My Dear Friend,

Journey’s End, Adventure’s beginning.

“Where are the doggie doo recepticals…?”

The bus chugged into the bus station at last. Dervish heaved a sigh of relief and carefully tied up his sick bag and Carstairs gathered our things together. I was feeling positive and optimistic for the first time in days as I slipped on my jacket.

I nodded politely to the Tolberts and wished them a happy day at the Artificial Limb Recycling and Re-Conditioning Centre and Surgical Appliance Museum. They grinned happily and Mr Tolbert pumped my hand enthusiastically.

“If you ever need a quality homemade appliance, promise to look me up, Mr Bizzywig!” he said.
“Oh yes, Mr Bizzywig! If ever you lose a leg or an arm or anything, my Jockie can knock you something up in the shed.”
“And Mrs Tolbert will knit you a skin coloured cover, won’t you my dear?”
“Oh yes. I can even stuff it to give it a more realistic shape if you like. I use me old tights.”
“Don’t worry. She rubs them through first, don’t you my dear?”
They shared a knowing look.

Oh that my dear Mildred and myself may find such joy and consolation in each other after we’ve been married 65 years!

“Come on then,” Carstairs said. “Let’s get a shift on. I could murder a cuppa.”

“Yes, get a ruddy move on you lot!” The bus driver called from the front. “It’s time for my break!”

Mr and Mrs Tolbert hurried along the aisle. Dervish worried at his cravat, but picked up his great coat. I graciously offered to carry a bag and Carstairs shambled further along the bus.

“Watch where you’re walking here,” Carstairs mumbled from behind the armful of bags and backpacks he was carrying.
“I have stepped off a bus before, my dear fellow!” I smiled at the back of his head as he staggered to the railings and dropped a suitcase. My first thoughts were of Picalilli. “Hey! Be carefu……!”
Suddenly I found myself landing rather heavily on my posterior. The wind was knocked from me, and as I sat there blinking and gasping I became aware of a rather violent stench.

“‘Ere, are you all – Holy Teabags, what is that stink?” The bus driver, who was still sitting in the driving seat, wafted his hand in front of his face and retched. He pulled a lever and the doors closed.

Dervish, a handkerchief clamped firmly over his nose and mouth, proffered me a hand whilst Carstairs groaned and stretched his back.
“I told you to watch your step – someone’s left a huge pile of dog dirt there.”
I glowered at him and reached for Dervish’s hand. At that moment Dervish seemed to catch the eye of another of these miserable-looking youths we’ve encountered a number of times on our journey so far. Presumably he was as perplexed as me to see a further example of identical sulleness and his hand went limp, allowing my hand to slip through his fingers. Once again I became better acquainted with a hard pavement than I ever prefer to be.
Dervish hurried over to Carstairs and our luggage, and busied himself with rummaging furtively, while Carstairs came over and hauled me to me feet.

“Let’s have a look at you then,” he said. Suffice to say, my leather soled shoes will never be the same again, but nothing of my person was too dented. That is to say, nothing, except of course, my pride.

“Are you all right, Mr Bizzywig?” Mrs Tolbert asked, her face ashen.
“Oh yes, Dear Lady, perfectly fine,” I reassured her with a small smile.

Her husband was attempting to collect the offending ‘residue’ from the pavement with a paper tissue.
“Still warm, the dirty beggars,” he said. “They’re probably still about here somewhere. Where should I put this, Mrs Tolbert?”
Mrs Tolbert banged on the now closed bus doors.
“Where are the doggie doo recepticals, Bus Driver?” she called through the glass. The bus driver mimed that he couldn’t hear her.
Mr Tolbert wrapped the tissue firmly around its ‘contents’ and pushed it into his pocket.
“Ooo! What’s this?” He pulled a white paper packet from the same pocket. “Oh yes! Mint imperial anyone?”
We all declined.
After another brief goodbye, the Tolberts hurried off with their carrier bags, calling cheerfully over their shoulders and disapearred into the crowded bus terminus holding hands and talking about Doggie Doo and tights.
The day was proving to be quite trying after such a promising start, so when Carstairs suggested we pitch camp and start our adventure fresh in the morning I heartily agreed. He hurried off to find a suitable site nearby while I caught my breath sitting on a rather uncomfortable plastic bench.

Dervish looked furtively around, before perching next to me on the bench. At first he would not be drawn as to why he’d let go of my hand, though when pressed, claimed a finger cramp.

You’ll remember he was plagued with finger cramps once before, which ended his promising career as a harpsichord tuner. I nodded sagely and offered my sympathy. He tried his best to swallow a sob.

And so Dear Friend, this is where I must sign off. Carstairs will be back at any moment to collect our luggage and we’ll settle down for the evening. I may even suggest opening a jar of the yellow stuff to fortify us for the capers ahead.

I am so glad to hear the scabbing is easing and so far you’ve escaped without scars.

Kindest Regards,

B

Please enjoy this posting by My Other Dear Friend, Michael Harling…

Endless Summer – The Postcards Tour Finale

I started this tour just as summer was beginning, so it seems fitting to end it just as summer draws to a close and autumn takes over.  It’s been fun and I’ve met a lot of great people, but touring is tiring, even in the virtual world, so I’m taking advantage of that magic we call the Internet to round up the Kindness of Strangers Tour by relying on the kindness of several strangers at once.  In a way, making my final tour stop to ten locations simultaneously seems the perfect ending for it—one big autumnal burst before quietly fading away.

This tour began as a means of promoting my book, but it soon became an end in itself and took on a life of its own.  Very often, I found myself having such a good time “visiting” people around the globe that I forgot to mention the book.  To date, my trip has taken me from Britain to Canada, Australia, sunny Spain, Tenerife and even back to my own hometown, ending up here in Northumberland with Bizzywig, Carstairs and Dervish.

It’s ironic ending up in the northeast of England as I was just here (in the real world, not the virtual world—let’s try to keep the two separate).  My wife and I spent a week in Craster on the coast and it was simply wonderful.  Northumberland is a beautiful place with friendly people (even if they were a bit too laid-back for our fast-paced southern lifestyle), lots of interesting diversions (especially if you like castles) and some really good kippers (with or without Piccalilli).

I thought I had seen most of the area on my week-long vacation but Bizzywig is going to take me to some of the more out-of-the-way locations after I finish this post; apparently you can get some really good Piccalilli if you know where to look.

I have to say, of all the adventures I might have imagined for my life as a young boy, touring the blogsphere on other people’s blogs was not a contender.  But then the idea of leaving my quiet, rural life, moving to England, marrying a foreigner and writing a book about it never occurred to me, either.  I’m glad and grateful for having done both, however, and although the tour is coming to an end, the adventure continues.

May yours continue as well.

Thanks and Good-bye from

The 2009 KINDNESS of STRANGERS TOUR?

Visit the Tour Page for the latest Tour updates.

Michael Harling is the author of

“Postcards From Across the Pond – dispatches from an accidental expat”

“Laugh out loud funny regardless of which side of the pond you call home.  Bill Bryson move over, there’s a new American expat in town with a keen sense of humor.”

– Jeff Yeager, author of “The Ultimate Cheapskate”

Buy the Book: http://www.lindenwald.com/booksale.htm

Follow the Tour: http://www.lindenwald.com/thetour.htm

Visit the Home Page: http://postcardsfromacrossthepond.blogspot.com/

My Dear Friend,

In the queue for the X88.

“I didn’t like to touch it…”

Things have changed on Havenwood Avenue. For one thing, the bus timetable has been ‘improved’ – meaning the buses now pass once a fortnight, so, when we eventually made it to the bus stop (after a heroic few days of walking) there was already a small line of tents and makeshift shelters. We summarily joined the end and struck camp once again.

As Carstairs busied himself with collecting firewood and Dervish settled down with a self-help manual and a Curly-Wurly, I took a turn up and down the line, introducing myself to our fellow travellers

At the front of the queue was a quaint old couple, Mr and Mrs Tolbert, on their way to town to celebrate their 65th Wedding anniversary with a day at the Artificial Limb Recycling and Re-Conditioning Centre and Surgical Appliance Museum. They had a carrier bag of corned beef and tomato sandwiches. Mr Tolbert rummaged in it.

“What do you make of this then?” he asked, pulling a small wooden stick, with a leather belt tied to one end of it.

I didn’t like to touch it.

“Show him the rest, Jockie!” Mrs Tolbert said, poking her husband gently with the pointy end of her umbrella.

“Oh Yes!” he said and pulled out a dark knitted sock, which he wiped to remove crumblets of corned beef before fitting it carefully over the device.

“It was Sparky’s,” he said, proudly. “Made it meself, I did. And Mrs Tolbert knitted the cover with his own hair so he’d not be tempted to gnaw it off. Go on, stroke it!”

I graciously declined.

At that moment, my neighbour from Bizzywig Towers, Mrs Adichie, walked up. I was very surprised to see her, so far from home. She parked her Zimmer and took a rather battered looking letter from her apron pocket.

“Postie delivered this by mistake, Mr Bizzywig” she said, “So I thought I’d bring it along to you on my way to the Butcher’s.”

I marvelled at the dear old lady’s fortitude and introduced her to the Tolberts before I perused the letter.

It was from our old friend Yo-Yo Cunningham.

My face pinked up and my legs turned wobbly at the thought of Mildred’s saparilla. She does not brew it for just anybody and in that moment I realised I was pinning my future on a woman with a past….

I woke up, surrounded by anxious faces. Carstairs was flapping me with a tea towel and Dervish was wailing and blowing his nose. Mr and Mrs Tolbert offered round sandwiches and cherry cake.

After I’d suitably recovered myself  I showed the letter to my friends.  Dervish was unimpressed at being classified as ‘moody’ and stomped off to lock himself in the tent. He could be heard rearranging his bookshelf at a most unnecessary volume.

Carstairs threw his enormous head back and laughed.

“I knew the old devil must be up to something!” he said, tears rolling down his face and dripping onto his well polished workboots. “There’s no way he could be that lucky. And I haven’t even got piles! That’s him!” He shook his head and chortled as he put the kettle on.

“But what about the sasparilla?”

“I’ve had better!” he said, wiping his eyes on his shirt sleeve.

Once again, I found myself on the floor being wafted with a tea towel.

Exactly how many of my friends and aquaintances have sampled Mildred ‘s sasparilla? Have you tried it, Dear Friend? I’m looking at her now in an entirely different way. Perhaps we should postpone the wedding for a while longer. I’m thinking, perhaps another seven or eight years? What do you think?

The bus is due in fourteen minutes and I promised Dervish a hand with his cravat, so I have to sign off now.

I hope you’re not too bothered by the blight. It can be rather difficult to clear when it takes hold with so much vigour. Keep up the vinegar baths.

Kindest Regards,

B

.

My Dear Friend,

Wrong side of the Sleeping Bag.

“A nice cuppa?”

Today did not get off to the best of starts.

I woke with an aggravating crick in my neck to the truculent sounds of an argument. Carstairs and Dervish were embroiled in a considerable altercation. I eased myself from my sleeping bag and poked my head from the tent to see my companions almost at the stage of fisticuffs.

“It’s slotted!” Carstairs was yelling. “A slotted spoon. There’s no such word as slatted!” He was brandishing his utensil much too close to Dervish’s face for any-one’s comfort.

“What’s all this chaps? Steady on!”

“Ah, Bizzy!” (I do so hate it when Carstairs calls me Bizzy. Reminds me too much of the games master at Ridley Comp. Urgh!) “Ah Bizzy! Tell Dervish he’s an idiot.”

They both stood over me, scowling and waiting for me to take sides.

“I think you’re both idiots,” I said. ”That’s a fish slice, not a spoon.”

They were not impressed.

“Why’ve you got your ear stuck to your shoulder?” Carstairs asked, turning from me and returning to his pan of frying eggs. “You look a right chuff.”

Dervish sat with his back to Carstairs and myself and performed his customary nasal-trumpet reveille in such a way to leave no doubt he was not in good humour.

“My ear is thusly because my neck is locked. And why is my neck locked you ask?” I paused. Neither of them asked. ”My neck is locked because someone slept with his feet on my pillow.”

“Ask Lord High-muck-a-muck why that is! Slatted spoons, Pah!”

Now I do believe there is such a word as slatted. I’m sure I’ve a Piccalilli recipe at home which calls for the use of such a spoon, but I was in no mood to get into a debate about it.

In these days since The Pill was welcomed back into the manly bosom of her family, things have been a little tense. Dervish, it turns out, had decided to write some kind of thesis based upon The Pill’s unusual behaviour, and was disappointed to have his subject removed before his observations were completed. He didn’t mention it at the time, because he was ‘shy’, he said. Also, as his foot towel had been ‘contaminated’ he’s been more obsessed with his feet than ever. I suspected this had something to do with my crick, though have avoided questioning him further.

We ate a sullen breakfast of fried egg and Piccalilli sandwiches, which on better days would have been a meal fit for a king. Today, unfortunately, Carstairs was far too reckless with the shell and after the fourth piece inserted itself into my gum, I remonstrated with him. He grinned at me in an unfriendly way and said

“Perhaps if I’d used a slotted spoon it would have been better…?”

Dervish stood at this and cast his buttie to the floor. I felt sure violence must follow, but no. He pulled out his handkerchief and blew his nose again. It really was most vexing.

No one spoke for 27 minutes.

After we’d got ready and started packing away the tent I bent to pick up Dervish’s discarded breakfast (it took several attempts as I was still crooked about the neck) and when I straightened, a button flew from my waistcoat and smacked Dervish right in the middle of the forehead. He fell backwards from the concrete bollard he was perched upon and the upswing of his foot caught me squarely on the shin. The shock straightened my neck, but I’m embarrassed to say I emitted a rather girly scream. Carstairs exploded.

After a short while, once I’d re-arranged the dazed Dervish and retrieved my button, Carstairs did manage to stop laughing.

“Fancy a nice cuppa?” he asked and whistled as he re-lit the fire and put on the kettle. Of Course! We’d not had our morning tea – no wonder we were all so discombobulated.

So now, after a plastic mug full of pure heaven, we are all very much more human.

To make things even better we have only another day of walking and we’ll make it to the bus stop on Havenwood Avenue and from there we’ll be in town by this time next week.

I do hope the doctor had some useful suggestions about your nail clippings when you saw him on Friday. It’s not right to keep so many in a carrier bag.

Kindest Regards,

B

.

PS. Do you think I need to diet? Please let me know if you hear of any celebrities who’ve lost a few pounds on the Piccalilli Plan…

.

My Dear Friend,

Troubling Times.

“Who you gonna call?”

Please forgive my recent lack of communication. This last week has been a troublesome one and much as I loathe to lay the blame on the shoulders of any one person, it’s all The Pill’s fault.

Claudine Jessop is quite mad.

As you know, the tent in which my companions (Dervish and Carstairs) and myself have had occasion to sleep recently is not large. At very best it could be described as a ‘three-man tent’, if those three men were very small and more intimately acquainted than is suitable for an upstanding member of a Residents Association. It could not be described as a ‘three-man and one-completely-potty-woman tent’ and yet that was what it became on the day The Pill left her Mother.

Somewhat shell-shocked by our recent addition, I’d watched as Carstairs had re-packed the tent in an offhand way and we soon ‘hit the road’ again.

The Pill behaved like an over-excited toddler. She dashed backwards and forth, running ahead to look at a Pillar Box or a litter bin or a dandelion and then racing back to tell us all in great detail. She skipped. She tripped. She span and squawked at the sky. She tugged an old man’s beard and picked up a very surprised, very snappy, Yorkshire terrier.

Dervish watched with open-jawed fascination. Not one of his eleven sisters had conducted herself in such a freely odd fashion. He lolloped along after her making notes in a small jotter.

Carstairs, who, in addition to the general luggage necessitated by an expedition such as ours, was now also lugging the Pill’s extraordinarily heavy suitcase, fell some way behind and I had to chivvy him on more than once. I gave him a rousing lecture about ‘Backbone and the building of the Empire’, which you’ll remember I’d written for my special guest appearance at the Scout Prize Giving Ceremony of ’99. It certainly seemed to hit the mark as he shouldered his burden with renewed vigour, though I’d have been a little more content if he hadn’t started his ‘under-breath mutterings’ again. I’ve spoken to him about this before. I hope I won’t need to repeat myself.

Despite these obvious irritations, we were making excellent progress. Upon consulting my map, I found we’d exceeded our target distance by almost fifty yards, meaning we’d travelled almost a mile and a half that day. We struck camp in a jubilant mood.

Carstairs rustled up some cheese and piccalilli sandwiches and a hearty soup and we all sat round the campfire, discussing our outstanding achievement.

The Pill, eager to join in the conversation, began to describe, with considerable gusto, some of her latest inventions.

Apparently, she’d spent huge swathes of time alone with her thoughts while her Mother was ‘sleeping’ and used these periods to dream up all sorts of creations. She was particularly proud of her anti-dandruff eyebrow shampoo and roll-on tooth deodorant so she hurried to fetch prototypes from her case.

Carstairs, Dervish and myself wordlessly passed these and other articles between us as she described her plans for mass production and made us examine her eyebrows.

They were indeed free of dandruff.

Eventually The Pill calmed a little and started to nibble at her sandwich before standing up suddenly and dramatically spitting it out again, proclaiming that she ‘doesn’t eat yellow’. At that very moment, I saw the light of love flicker and die in Carstairs’ eye. Dervish snuck his notebook out and scribbled with pursed lips, before returning the paper to his waistcoat pocket.

The Pill then flounced into our tent, leaving us gentlemen to shrug our shoulders and blink at each other.

Dervish examined his eyebrows in a small pocket mirror.

We were soon intrigued by noises from within, for in addition to her usual incessant chirruping, The Pill was clashing and bashing about. After almost a quarter of an hour of these peculiar noises I felt compelled to inquire if ‘everything was in order?’

The Pill’s head poked out from the tent flap. Her face was covered in a thick layer of green-grey gunk and her hair was wrapped in a towel. Dervish gasped and Carstairs had to flap a tea towel to revive him. I can only guess what the green-grey gunk was but instantly recognised the towel as the one Dervish reserves for his feet. He’s very particular about foot hygiene, which is another reason he makes an excellent travelling companion. To see his towel thus abused must have caused him no end of anguish.

“Yes?” The Pill’s head said.

“Erm, is everything all right in there, Miss Jessop?” I asked.

“Of course.” The head said. “Though I did have a little trouble with the partition.”

She beckoned me inside. I’m afraid to say I hesitated, reluctant to enter alone, but one glance at poor Dervish, prostrate by the campfire whilst being comforted by the ever-capable Carstairs, filled me with courage. I bowed my head and stepped inside.

The woman had fashioned a curtain across the centre of the tent, cleanly splitting the space into two. One side was piled high with luggage and sleeping bags belonging to the original expeditionary team; the other side contained the gigantic suitcase, from whence, presumably, a range of impractical travelling accessories had been wrenched. As you know, I like a hat stand as much as the next person, but didn’t dream to bring one with me. And I wear hats!

The Pill sat on her inflatable mattress amid the clutter and chaos she’d created and stared at the curtain.

“I’m not sure of the colour,” she said in a wistful way. “Perhaps a green one would be more restful?”

I took off my hat and scratched my head. She squeaked excitedly and snatched it from me, to place on the hat stand I thought, but no. She filled it with water and put a goldfish in it.

“I was wondering what to do with Oscar!” she beamed. She took a small bobbin of cotton from her dressing gown pocket and with swiftly moving fingers created a tiny harness, which she slipped over the poor fish before dragging it round and round in laps of my poor Pith Helmet. It looked almost as startled as I did.

“He needs his exercise, don’t you Oscar?” she said. The fish did not answer and I thought it better to leave before he did.

My companions and I spent a fretful night, squashed together, sitting upright in half a tent, listening to the terrifying somniloquence from beyond the curtain and the slow dripping of water from my Pith hat.

The next morning, when she scampered off to ‘freshen up’, Carstairs, Dervish and I plotted in low voices.

“She has to go!” I declared. “We’ll use the public telephone and ring for help.” Carstairs lowered his head and nodded feebly.

“Who you gonna call?” he muttered.

“I’ll ring Jessop and see if he has any ideas.”

*

Jessop laughed.

“Good old Pill!” he squelched between snorts and I had to remove the handset from my ear a number of times to preserve my hearing. “She always was a mad as a carrier full of koolahs. Leave it with me.” He rang off abruptly to screams of “Gregory! The Dust Bunnies!”

We waited for two days for help to arrive, which it did in the form of father Jessop, fresh from Kibblesworth, with Uncle Brian and Justine the Labrador. The Pill was delighted to see them and kissed them all madly, asking if they could smell her teeth as she did so.

Humphrey Jessop apologised for not having arrived sooner, but there’d been a rush on for his ‘crusty farmhouse’ and he’d not liked to leave the bakery.

They soon bundled The Pill and her enormous suitcase into the back of their 2007 Subaru Forester, and she was gone from us in a cloud of Labrador hair and wholegrain flour.

It was three-thirty in the afternoon, but my companions and I retired at once to our tent, exhausted, and slept for a full thirty-nine hours, not once disturbed by thoughts of eyebrow dandruff or dust bunnies.

And so, Dear Friend, you will understand the interruption in our communications. Normal service will be resumed shortly.

Oh, and I saved you some of the Eyebrow shampoo. You never know.

Kindest Regards,

B

.

My Dear Friend,

.

Please do not try to peel an orange in one.

.

MTD - the world's first Victim of "Peel an orange in one-itis"

It seems an ugly spectre has raised its head! A new and uncomfortable condition called ”Peel an orange in one-itis” is sweeping the country. Please be warned, My Dear Friend! Do not attempt to peel an orange in one piece under any circumstances.

Symptoms of those who have tried to peel an orange in one go and have thusly contracted “peel an orange in one-itis”  include aching limbs, stinging eyes and badly torn thumbnails. If you see anyone suffering from this condition please do the decent thing. Give them an apple.

My previous letter in which I foolishly said to peel an orange in one piece was a piece of cake, must be disregarded immediately!

Must dash – I have to wrestle a bag of Outspan from Carstairs.

Avoid the orange!

Kindest Regards,

B

.

My Dear Friend,

A most unusual morning.

“What’s that ticking?”

Today we were awakened by gentle ‘ahem-ming’ and the sound of someone calling “Knock Knock” outside our tent-flap. When I called out “Who’s There?” Carstairs facetiously chipped in “Dr. Dr Who?” in what he thought to be a hilarious way. Dervish, on the other hand, (who as you know prefers to sleep late) rolled over in his sleeping bag and muttered something incomprehensible about cabbage.

We heard another “Knock Knock!” from without, so I made myself hurriedly decent, with dressing gown and navy cravat, and unzipped our portal. The morning sun flooded in, blinding me momentarily and I emerged blinking, mole-like, to come face to face with a vision.

Before me stood a lady of great beauty, resembling in no way, Mr Stephen Fry. The fact that she was carrying a tray of fresh coffee and hot pastries simply added to her allure. Carstairs, upon hearing my gasp of admiration, pushed me rather roughly aside to unburden the lady of her tray and soon ascertained her name (Claudine) and from whence she’d materialised (number 21 at the request of her brother).

Can you believe it? The brother is Gregory Jessop who, you will remember, was in our year at school, and this is the little sister he called ‘The Pill’ – she who never wiped her nose, whined constantly and liked to carry around a stained nightdress.

Happily, her whining and nasal hygiene are greatly improved. I can’t say I noticed a nightdress.

As it turns out, we’d set camp right outside the house she shared with her Mother and where old Jessop happened to be staying to help out with the annual cobweb harvest. Jessop had heard of our travels and sent out The Pill to ask if we needed to make use of the facilities. Upon hearing this, Dervish sprang from his sleeping bag – he was so longing for a bath – and dashed inside, robe clad and clutching his sponge bag. He was not seen again for more than an hour.

Carstairs and I were subsequently summoned to Mother Jessop’s presence. It was dark in her parlour and the room smelled of embrocating rub and overripe espadrilles with the underlying hint of juniper – gin being her one great comfort. Mother Jessop is an unfortunately hideous woman who never recovered from a freak cello accident in the late 70s. She now spends her days reclined on a specially constructed y-shaped chaise, and lives in morbid fear of metronomes. It’s an unpleasant existence and she bears it with only passing regard to sanity.

“What’s that ticking?” she demanded, before we’d stepped more than a foot into the room. “Is it a …?” She started to shake and gasp uncontrollably and wailed for The Pill to fetch a glass of ‘water’. Consoled a little by her ‘water’, and following our earnest insistence that the ticking was nothing more than Carstairs wristwatch (which she bid him remove and leave outside the door) we were permitted to stand on the sheet of newspaper The Pill had spread out especially, and address the lady.

Jessop, himself, sat on an uncomfortable looking high-backed chair, tight lipped, in the heavily curtained bay window behind his mother, and merely nodded to acknowledge us. The Pill shrank back into the shadows and said nothing.

“Why are you here?” Mother J asked. Carstairs and I looked at each other, and were about to say we hadn’t a clue, when Jessop spoke up.

“They’re exterminators, Mother Dearest. I called them.”

Frankly, I was confused, but I kept schtum to see what in the Dickens he was on about. Mother J’s face drained of colour and in the near dark, she looked unearthly. I shuddered.

“You can get rid of… them…?” She tremored. Carstairs and I looked at each other again and then to Jessop, who was nodding madly outside of his mother’s view.

“Oh yes. Of course. No problem. Do it all the time…”

“These gentlemen are the world’s foremost eradicators of the little devils, Mother Dearest.”

She peered at us and I felt icy fingers of dread grasp my stomach and shake it like a dog with a rat in an earthquake.

“Yes. We, er, foremost, that’s right. Foremost. Eradicate… all the time…” I garbled and cast about for clues. I found none.

“You will kill them? Not release them back into the wild so they can make their loathsome way back here?”

“Yes. Oh yes. Kill them dead. Dead, Dead, Dead. No problem. Little blighters. Squish them like… like… cheese.”

Carstairs snorted. I stepped on his toe and he swallowed a little cry. Mother J raised herself up as if readying for an attack.

“Cheese?” she said. “Like cheese?”

“Oh! Not cheese – what am I talking about cheese for? Silly me. I meant like, er… squish them like, erm… tomatoes?”

“Vermin!” She wailed, as she sank awkwardly back on her cushions. “Hopping vermin!” She sipped again at her ‘water’. “They bite, you know. Sink their pointy little teeth into one’s flesh and cling on until it’s rent from the bone. I lost my Dear Humphrey to them back in ’82. Nothing left. Nothing…” There was more, but her words became increasingly slurred and incoherent as she sipped from her rapidly emptying glass.

“Er – we’ll just go and get our exterminating equipment then…” I ventured before turning tail and hurrying from the room, with Carstairs close behind. We heard one last muffled call of “Vermin” before the sound of gentle snoring filled the house.

Jessop and The Pill caught us up in the hall.

“Sorry about that, Chaps!” He said. “As you can see, Mother is a bit…”

“Mental?” Carstairs asked.

“Intoxicated?” I ventured.

“Emotionally stimulated.” he said. ”She’s never been the same since Father ran off with the Insurance Quantifier who dealt with the Cello Incident claim.”

“So he wasn’t eaten by…?”

“Dust bunnies? No. There’s almost no recorded case of dust bunnies devouring a human. No – he’s been living in Kibblesworth for the last twenty-seven years with ‘Uncle’ Brian. They run a small bakery and have a Labrador called Justine.”

Carstairs looked at me with raised eyebrows.

Dervish chose this moment to make a fragrant return, and descended the stairs in a state of Jasmine-scented bliss. If he was taken aback to see the four of us huddled conspiratorially he did not show it, but beamed round at us beatifically and asked if the kettle was on.

Later, in the kitchen, over a steaming pot of tea, we reminisced and swapped news. Carstairs proceeded to demonstrate how to peel an orange in one, which was, frankly, just showing off. The Pill was terribly impressed however, and offered in turn to show him ’something in the garden’ and they hurried out, giggling.

Jessop acquainted Dervish and myself with the sad story of his Mother’s decline and the sorry situation in which his sister was forced to exist – the daily deliveries of gin, the unending battle against metronomes and dust bunnies, and the ceaseless care for the spiders, whose webs were their sole and meagre source of income.

Dervish was very moved by the story and was soon blowing his nose in his usual ear-assaulting manner. The din roused Mother Jessop, who at once began hollering for more ‘water’. Jessop looked alarmed and dashed to the back door to call for his sister. She and Carstairs were, however, nowhere to be found.

Then, in one of his bravest acts, Dervish snatched up a dress from the ironing pile, tossed on a mop head for a wig and threw a tea towel about his shoulders for a shawl. Fixing his jaw in a firm and resolute way, he set forth into Mother Jessop’s den. There was a faint clinking of glass on glass, a vague scream and an almighty thunk. Jessop and I raced to find Dervish knocked out cold on the floor and Old Mother Jessop brandishing a coal shovel in a reckless and cavalier way.

We dragged poor Dervish out by his ankles.

Later, after being brought round with Piccalilli (for want of smelling salts), and while clutching an ice bag to his head, Dervish recalled how Mother Jessop had become convinced his mop head wig was in fact a giant Dust Bunny, devouring her ‘daughter’s’ brain and had therefore smote the ‘beast’ and, consequently, poor Dervish. The Pill, who’d reappeared grinning and dishevelled only moments before, was at once struck with a fit of the giggles and Carstairs, who was again covered in lipstick, had to take her firmly in hand. He took her upstairs, presumably to remonstrate with her.

Jessop asked if I would accompany him to face his mother. He was unwilling to go alone as he reckoned the previous encounter would ‘have her blood up’. It did. She was still wielding her shovel and cursing the mop head that we’d inadvertently left beside her when we’d rescued Dervish. She’d beaten it almost flat and was delirious with blood lust.

Jessop offered her a glass of ‘water’ as I wrestled the shovel from her and scooped up the mop head. She calmed almost at once and settled back on her chaise.

“Thank you, Exterminator Man!” she hiccoughed, before passing out with a terrible smile on her twisted old face.

The sound of hurrying feet on the stairs brought me to the hall, and there were Carstairs and The Pill. She had a bulging suitcase and he had a rather shocked expression.

“I’m coming with you!” she announced. “My days as Mother’s slave are over!” and with that she bounded from the house, toward our thus far forgotten tent.

Carstairs shrugged and dashed out after her. Dervish and I looked at each other and then turned to Jessop.

“I knew this day would come.” He said, sadly. “Take care of The Pill for me, won’t you?” Without another word, he turned, picked up the shovel and re-entered his Mother’s room.

So now, Dear Friend, we find our number increased. Frankly, I’m uncertain how we can manipulate the logistics of the matter and Heaven alone knows how my Dear Mildred will react upon hearing this news – she was deeply offended when I forbade females from our adventures thus ‘persuading’ her to stay behind.

I suppose we shall find out soon.

I trust the scabbing has improved. Do not pick.

Kindest Regards,

B

My Dear Friend,

The madness has passed. 

“I’ve also heard good things about jellyfish.”

I’m sure my last letter left you confused and scratching your head. Given your ‘problem’, this was not, I think, a kind condition in which to leave you. Have you considered aromatherapy? I’ve also heard good things about jellyfish. Do not rule anything out.

We are no longer on the train. We disembarked shortly after the orangey madness with the assistance (and at the insistence) of the guard, and you find us camping on a small, grassy verge.

Carstairs is as ebullient as ever and has already cooked us a hearty bean stew over a fire of twigs.

Dervish is sulking. His ruffles have lost their vibrancy. I’m afraid I was unprepared for such a gush of water from so tiny a sink on the train, and he completely refuses to see the funny side. As I write he is reading quietly, in the most provoking way.

Two pieces of news to report, My Dear Friend!

1. I have contacted a mould specialist, one Mr Mist , who is considering investigations into Piccalilli. This will come as a great relief to you, as I know you lose sleep through worry.

2. Our adventures have been ‘accidented’ upon by someone searching for “Flapjack Eye Protection”. I can only hope whoever it was stayed a while and is considering a future as a Friend of Bizzywig… Hail New Friend! Were your eyes well enough protected to continue reading?…

After our bean stew, Carstairs once again managed to peel an orange in one piece. I’ve forbidden him from ever doing it again and banned henceforth the phrase ‘peel an orange in one’. The twinkle in his blackened eye said differently… I suspect more fireworks over the gas-thingummies.

The sky grows dark and there is only minimal light from our twig fire, so I’m afraid I will have to leave you soon. Besides, we are being watched through twitching curtains from both sides of the street, and I’m rapidly starting to suspect Carstairs may have gathered ‘twigs’ from gardens all along this avenue. Perhaps it is time to seek the safety of our tent.

Do confer my very best wishes to your Mother. She passed us in her old Jalopy an hour or so ago, and tooted in a most cheerful way. I’m grateful she didn’t offer us a lift, as it would have been embarrassing to decline.

Kindest Regards,

B

.

My Dear Friend,

 
.

How to peel an orange in one piece?

.

“I could peel an orange in one piece.”

Why Peel an orange in one piece  you ask? Well, as you know, time passes more slowly on a train heading to a destination. It’s something to do with physics, or wheels of steel, or the Mark Doppler effect, or something.

So, shortly after we’d loaded ourselves and our luggage on to the 12:40, and once we’d passed round spearmint chews and swapped copies of Hello (Dervish’s) and Practical Mechanics (Carstairs’) we were at a loss. How to pass the time?
Fortunately, I remembered a party trick my Grandpa Bob had taught me….

 I could peel an orange in one piece.

It’s all about technique. I dashed off to the refreshments carriage and purchased a quantity of large, juicy oranges and took three of their sharpest plastic knives too.

Grandpa Bob was a bit of a showman. He would always start the peel an orange in one piece trick by rolling the orange all over Grandmama’s mahogany dining table. He claimed this warmed the skin, making it more likely to peel an orange in one piece, rather than in the little cornflake-like scraps my Mother so detested finding on the sofa cushions.

I remember fondly, myself and my brother Jolyon, sitting mesmerised, watching our aged hero as he flourished the pen knife he claimed he’d taken from the dead fingers of a Swiss army general at the Battle of Battenburger of 1627. If you hope to peel an orange in one piece the secret of success, he said, was in the sharpness of the blade. He swore he sharpened it at sunrise with a maiden’s tear and a whetstone of Coticule he’d found in Ardennes during the Tulip Eating Wars of 1889.

He drank.

A lot.

When I got back to the carriage, I presented Dervish and Carstairs each with an orange and a plastic knife and proceeded to show them how to peel an orange in one long strip. I’ll list the steps here for you, My Dear Friend, so you can try this at home.

HOW TO PEEL AN ORANGE IN ONE PIECE

- By Aubrey Ellington Bizzywig

1. Choose a suitable orange (large and with medium thick skin)
2. Roll the orange across a Queen Anne Mahogany Dining table (or similar) to loosen skin and warm the flesh making it more suitable to peel in one
3. Make a small incision with a very sharp knife at the knobbly end (i.e. the top) of the orange taking care not to pierce the flesh (orange or human!)
4. Slowly turn the orange and gently score the skin in a spiral motion
5. Use the tip of your thumb and carefully ease the peel from the underlying flesh
6. Continue until all of the peel is removed, flourishing the strip and shouting ”Behold how I peel an orange in one!”

My demonstration did not go well. I could not peel my orange in one. Soon the plastic table top between my companions and myself was littered with orange flakes. Oh the disappointment! Matters were soon made worse by Dervish, who in attempting to peel his own orange in one piece exerted too much pressure. Juice sprang forth. I got an eyeful and he was distraught to find the ruffles of his shirt stained and sticky.

Carstairs tried too. He had the most incredible case of beginner’s luck and did manage to peel an orange in one. Of course, he is more used to plastic table tops than Dervish and myself. He insists I include his top tips to “peel an orange (in one piece, not tiny scraps like some)”.

HOW TO PEEL AN ORANGE IN ONE PIECE BY HAND

- By O. Carstairs esq.

1. Get orange
2. Stick thumbnail in skin near top
3. Wiggle thumb
4. Tear away skin, careful like, in one long snakey-bit
5. Wave peel that you’ve managed to take off in one piece in Bizzywig’s face shouting ”I can peel an orange in one!”
6. Eat Orange

Carstairs has never heard of being a gracious victor.

I have determined to perfect my superior technique so upon my return to my Dear Mildred I can win her heart anew with my orange peeling dexterity. I’m sure if I can peel an orange in one she’ll recognise my true value as a future soul mate.

More later – I’m off to help Dervish rinse his ruffles.

I do hope you will try to peel an orange in one at home, My Dear Friend, using my technique of course. Please be careful with knives and remember orange juice stings. Don’t scratch with orangey fingers, will you?

Kindest Regards,

B

My Dear Friend,

 You find me gloomy and reflective today.

 ‘Man cannot live by Flapjack alone’

Carstairs has already packed up our camping things and cooked a decent enough breakfast, but a thick cloud of the grumps has settled on me as we await the 12:40 train.

I’d managed to get a message to my Dear Mildred, commending her flapjack, but gently enquiring as to why she’d deemed it necessary to pack quite so much. This morning I received the following communication from her:

Aubrey, (not Dear Aubrey, or My Dearest Beloved, just Aubrey!)

Aubrey,

I am deeply hurt that you weren’t more appreciative of my flapjack. Is this how things are to be when we are (at last) married?

Mother was right – I never should have given my heart to someone with such dubious taste in waistcoats.

As it happens, the flapjack was intended for the Church Fete. Mrs Claremont was most surprised to find my donation to the cake stall this year was a quantity of cheese and Piccalilli sandwiches, an assortment of fruit and three cans of Diet Vimto.

I expect she was secretly glad, as the absence of my award winning flapjack made way for her Radish and Cough Syrup Chocolate Cake to win first prize. She gloated all afternoon and re-arranged the jelly tots on the top to spell out quite a rude word.

And now you tell me ‘Man cannot live by Flapjack alone’.

Well Really!

 Apologise, or lose me forever.

Oh – Father wants me to ask if he can borrow your nose hair clippers. He mislaid his in Threshers on Friday and is already beginning to look like that awful little Austrian chap. You know, Mr Wotsit, who works in the Post office and has all those funny ideas about beetles.

Mildred.

You can see my dilemma. Those nose-hair clippers were a present from my Aunt Margaret for my twenty-first birthday and I’m loathed to lend them someone who treats his own so negligently. And I happen to like Mr Wotsit. He said some very refreshing things at the Piccalilli Appreciation Society last month about the merits of cauliflower, though I’ll admit I’ve never seen eye to eye with him over chutney.

Dervish tells me it was NOT your Birthday last Friday. Apologies. He thinks you had an appointment with the chiropodist. Ah well. I hope he had cake.

There is a train pulling up as I write. I must away…

Kindest Regards,

B

P.S. What is wrong with my taste in waistcoats?