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