Postscript . . .

Author's note

Well I am done now I think.  One hundred and five episodes (105) are enough for anybody to write - and read!

You can read my story from the beginning if you go into the blog archive on the right-hand side bar.  It starts in April 2012.  My passion is justice.  My theme has been goodness, and its antonym, evil.

For those of you are interested in such things, some rough viewing statistics (November 2016) are as follows: US - 1724; UK - 1274;  Russia - 683; Germany - 245; France - 266;  Poland  - 261; Mauritius - 201; Netherlands - 160; Ukraine 92;  China - 35, and Slovenia - 26. 

 With the exception of south America and Africa (nil views) I have had views from countries all over the world.  I hope this has been due to placing a translation widget on the side bar!

I haven't used the social media (Facebook, Twitter, Linked In etc) in any way.  Partly this is because I don't know how to(!) but also it is due to feeling that I'd like viewers to be 'real' in some way - and not generated by the need for us all to 'follow' each other. 

I am grateful, however, for the readership I have had; your presence in the ether has supplied a continued motivation to write.

Evangeline

Secret Service: EPISODE 105

10 Forsythia Grove

Outer Hamlet

CORSETTSHIRE  ZY6 4GT

My Dear Ralph

I have been sitting here for quite some while.  I think I may have been trying to concentrate the forces required to write this final epistle.  Comedy is, after all, a well-known antidote to what is, often, the deadly arena of life.  I am not going to go into detail here - as I have, indeed, barely mentioned my long career in the Service - but I seem to have spent most of last year with my foot on the neck of evil.  And now, I may, I think, finally have broken the neck of it.  This saddens me dear, for one does not ever wish to set out upon the path of Nemesis.  I used to think, like Christ perhaps, that one should 'turn the other cheek' and react compassionately to manifestations of darkness.  But, if there is one thing I have learned over the decades, it is that evil does not respond well to any demonstrations of goodness, kindness and love.  Evil is playing by different rules and can, I believe, only be stopped by some expression of force.  So, I have gone (reluctantly) beyond my own self and opposed the dark force, driven it before me, and struck possibly a mortal blow.  I cry dear, for the loss of a goodness that never was.  I place my full stops.  I place them carefully.  I am elliptical, doubtless, but aren't we all occupying hidden worlds?  Aren't we all swept by currents whose meaning we can barely comprehend?  Only follow the light pet is all that I can say.  Follow it as best you can.
Meanwhile, this year - last year - I have made some friends of decent character.  Dear Guthrie attended yesterday and we engaged in a peregrination round the local countryside and munched on pie in a fine eatery.  In a day or so, I will be meeting up with the equally decent Entwhistle for a tour of 'winter' city gardens.  And then there is Tom, who is a water sports enthusiast from Bright Litton.  Life force perhaps, or intellect.

I lay my sword to earth.  And the hilt, I see it quiver.

Yours

Aunt Agatha

A good man . . .

10 Forsythia Grove

Outer Hamlet

CORSETTSHIRE  ZY6 4GT

My Dear Ralph

Today I received a telephone call from Marian, Pom-Pom's sister.  The dear old fellow apparently died at 4.00am this morning.  Frankly dear, I am relieved that his long struggle is finally over.  Indeed a whole era is over.  He was that rare thing in our society: a good man, and I will miss him.

Marian did ask me if I would like to attend his funeral, but I said I felt that the redoubtable Xanthe would not welcome my presence at this event - and that Pom-Pom and I had said all that we needed to say to one another while he was alive.  Of course, that still leaves Meribel, Pom-Pom's cat, whose care I took over when he was no longer able to safely stoop down to the cat litter.  Meribel is getting old now, and I don't know how much longer she herself will last; however, she is here with me at Forsythia Grove and we will get on as best we can.

Yours

Aunt Agatha

Ideas for games . . .

10 Forsythia Grove

Outer Hamlet

CORSETTSHIRE  ZY6 4GT

Speaking, dear, about my erstwhile colleague has brought to mind an activity apparently carried out by one of her parents during the Second World War.  Apparently, said parent used to arrange for the dropping of pigeons - in wicker baskets equipped with mini-parachutes - into occupied French territory.  Capsules containing notes were then attached to the birds, which flew back home to the parental demesne.  I myself have always wondered whether the wicker baskets were designed to have apertures through which the birds could escape, should they be inadvertently dropped into a river.  Do you know the answer to that one pet?  Anyway, one of these birds - one Dumpling by name - actually won the Winn Dixie (a.k.a. the Dickin medal) for animal bravery during armed conflict!

Returning, however, to last time's story, I hoved into view at Honeysuckle House one afternoon last week and was trotted along the corridors by one Candy, the home's Elderly Activities Organizer.  I was of course first frisked and finger-printed at the gate by the rather efficient Beryl, who uttered one or two menacing remarks on the topic of criminal records checking and the necessity of my not appearing on any Register of Offenders.  Oh dear pet.  I hope the register of those 'Licenced to Kill' does not count?

At last, however, I did actually reach the lounge and had my first sightings of the denizens of this dwelling.  They were scattered to all four corners of the room (thankfully no blaring television set) and mostly, as far as I could see, they did not take their chins from off the front of their frocks on my appearance.  This was slightly dispiriting I must say, but an operative is trained to cope with any situation - however apparently adverse - as you know.  I gazed about me and my first enquiry was naturally this: 'HOW MANY OF YOU CAN HEAR ME??'  (It did not seem politic, as you will understand pet, to ask how many could not hear me, for how could anyone have replied?)  Two old ladies raised their hands and that left eight who did not . . . There was one, rather impolite, individual in the corner who - upon hearing that she was about to be regaled with a talk on MI6 operations - pulled a rather unpleasant face!  Candy did her best to rouse some interest in my presence and off I set.  Really dear, it is by no means simple to give a talk in a setting where the nether doors keep on opening to admit a hoist and associated carer sent to extract individuals to attend the toilet!  Naturally, though, I took all this in my stride and decided to relate short excerpts . . .  And, at the end of these, I embarked upon an attempt to ascertain residents' names and some general facts of interest about them.  Certainly, people did perk up somewhat once they realized that they were going to be required to participate.  And Candy's banging on the metaphorical cymbals also contributed to an atmosphere of occasional wakefulness.  I don't know dear.  One could realistically arrive at the conclusion that - if it is really natural for the elderly to while away days on end napping in their chairs - who are we to keep on waking them up with ideas for games, talks, Whist, nail care and so forth.

Yours

Aunt Agatha

Dead man sitting . . .

10 Forsythia Grove

Outer Hamlet

CORSETTSHIRE  ZY6 4GT

I have just returned from my second visit to the Crow's Nest residential care home dear.  I do think Marian must have visited - and attempted to improve the arrangement of Pom-Pom's room - because the floor-laid electrical cables had disappeared and it was possible to sit by the bed.  Pom-Pom, however, was installed in the giant armchair by the window.  He appeared to be virtually unconscious.  When I enquired about his condition, I was informed that he'd just been returned by ambulance transport, from No Return District Hospital, where he'd had his long-term catheter replaced subsequent to developing a bladder infection.  I am not in the least surprised that he had developed an infection as, to the best of my knowledge, the catheter had not been replaced since the date of its first installation many months ago!

I was horrified pet, that any human being should be put to sit in an armchair when they were hovering on the borders of consciousness - and indeed death.  It was impossible to have a conversation with Pom-Pom, whose heavy limbs loaded the seat in what appeared to be a state of near paralysis.  All I could do was sit by his side, patting his hand, and weeping for his long suffering at the hands of the UK care system.  I did not stay long.  I merely stumbled from the premises - through the long lonely corridors and unpopulated staircases - and got back into the Banger 0.9L.  Although we covered a mile or so, it wasn't long before I actually had to stop in a layby where I must have sat - in a numbed state of shock - for quite some minutes before I felt able to continue on my way back to Forsythia Grove.

And when I got to Forsythia Grove I sat for even longer in my own armchair before recovering sufficient motive force to have even a nip of gin.

Auntie

Skid pans . . .

10 Forsythia Grove

Outer Hamlet

CORSETTSHIRE  ZY6 4GT

 

My Dear Ralph

Thank you for your recent epistle pointing out that my age - and indeed my entire life - bears a distinct resemblance to that of a (fairly recently) retired personage from my sister service.  We were certainly acquainted but - owing to our very different specialisms - did not work in close congress or become in any way buddies of the (ample) bosom.  I hear too, that she has a penchant for the keeping of a type of animal called a 'llama.'  I myself would not be able to distinguish one end of said animal from another.  For your edification by the way pet, both the spelling - and the meaning - of this word is not to be confused in any way with the very similar 'lama.'  The latter is actually a style of Buddhist monk.  Anyway, at last the weather dawns more-or-less fair here at Outer Hamlet after some weeks of the most icy conditions!  The Banger 0.9L has thankfully been coughing into life - subsequent to a considerable application of zeal de-icing the windscreen every morning prior to my stints over at Colonel Mustang's.  Some days I have had to inch down the icy lanes at only a few micro-miles per hour and, on one horrible occasion, the Banger and I actually slew - wholesale - the whole way down a slope into just unfrozen flood waters.  Luckily pet, my years of training on special operations skid pans has prepared me for such contingencies and we were able to emerge without actually becoming installed in a hedgerow!

I think I may have mentioned my recent discourses with Edith on the subject of her medication and possibly accelerated decline into a local care home?  Well our deliberations on this topic continued and Edith mentioned her periodic visits to her chum Elspeth, who is currently sojourning in one of these establishments.  Apparently, such experiences are not ones of unmitigated good cheer!  Indeed, she reported being found clinging to the bannisters (in her own home) by her son Michael, uttering entreaties to never be sent to this 'Country Bunker.'  The latest is that she is hot-footing it down to her solicitors with a list of care homes that she is definitely not going to be attending - in conjunction with some document entitled a 'Living Will' which lists her preferred brand of toothpaste and how many spoons of sugar she has in her tea!  Can they really sweep one off in this manner pet?

The consequence of this conversation is that I have been commissioned by Edith and associated chums (still clinging on to life in their own homes) to investigate the facilities at one Honeysuckle House situated in the environs of Outer Hamlet.  The funds earmarked for said project were, I must say, most tempting and I spent quite some while considering a suitable pretext for gaining entry to these premises.  In the end, I came up with the idea of approaching the Home Manager with a view to giving a FREE series of talks on 'My Life as an Operative.'  Frankly dear, I was slightly offended by the just-concealed guffaw emitted by this Beryl, who might not have been able to associate my French pleat and plum nail extensions with any occupation quite so titillating as Cold War assassin.  I shall have to take along my collection of garrotting cables to show her.  I don't think she will be snickering then!  Some of these, you know, were actually extricated from person's necks in the 1970's and blood stains remain on them in some instances.  It is important never to take a lady attired in several strings of magenta beads at face value!

Yours

Aunt Agatha 

Secret Service: EPISODE 100

10 Forsythia Grove

Outer Hamlet

CORSETTSHIRE  ZY6 4GT

My Dear Ralph
Thank you for returning a couple of my recent epistles; I did in the end feel that they were, on the one hand, excessively sentimental and, on the other, excessively frank.  One would not wish the Whole World to hear about each minuscule turn of the cogs . . .
Turning to the matter of Pom-Pom's admission to the Crow's Nest residential care hom - situated on the banks of the river Beaver - I did receive a (rather desperate) phone call from him on the day of his transfer to these premises.  I still have his words on my telephone answering machine and one sentence - currently stuck in my memory banks - is: 'Can you come and see me, today?  Some horrible things are going on in here.'  The message ends with the words, 'I am missing you terribly.'  So I did go over and the impression I got from just walking in through the door - that stench of cabbage and urine - pretty much prepared me for what I was going to find.  The place looked upon its uppers, decor-wise, and I tramped through any number of seedy and depressing corridors in order to locate my friend.  He was situated in a single bed directly behind an open door.  No-one in bed could possibly see round it and nobody could sit beside it because the huge, unwieldy, 'armchair' was situated at the end of the bed, by the window.  A number of electrical cables were trailing across the floor and the television - situated high up on a wall - was both hard to see and not working.
Honestly dear.  It is almost impossible to describe the sense of dismay and helplessness I felt on his behalf.  I did assemble a couple of staff in the room to survey the scene, but no-one was prepared at that point (on a Sunday) to do anything about it.  The situation was so unacceptable that I even considered telephoning the redoubtable Xanthe (a desperate move indeed). However, I recalled that she was luckily holidaying in foreign climes at that very moment and this left Pom-Pom's sister, Marian.  So I phoned this lady, bracing myself - as a non-blood-relative - for an intra-family rebuff.  There was indeed a silence when she realized who was phoning, but I was so evidently distressed by Pom-Pom's situation that she did promise to visit and address matters personally.  She even, at the end of the call, thanked me for phoning!  I could do without all this pet as the mere recollection of it makes me feel in need of an immediate sedative.
How are you getting along with your new adult mentor by the way?  It is certainly good news that the Government realizes the importance of giving care and support to individuals recently released from gaol.  After all, a number of people might quite like to feel, at the end of their lives, that they have achieved one or two things they can be proud of - and not the reverse.
That does, of course, leave those to whom a life of unabated hedonism at the expense of everyone else - including their 'significant others' - is quite the way to go.  There are far too many people around of this ilk in my opinion pet.  I fear they may indeed have become Evil.
Yours
Aunt Agatha


O-gape . . .

10 Forsythia Grove

Outer Hamlet

CORSETTSHIRE  ZY6 4GT

 

My Dear Ralph

Things are a little extreme (aha, an oxymoron I think dear) on the weather front here in Outer Hamlet this morning.  I would need a veritable pair of snow skis to get out to Colonel Mustang's for what would doubtless be a long session at the other end of a snow shovel.  The weather is most unseasonal.

Perhaps I will volunteer for said session when it becomes possible to see through the thicket of snow flakes by which I feel constantly surrounded!

Yesterday I received a telephone call - while engaged in a bout of cutting through the blackberries - from Letititia Nettcupp who, you will recall, is Pom-Pom's social worker over at Inner Hamlet hospital.  Said Letitia informed me that, owing to a rift in communication with the carnivorous Xanthe, Pom-Pom has asked her to communicate with me instead!  Oh dear.  I hope the carnivore does not get wind of this for quite some weeks . . .  It transpired that Pom-Pom is not now requiring active medical treatment and is blocking a bed needed by somebody in more acute need.  Letitia further informed me that the good-looking WOPA home, just down the road, is full and that he can't go there.  'Well.  What are his options then?' I asked (feebly perhaps).  She informed me that there was a vacancy in one residence going by the name of the 'Crow's Nest' in the distant town of Cold-Ridge-by-the-Beaver.  I don't know who comes up with these names pet, for neither prospect sounds all that comforting does it?  One is either isolated at the top of a very long, inaccessible, pole or left to freeze in an icy river.  I gathered up my forces and retorted to said Letitia that the proposed premises were many miles from where either Xanthe or myself reside.  Letitia stood her ground and said he had to go.  I then asked her to write to Xanthe (as Pom-Pom's blood relative) to confirm that - as soon as a bed came up in the WOPA - Pom-Pom would be transferred into it.  This she agreed to do.  Perhaps I should have been stronger somehow dear?  What do you think?  In any event, as things stand, Pom-Pom is off to the 'Crow's Nest' at their earliest convenience.

As soon as I had extricated myself from the brambles over at Colonel Mustang's, I hastened off to the Inner Hamlet 'Care of the Elderly' ward in which Pom-Pom is sojourning.  And I had a very nasty shock in there, for poor Pom-Pom did not look as if he was going to live long enough to reach any further destination (located in this world anyway).  His mouth was a dry black cavern and when I tried to speak to him - and offer comfort - he stretched his lips in an O-gape of horror and rasped, 'Go away.  Can't you see I'm dying?'  I think this sight may be with me until my own dying day dear and my eyes tear at the mere recounting of it.

Yours

Aunt Agatha

 



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   

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

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

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' 

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

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   

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 

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

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

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

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

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