.  I was fuming pet as you might well imagine.  I screeched to a halt on their polished parquet floor and said,
'I naturally thought you would be good enough to be within earshot of your very own door knocker at the time of our appointment.  And, furthermore, at least I had the initiative to dial you up from the exterior of the premises.'  I did rather think dear, that this might be the end of our interview as our mutual feathers were certainly ruffled at this point!  However, I should imagine that he gathered - just from looking at me clad in my best James Bond attire - that I would be just the lady to wield a giant pair of petrol-powered hedge cutters and shear some kilometers of Yew hedge!  'Hrrrmph' he said, 'Let me take your coat for you dear lady.'  So off we toddled into his dining room, where we commenced our discourse and where it ultimately turned out that he really is very fond of his garden.  Quite despite myself, I found myself declaring that he was actually a very sweet human being (and I never thought I'd ever be uttering such words during our debacle in the hall).  He must have liked me somewhat pet because I have been let off hedge cutting and allowed to confine my attentions to weeding and edging!
I hope you are recovering from your bout of incarceration and in-cell intimidation nephew?  It must be much warmer in your own demesne where you will now be able to keep your dalek-design duvet wrapped upon you on the bed!  
Yours
Aunt Agatha

Saturday 24 November 2012

Licenced to Kill . . .

10 Forsythia Grove
Outer Hamlet
CORSETTSHIRE  ZY6 4GT
 
I think the confidential information I expressed to you in my last missive may have been breached, favourite nephew.  I received a visitation from the Outer Hamlet 'special branch' in the early hours of yesterday morning, and was asked to attend the Central Opolis police station.  Naturally (dear) it took some while to exchange my night-time attire - a long beaver fur jacket with multiple zippers - for the suave outfit recognized as 'pukka' by those individuals in authority more limited in imagination.  Down at the Cop Shop, and interrogated by one Beagle and his side-kick Piles, I was asked whether my Glock hand gun and my high velocity rifle were actually registered?  The nerve of some people pet!  Deploying my most basilisk-like stare, I quoted the 25-digit-long reference numbers listed on the registration certificates -  and suggested checking with the UK Gun Registration authority.   It was then intimated that I was actually planning an illicit killing (your cell mate I presume . . . ).  I leaned forwards pet, pressing my lips together into their firmest line, and replied: 'It may not be well known to my nephew, or to anyone else, but when engaged upon "special missions" I do still retain my Licence to Kill.'   Honestly dear.  It took quite some hours, and a level of emailing to SIS, before my name was cleared and I could leave!
To change the subject utterly, I then motored over to visit poor Pom-Pom who is still 'incarcerated' in No Return District General Hospital.  He looked worse (half-sitting in bed, very pale, eyes closed) and I was in receipt of a couple of accounts from him about having to try to eat lunch while lying flat in bed.  As far as I could tell, no-one had tried to stand him up - or sit him out in a chair - on this ward either.  His eyes were gunked up with a conjunctivitis-like discharge and I had a go at soaking off some of the crusts sealing his eyes shut.  A friendly nurse, clad in a navy blue dress, did appear at this point with the drugs trolley and she gave me his two bottles of eye drops (left eye and right eye) to dispense.  This did at least make me feel included.  I asked her about sitting in the chair and she told me that Pom-Pom's bottom was too sore for him to be able to do that.  Well he has just spent some weeks lying in bed!
Later on, while waiting for two health care assistants to turn him in bed, I noticed the magnetic white board outside in the hall.  Pom-Pom has the green 'ready for discharge' button up on the row applying to him.  I asked a passing nurse about discharge to community hospitals.  She was very helpful and told me that, if you live in Corsettshire, you are likely to end up one of two destinations.  And, if you live in Littonshire, you are likely to wind up in one of three destinations . . .  These counties are very big pet and one can end up driving miles and miles to visit a relative or friend.  (Heavens knows what happens for people who don't have a car.)  I looked at the nurse and she said, 'I know. It's the system.'  And what a horrifying system it is.  Pom-Pom simply sighed and said, 'I don't know where it's all going to end.'  
How does national care of the elderly regress into such a state as this?  Each small town quite patently needs its own small community hospital/ward so that the elderly person not in need of acute medical treatment has somewhere to go near to the people who care about him or her.  As things stand, hundreds of people spend weeks log-jammed inside No Return District General Hospital - moved endlessly from ward to ward - with absolutely nowhere to go that would be good for them!  I think I need another calming down tablet pet as, coming hard upon the heels of my trip to the Cop Shop, I am feeling a little frayed. 
On a lighter note, I have equipped myself with all the items I need to make some Christmas cards.  These include: the cards(!), glue, oil pastels, charcoal and feathers.  My idea at the moment is to feature robins, owls, and buzzards all in the act of ripping apart some prey!  I am quite patting myself on the back over this notion - despite the slight lack of artistic ability which may hamper my endeavours.  Certainly I need to rip apart something (legally) as I am feeling as cross as it is possible to be!
Take care dear.
Yours
Aunt Agatha

Wednesday 21 November 2012

High-velocity rifle . . .

10 Forsythia Grove
Outer Hamlet
CORSETTSHIRE  ZY6 4GT
 
My Dear Ralph
I am trying to keep my eye on the sights so-to-speak, owing to having been stricken with agonizing stiffness of the lower back.  Never attempt to carry a wheelbarrow laden with shorn branches up a long flight of stone steps is my advice to you - assuming you ever exit your present premises that is!
Aren't there any actual staff over at Small Cell gaol pet?  It doesn't seem de rigeuer (if that is the appropriate phrase) for your cell mate to requisition all your blankets for his own use!  You really should have taken me up on my offer to give you martial arts lessons (free) for, if you had, you would not be feeling so helpless now.  If things deteriorate any further, you had better equip me with his description, so that I can pick him off in the exercise yard with my high-velocity rifle!  (I do hope no-one else is reading my missives dear; do let me know if the envelope seal appears to be tampered with). 
Meanwhile, I went off on a long walk to Shoe Magna with my chum Zelda the other day. She has recently taken early retirement from the 'Explosives Sniffer' section of the police force with her bloodhound, Zipper.  And the reason for this retirement is because she has started to suffer from problems with her balance and co-ordination.  I did not actually realize how bad this problem was until we got back from this outing with myself being the only uninjured person!  First of all we were tramping down some muddy slope or other and I heard a thump (and a scream) immediately to my rear.  It was Zelda, who had slipped and bounced on to her nose on the turf.  Well it would have been funny pet, had it not been for the fact that she was prone on the ground and in an obvious state of distress.  'This keeps on happening,' she wept as I patted her back and adjured her to stay put until she felt composed.  Why is it always at these precise moments that a crowd of hillwalkers come round the corner and commence gaping at the scene?  Standing by Zelda's side - and chirping that we did not require to be evacuated by helicopter - I waved them past.  And, once the blood and dirt had been mopped off Zelda's nose, we were ready to continue.  However, she had lost confidence and, for quite some time, we had to proceed choo-choo style (her behind me and with one hand on my shoulder) until she could carry on, unaided.
And then, about half-an hour later, Zipper disappeared under the gate to a farmhouse and, almost immediately, the most piteous screams (his) ensued, from a position just out of sight.  Naturally pet, I just craned my head over the fence from a safe distance, as Zelda does not know about my past and is not aware that I always have a Glock hand gun stashed about my person.  Most fortuitously, it turned out that a cat (going by the name of  'Slasher') was more than capable of carrying out a vigorous defence of his territory.  In fact, it was greatly amusing to see said Slasher advance, slashing the air before him, with an extended front paw!  Having an animal such as this in one's pack would have been a great asset during any parachute drop into enemy territory I must say.  However, I covered up my musings as best I could, grabbed Zipper by the collar upon his emergence - also bleeding from the nose - while Zelda extended her apologies to the farmer's wife.  This lady was actually most helpful and, remarking that Slasher had seen off any number of dogs over the years, she hastened in to get the bottle of Hibisol she keeps for dog First Aid!   'What a wonderful cat,' I couldn't help from remarking.  'I don't suppose he is for sale?  I think the SIS could put him to very good use out in the field!'  Both the lady and Zelda herself gave me a very odd look at this point as, in my enthusiasm, I had almost given myself away!
Well dear.  That's about all for now.  I have parcelled up a skipping rope for you, so that you may keep warm in your cell overnight without a host of goose bumps breaking out!
Yours
Aunt Agatha



Saturday 17 November 2012

A powerful jet . . .

10 Forysthia Grove
Outer Hamlet
CORSETTSHIRE  ZY6 4GT
My Dear Ralph
I thought I'd try to cheer you up, dear, with a description of my evening down at the Ultra Arts Venue.  Thank you for your telephone message by the way.  You must try not to get too anxious about the cell mate with the unbending stare.  Surely, after all, they would not pair you up with someone who repeatedly extinguishes their 'room' partner?  My advice is to desist from shaving, in case his proclivities tend more towards the amorous!
Now, where was I?  Ah yes.  As you know, I sometimes volunteer down at the above-named arts venue and they usually ask me to operate the door-opening buttons and hand out event programmes.  However, yesterday they asked me to be the Fire Warden!  Well I immediately busied myself about the building counting fire hoses, smoke detectors and fire extinguishers because, as you know dear, in life one must be prepared for every eventuality!  My seat in the auditorium was by the rear fire exit and also most opportunely positioned near a large red fire hose.
The musical ensemble gathered before us on the stage hailed, I believe, from some region in the Balkans and comprised seven musicians all playing a different musical instrument.  I myself am not terribly familiar with the identity of such apparati but I think I may have recognized a mandolin, a violin, an accordion, drums, a double bass, clarinet and an electrical guitar. Does that add up to seven pet?  I must say that the girl playing the clarinet had quite exceptional abilities and there were moments when I could almost feel my brow knit with the compassion and joy which her playing invoked.  This may sound rather silly to you dear, but it is not everyone whose playing can touch the human heart - and I made a point of thanking her, in the interval, for the ravishing beauty of her performance.  I did also manage to quaff one or two units of wine at the bar during the hiatus, which I hope nobody noticed!
It was during the second half that I happened to notice one or two curls of smoke wafting out of the amplifier used by the electrical guitar player.  And then flames!  Well, of course pet, I immediately became alert to my duties as Fire Warden and bounded out of my seat in the direction of the fire hose.  This implement was quite delightfully easy to unreel I must say, and I dashed down the steps of the auditorium with almost all of it engorging like a proverbial python behind me.  Of course, one does have to turn the distal spigot on and this I did the moment I was in striking distance of the conflagration.  A powerful jet of water emerged from the metal nozzle and, as it zapped into the casing of the amplifier, there was a most blinding flash and the entire thing exploded!!  Oh dear me pet!  It later transpired that I should have been using the appropriate form of fire extinguisher as voltage from an electrical device is apparently most hugely conducted in a solid jet of water!  I myself was most fortunate only to have my French pleat slightly frizzed and this turned out to be due to the wearing of rubber-soled shoes.  (Usually, as you know dear, I like to deport myself in stilettos but the dress code at the Ultra Arts Venue is really quite severe.)  However, I have learned a thing or two this evening - knowledge kindly dispensed by the Outer Hamlet fire crew - and one of them is to use a hose on a 'sprinkle' setting if one absolutely has to use water when fighting an electrical fire.  (You are probably aware of this pet, but an interrupted stream of water is less electrically conductive than a full-on jet!)  Anyway, I may have been on the receiving end of one or two black looks from Anton and Giles, who are the joint front-of-house managers at Ultra.  Well, I do feel that their briefing should have been more explicit and I myself have been more than a little inconvenienced!  I spent the remainder of this evening peeling scorched - wet - clothing off of my own person at home and will have to visit French Pleats at their earliest convenience in the morning!
Yours
Aunt Agatha
P.S.  Chin up pet.  You will be out soon!

Friday 16 November 2012

Secret Service: EPISODE 85

10 Forsythia Grove
Outer Hamlet
CORSETTSHIRE  ZY6 4GT
 
 
My Dear Ralph
How are you getting on pet?  I am thinking of you you know, in your cell at Small Cell gaol, and am sorry to hear that 'lights out' are enforced at 2100 hours and that someone has misappropriated your television set.  I am also trying to be a model auntie here and not engage in correspondence of a too enthralling nature given the possibility of there being 'snoops' at point of receipt!
It was during some discussion of bandages, recently, that I started to recollect the days of the London 'Routemaster' buses.  These were the red ones, you might recall, with curved contours and big round headlights.  Their most exciting, and defining, characteristic was the rear platform one could jump upon while swinging from the white 'bandaged' pole also at this end.  I believe there were any number of cases of people missing the platform and sliding beneath the wheels.  And the whole dash for the bus had an element of thrill about it, which is now entirely missing from the sedate entry on to and exit from today's buses with boring sealed doors. These buses were manned (or 'personned' in today's vernacular) by a driver and a conductor equipped with a ticket machine.  Those were the days dear and it is sad that you have missed them!
I also recall that weekend, some twenty years ago, when my chum Joyce and I set out for the Isle of Wight (from Fulham in south west London) on our bicycles.  It may sound ridiculous now - given the fact that we were in our early forties at the time - but I believe we were decked out in 'hot pants' and 'platform soles' for this marathon trip.  What on earth we were thinking, I can't imagine.  Perhaps we were still hoping to attract the attentions of some suitable male en route?  Anyway, my outfit was definitely violet in hue and I was mounted upon a type of bicycle called a Moulton Mini.  I don't know whether you have ever seen one of these conveyances have you pet?  It has very small white tyres and only three gears and is not the sort of bicycle one should ever attempt to travel further than the corner shop on.  Joyce, of, ever with the eye to advantage, was in possession of a much more normal item which was equipped with five gears.  This trip, from my point of view, turned into the complete horror story.  As we toiled up the steep incline leading to the 'Devil's Punch Bowl,' I became more and more aware of a nasty, chafing, rash on the inside of both my thighs.  And, at an increasing distance, ahead, was the annoying sight of Joyce's muscular calves pounding up to the summit.  I was so cross actually dear, that I determined at this point to take the first possible opportunity to catch a train the rest of the way!  In fact, the only highlight (that still fills my heart with glee) occurred when Joyce was sailing effortlessly downhill with a grassy bank to one side.  Deliciously, her water bottle fell off the bicycle's diagonal strut and rolled for some hundreds of metres down said bank.  In fact it was quite out of sight and even the redoubtable Joyce was quite puce in the face after some tens of minutes looking for it!  
More recently dear, my chum Entwhistle and I motored over to one of the Relais & Chateaux chain of hotels to treat ourselves to a deluxe repast.  And deluxe it certainly was!  I don't know if they are familiar with the sort of customer who arrives in the Ford Escort style of motor but, if they weren't, they certainly hid it well.  The whole environment was so overwhelmingly first class that, for one or two moments, I felt slightly unnerved.  It is so many years since I have had the funds, or fortune, to access and spend in such an establishment.  Entwhistle, too, looked slightly uncomfortable as he spread a table cloth size of white linen napkin across his lap.  I did wince slightly when the sommelier arrived and Entwhistle asked for a 'grape juice' but I, too, was floundering and wondering what to ask for.  Anyway, the food was exquisitely prepared, and presented, and we were seated in surroundings unmatchable in opulence and elegance.  The service, too, was estimable in its grace and courtesy and I can, unhesitatingly, say that it was, without doubt, the best dining experience I have had for quite some decades.  I have Entwhistle to thank for it all, too, as it was  his suggestion and, owing to a recent windfall, he was kind enough to pay for most of it!  I won't bore you, pet, with a description of the hors d'oevres, the starters, the main course, the dessert, or the petit fours  because, for all I know, over in Small Cell gaol, you are subsisting on a diet of porridge and cream crackers, all washed down with a glass of tap water!  When is your release date again?
Yours
Aunt Agatha

Wednesday 7 November 2012

Kok kok kok . . .

10 Forsythia Grove
Outer Hamlet
CORSETTSHIRE  ZY6 4GT
 
 
My Dear Ralph
I'm sorry to hear pet, that you are about to be imprisoned for fomenting civil discord on the streets of Bright Litton.  Is that really illegal?  It is not as if you were committing treason!  It may also be rather annoying should the content of our epistles come to the attention of the Small Cell prison guards!  I will be sure to secrete some extra package or other into your large box of birthday chocolates next month - after you have settled in.
As for myself, I have been engaged in one or two activities over at Colonel Mustang's.  Yesterday, armed with a stout pair of loppers and red leather gauntlets, I decided to 'thin' one or two very tall roses.  These plants were resplendently 'blooming' with scarlet rose hips and a most beautiful sight indeed - especially when pruned to a more architectural shape.  Pet, they towered over the surrounds of wet leaves and long grasses and quite astounded the eye.  
However, during the course of manipulating the ladder, I detected an ample form, clad in a green camouflage outfit, melting towards me through the trees.  I stared, suspiciously, for my training as an operative has not quite abandoned me.  This Percival person, from the farm down the road, announced that he, and a bunch of comrades, were about to descend upon the premises in order to do some pheasant shooting.  So I thanked him for the information and declared that I would retreat to a more visible location - not wanting to end the day full of lead shot and departing, myself, for No Return District General Hospital.  And shortly after this a whole cohort of Percivals arrived on the scene in their 4x4's and landrovers.  By this time dear, I had had second thoughts about the need to remain inconspicuous.  Why not, after all, use this opportunity to practise my native Indian tracker skills?  I could definitely espy an individual bringing up the rear, periodically brandishing a yellow flag.  He seemed the
perfect target for my attentions.  So, gathering up an armful of snipped boughs,  I crept off after him (upwind of the dogs, not being the complete nitwit at large!) and made quite some ground.  And eventually, at a location proximate to the bonfire, I chirruped in his ear, 'Now dear, I am not a bird you know.'  It would have been funny, and I was all set for a burst of mirth, had not - at that very moment - a pheasant broken from cover, emitting the 'kok kok kok' sound for which they are renowned, together with that 'explosive wing clapping' you read about in books!  (I do hope you didn't mistake the title of my missive for anything else did you pet??  And that it didn't lead you to read thus far, with a more than usual degree of enthusiasm?)  Anyway, the pheasant was winging it directly towards me and I was impelled to throw self plus rose branches into the bonfire.  What I looked like given the fact that said branches were adorned in thousands of what looked like drops of blood, I will leave to imagine!
I decided that my most sensible course of action, at this point, was to retire from the fray and head for my desk in the chipmunk hut.  Colonel Mustang had, after all, asked me to consider the subject of discounts when the gardens open, for the first time, to the public next year.  I have had a few ideas now and I would like you to consider them.  My first innovation is going to be the introduction of a 'green' concessionary rate.  This will be given to anyone who possesses the initiative to either cycle, or walk, up the drive - leaving any motor vehicle on the road.  Secondly, I think we will offer a concession to ex-offenders/sufferers from severe mental health conditions - with a preference for anyone recently released from Broadmoor or Rampton.  And, finally, we could offer a discount to anyone able to identify the (obscure) horticultural specimen I present, in a jam jar, on the cash desk!  For who, I wonder, will be able to identify a shoot from the Katsura tree (otherwise well known to us all by the name of Cercidyphyllum japonicum)!  I don't know what we are going to do about access to toilet facilities.  Perhaps the ladies can be shown to the shrubby laurel to the left of the gate and the gentlemen will be able to use the facilities up against the Bird Cherry tree.  I must say dear that, by these methods, I might quite enjoy my sojourn down at the pay desk!
Yours
Aunt Agatha

Sunday 4 November 2012

A dented front . . .

10 Forsythia Grove
Outer Hamlet
CORSETTSHIRE  ZY6 4GT
Rain
My Dear Ralph
Rain - and indeed snow - has been engulfing Outer Hamlet all morning and I have just swished along to the local coffee outlet clad in green wellies and my Nepalese hat (complete with plaits).  There is something very beguiling about entering warmth and having the ears engaged by a voice singing of its beauty from the overhead speakers.  And a triple chocolate brownie has just now added to the melting effect I am now experiencing!
Today I have paid riveted attention to a long news monograph on the subject of road tyres.  It transpires pet - and I did not know this - that the stopping distance of one's motor vehicle - is up to ten times (TEN times!) longer when outfitted in 'budget' tyres than it is when outfitted in the 'premium' version.  This is absolutely shocking don't you think?  It does make me cross that one attends these tyre emporiums without anyone making the slightest effort to inform the customer of these facts!  I think back, with a shudder, to the number of times that I have skiied (inside the Banger 0.9L) along the lanes in winter and almost come to grief!  And matters are not all that much better in summer when, the view obscured by tall hedges, one rounds a corner - perhaps at a slightly excessive speed hrrrmph - and comes nose to nose with a combine harvester!  A decent set of tyres seem to be an absolute necessity under this set of conditions and I am most cross that we are setting out with four BUDGET tyres affixed to the wheels! 
One would-be highlight (occurring since yesterday) is that my new washing machine arrived, stacked inside a lorry.  It was just my luck pet, that it turned out to have a large dent in the front and I had to refuse it!  And that wasn't the only problem.  After I opened my front door - just prior to delivery - I discovered that it wasn't possible to shut it again due to the swollen wooden flashing (rain) beneath it.  Well I galloped off to find a hammer and chisel, and then spent quite some minutes shaving wood strips off, in order to lever the door over the obstruction.  And then - when the men turned up - I discovered that I couldn't then re-open the door!  I had to shout out of the first floor window dear, that they would have to batter it down from the outside if they wanted to get in with said washing machine!  I felt quite flushed and panicky over it all, at first thinking that I would have to go to bed with the front door open and then thinking that I was going to be trapped inside the house for the rest of the weekend! 
I hope you are having a better time of it all pet?  Luckily, you are not yourself in possession of a motor vehicle and doubtless your Doc Martin boots have a quite significant grip upon the pavement - whatever the weather conditions which assail us!
Yours
Aunt Agatha 


Saturday 3 November 2012

Whiskers and jowliness . . .

10 Forsythia Grove
Outer Hamlet
CORSETTSHIRE  ZY6 4GT
 
My Dear Ralph
I am feeling rather forlorn here all alone pet - for what feels like my millionth evening!  I can certainly understand why people experience difficulty locating a companion when their years advance and there is an increased tendency to corpulence, general whiskers and jowliness abounding upon the facial features.  Not you dear.  Me.  You are still brim full of youth's Spring sap!  I have just resorted to a trip to Economy Fare in order to get a sighting of one or two members of the human race (not to mention a box of fresh cream chocolate eclairs)!  I was, at least, hailed by Pamela, my friend from the cultural society, who was entering just as I was leaving.  I naturally enquired how her recent romantic liaison was proceeding - although I did conjecture that things were still going rather well from my sighting of an abundance of shiny nail varnish, magenta in hue, adorning all ten of her fingernails.  She also had a slight limp.  Of course, blisters do result from unaccustomed totterings about in high heels but, there again, it could be due to activities of a rather more exciting nature!  Anyway, I feel most disgruntled about everything and could even welcome an outing with Dorian  (now returned from his sojourn in Japan) for a bout of nipple nuzzling.  I know I have been rather scathing about this in the past dear, but at least it is a sign of some slight interest in my own person!
I have also braced myself to make another visit to Pom-Pom in No Return District General Hospital.  As you will recall pet - if you have been paying attention - poor Pom-Pom was skiing down the proverbial 'slippery slope' when I last attended this establishment.  However, on this occasion, he was thankfully more alive than dead.  His voice was louder, stronger, and clearer and, on this occasion, he did acknowledge that he'd rather live than die.  Sometimes the frail and depressed elderly person just needs help to eat and - in particular - drink!  I realize that these situations are complex and that nobody lives forever.  And I know that, sometimes, the human costs of 'treatment' can outweigh the benefits, but some old people are so mentally tough that they can rally with a bit of help.  Anyway, he was able to drink unaided and didn't require a beaker, equipped with straw, to complete this manoeuvre.  He also showed some interest in choosing food from the next day's menu.  Things are looking up! 
Well dear.  I am planning to take the Banger 0.9L for an outing to charge the battery tomorrow.  And am also off for a  Scotch Egg evening in one of the local public houses.  I have persuaded my friend Candice to attend this with me as one can feel like somewhat conspicuous showing up alone!
Yours
Aunt Agatha

Saturday 27 October 2012

A whopping crack . . .

10 Forsythia Grove
Outer Hamlet
CORSETTSHIRE  ZY6 4GT
 
 
My Dear Ralph
It is a rather crisp day here, weather-wise, and I am just back from an early visit to Miss Nunne's.  This lady, herself, was actually standing, a little hunched over, on the stone steps leading up to her high wall as I motored up.  Clad in her usual outfit of black bombazine (worn since her husband's demise a decade ago) and accompanied by her latest Yorkshire Terrier, she wagged a gnarled-looking forefinger at me in a gesture of approach.  Pet, I exited from the Banger 0.9L and ascended the steps as rapidly as anyone might who is also clad in steel-capped boots.  'Young lady,' (for so she calls me) she rapped, 'I would like you to peruse my wall and sever any ivy stems which are invading its structure.  I should think this will take about an hour.'  Now dear, this is a long, high, wall we are talking about and I don't think Superman could accomplish such a feat in this time period.  So I replied in my most determined, and sternest, voice that, actually, 'It will take as long as it takes!'  We stared at one another and, luckily, she turned towards the house mentioning breakfast fare and its impending arrival on her table.
Mostly pet, one can snip through ivy stems ascending the base of any wall with a sharp pair of secateurs or a pair of loppers.  And ivy can be allowed to grow, pretty safely, on any new wall with intact mortar between the bricks or stones.  It is when there is no mortar, or crumbling mortar, that danger arises, for ivy stems, and aerial roots, can then penetrate into the depths of the structure and prise its elements apart.  I was, indeed, largely able to accomplish the above-described snipping in the case of Miss Nunne's wall and the multiple stems ascending it.  But then I reached the NW corner, whose stonework was largely concealed behind a pair of large ever-green shrubs.  At this point, I viewed a gigantic ivy stem (some 7.5cm in diameter) which was closely appressed to the wall.  This specimen had evidently been flourishing unseen for quite some decades!  More perturbingly, I was also able to view what appeared to be signs of significant buckling in this area of the wall: a pronounced bulge, shoe box size holes and a long, vertically-descending, widely-separated, crack!  Oh dear.  I was not looking forward to imparting these tidings to Miss Nunne as you can imagine!  The ivy stem itself would not fit inside the jaws of my loppers and so I resorted to a period of lengthy sawing with my junior hacksaw . . .  This worked I am pleased to say and I was able to remove the entire section I sawed through.  I then photographed the evidence (not expecting Miss Nunne to sally forth through the foliage) and repaired to the house.  I won't go into details regarding what happened inside there - suffice it to say that I was ejected at the end of a very loud blast of hot air and, somewhat scorched to say the least of it, repaired to the exit.  I did go past her 'pet cemetery' on the way out - reading multiple dedications to 'darling Twinkle' et cetera on the gravestones - and could only reflect that this lady must be a lot kinder to those live creatures walking around on four feet and clad in a natural fur outfit.
On an altogether different subject pet, I have been absorbing the contents of a book entitled, 'How to get Shot of your Middle-Aged Tum' as, depressingly, I seem to have acquired one.  I am now a positive mine of information on the topic of Visceral Adipose Tissue (VAT to those in the know) and dietary methods of disposing of it.  These largely seem to involve no sugar, no caffeine, no alcohol, little carbohydrate, no processed oils and much ingestion of protein and saturated fat.  I was certainly pleased to see the latter item listed as I am looking forward to purchasing - and munching upon - much butter, much cream, and much soft cheese!  All these items apparently drive the VAT away and, actually, I do believe in the credibility of this hypothesis.  The French, apparently, manifest the 'French paradox' in that they routinely consume large quantities of the above foods - and do not display the tendency to the protuberant abdomen commonly seen in UK men and women aged 50 and above.  And one certainly does not feel all that svelte carrying such a tum around with one, all day long!
I hope you are faring alright dear, and are not languishing in a Bright Litton gaol somewhere?  For my own quietness seems to have been succeeded by your own.
Yours
Aunt Agatha
 

Friday 26 October 2012

Secret Service: EPISODE 80

10 Forsythia Grove
Outer Hamlet
CORSETTSHIRE  ZY6 4GT
 
 
My Dear Ralph
I'm sorry for the long hiatus pet, but I have been somewhat out of sorts with a back injury and an analgesic-related bowel stoppage.  I am not back to my usual cheery self even now, as the above set of conditions would cause just about anybody to turn into an old Grump.
Meanwhile, I was called over to old Miss Nunne's large property on the edge of Outer Hamlet.  This elderly lady is only rarely seen about town but, some years ago, we became acquainted during a period of fitting tree guards to a newly-planted row of Holly trees.  I must say that the quality of cake supplied at this demesne was very high - and transported to a sitting room by a maid wearing an outfit wearing a most fetching lilac uniform topped by an actual hat - but Miss Nunne herself was not of the easiest temperament to bear.  We did rather fall out over my speed of work which Dolores (the maid) was sent over to communicate as being 'too slow' and, since then, I have not been back!  However, she was on the blower the other day in somewhat of a state over the condition of her ramparts - these being the high, 17th century, retaining wall enclosing a terraced lawn to the south of her house.  Apparently, these are now rather voluminously covered in ivy and she would like it removed!
It is an interesting wall pet and I have nothing but admiration for the building engineers who constructed it.  It took me some while (when I was last there) to work out how this edifice must have come about and these are my conclusions.  I think that, in the time before the wall existed, the house must have stood on some kind of grassy knoll.  And that the owner of the day decided to build a wall and have a terraced lawn running down south from the house.  So the stone must have been carted (literally) over and the wall built.  I do not know what kind of footings it stands on, but I believe they gave quite some thought to how to drain away ground water from the raised level of earth behind it.  As you may know dear, the principal cause of failure of a retaining wall is the build up of water - and its hydrostatic pressure - in the retained soil behind the wall.  And in this particular instance, I think water from the soil drains into a deep soakaway (which looks like a water well) the circular wall of which rises up out of the lawn.  At the bottom of the 'well,' of course, will be the pipes that conduct water from the soil, under the wall, and into a container which, in this case, is the 'pond.'  I think, dear, that, originally, they excavated a large hole (the pond) and that the top soil/clay from this was used to backfill the wall and create a flat surface on which to lay a lawn.  And that the water draining from the soil then entered the soakaway, ran along  the drainage pipes, and entered the cavity which became the pond!  This is so ingenious don't you think?  I am quite beside myself with admiration.
Anyway, I have agreed to go over there tomorrow and cast one or two eyeballs over the ivy, as I gather that one or two stems have reached substantial proportions and need to be severed.  I do hope my junior hacksaw will be up to the task!
Yours
Aunt Agatha 

Monday 15 October 2012

Life's pathway . . .

10 Forsythia Grove
Outer Hamlet
CORSETTSHIRE  ZY6 4GT

My Dear Ralph
I was just perusing the daily newpaper in the local cafe dear.  And I see - to my horror - that, here in the UK, we have been administering the 'End of Life Pathway' to the helpless elderly patient in hospital since 1990 or so.  As you probably recall, I regaled you recently with a bone-chilling account what happened to my chum Sarah a few years ago in No Return District General Hospital.  Unbeknownst to me at the time, this 'End of Life Pathway' was being applied, apparently in secrecy, and a more appalling death I have yet to see.  Our newspapers are correct.  If the elderly person says, as she did, that she didn't want any more 'medical treatment' this seems to be seen as giving carte blanche to a horrifying sequence of actions. Intravenous infusions ('drips' to give the patient - who may well have difficulty reaching their drinks - essential liquids) are discontinued but, far more perniciously, elderly patients who are not suffering from great pain are hooked up to a morphine pump which drips the deadly sedative into their veins and takes away consciousness and volition.  Denied, then, the fluids to keep them hydrated and administered, instead, with the equivalent of heavy 'knock out' drops - the unfortunate human person is effectively denied any chance of recovery and falls, progressively, into a numb and clammy stupor with only one ending.  The strongest horse, or bull, could not survive it.  One could possibly understand the 'no drip' idea (if patients were regularly, and actively, offered - and helped with - drinks) but not the morphine pump whose intention, as far as I can see, is to clear the wards of elderly people who cannot benefit from active medical interventions!
In my view dear, this 'End of Life Pathway' amounts to  unjustifiable homicide and its practitioners - over recent years in the UK - should be called to account and taken to trial!
Yours very hot under the collar
Auntie

Saturday 13 October 2012

Broomstick method . . .

10 Forsythia Grove
Outer Hamlet
CORSETTSHIRE  ZY6 4GT
 
My Dear Constance
It was so nice to see you the other weekend!  I had almost forgotten I had a half-sister hailing from the bowels of darkest Africa.  I am so sorry that the state of your hip joints has called for a return to more temperate climes!  However, it does sound as if you have struck upon a solution in the form of castor oil and a new motor scooter.
Things continue to be interesting over at Colonel Mustang's premises.  Patrick (one of the gardeners) has taught me how to drive the tractor and I am now motoring about the plantation, endeavouring not to catch the trailer on any of the trees!  Speaking of trees, one or two of these have caught my attention recently and I have embarked upon a spree of general visual inspection - through binoculars - and report writing.  One project concerns the dead Ash currently positioned at the end of the lake and which, should it fall, could slaughter one or two residents motoring past or even decimate the ancient ramparts which, as I may have mentioned, date from the 16th century.  So I decided to measure said tree in the end - using the well-known 'broomstick' method supplemented with a clinometer angle check!  I was most fortunate dear, in that the two measurements actually tallied up at roughly 20.6m.  This is most definitely tall enough to crush any Mustang loitering in the vicinity.
Sebastian did actually phone up the day after your departure on the bus.  I got the impression that he was feeling somewhat forlorn about one or two health issues and that he thought I might be a suitable person to discuss these with (either that or he knew that I was the only one likely to be alone and doing nothing thrilling at the weekend).  Anyway, he asked if it was possible to motor off to Superior Fare for some provisions and so off we went.  He was actually so pleasant that I felt like asking him if he was running a temperature!  I do believe we actually managed to have a mutually warm and human encounter and this has only happened on one or two occasions since we became acquainted - nearly six years ago.
I do know exactly what you mean about 'live performance' by the way.  God only knows I am equally terrified at the thought of introducing one of our live evening comedy monologues from up on the stage!  But we are getting on a bit now dear and must push a little against all these terrors because we don't know how many - or how few - years we have left.  The sands of time and so on and so forth.  So my advice is to give it a go; things may go better than you think!  Equally, I am pleased that you have got out the paintbrushes and waterproof sheeting because it is important to have a measure of creativity in one's life.  And I would certainly like one of your oil paintings in time for next Christmas!
Fondest love
Your sister in adversity
Agatha