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