22 May
What, me stressed?
Work is piling up. I have the Royal College of Nursing banjo marathon next week, then there's the Epsom Derby to disrupt on June 4th. It looks as if I'm going to have to put the obliteration of the Dorchester on the back burner for a while. I can wait!
The old memory isn't what it was. There are devices installed on this harmonium which even I had forgotten about. This morning I was engrossed in a spirited rendition of "Born With A Smile On My Face" when the contraption let loose a rapid salvo of 12mm steel ballbearings which reduced the Welsh dresser to match wood. Lucky thing that Groida hocked the plates last week!
Cakes and Violence: Tea with Groida - Round 3
Had a brilliant bit of scoff with Big G, thanks to a food parcel from his Auntie Pamela, and just for once neither of us ended up wearing the meal. I didn't know you could still get Kunzle cakes! Afterwards we watched Songs of Praise and blew off in time to the hymns (and sometimes frighteningly in tune, too).
Unfortunately we had a slight disagreement over a game of Cluedo. I won. I know I won. It was me. On the staircase with the piece of lead pipe. Groida has the lump on his nut to prove it. Now he isn't talking to me, but hopefully his speech will return as the swelling subsides.
23 May
Groida Has Started Smoking!
Groida and I are speaking again. Well, I'm speaking and he's muttering in that unique patois of his. Something between the ramblings of a hobo and a Cyberman reciting the black mass. He believes good relations have now been fully restored after catching me one round the head with a fire extinguisher at breakfast. In his wonky value system, that means we are even. Personally, I reckon a Chinese burn or a dead leg would have been reparation enough so I consider him back in my debt and richly deserving of a smack. After tea I am testing the harmonium's auxilliary jet engines (fitted specially for the Hampstead run), so I'll see if I can set fire to his sting with the exhausts.
Really excited that Wasps 'r' Us are due to deliver any day now. Each squadron comes in its own easy-to-handle wire mesh cage so the vicious wee tykes can be released with precision (and in formation, if you are the artistic type). More of this on the morrow. In the mean time I have a foolish arthropod to singe.
24 May
The State of Play
Put the new jet-supercharged harmonium through its paces on the A3 this morning. While I was practising rapid blast acceleration and evasion manouvres in the Tolworth underpass, the wretched vehicle accidentally incinerated a Sainsburys delivery van and then blew its own backside off. The AA and RAC didn't want to know but luckily SPECTRE has a comprehensive call-out service. Within an hour I was back on the road, doing wheelies on the hard shoulder and taking pot shots at Tolworth Tower with the heat-recognition cannon. I was even presented with a complimentary set of false number plates, fictitious log book, a Swiss passport and a death pill in case of capture. Now that's what I call service!
I have fitted the plates and the musical doomsday wagon is ready to hit Hampstead as "Y Nauci 14". Apparently it's code for a wittily obscene insult. That Blofeld is a wag!Incidentally, I spared Groida from the flames yesterday as he said he still had a headache. He's making us mashed banana and grated chocolate sarnies for tea so I suppose he has his uses.
25 May
A Work of Genius
Huzzah! The consignment of Derby Day wasps has arrived. I've bought the water pistol and kazoo to antagonise them, so I just need a Trojan thingy to gain entrance to the enclosure and do the business. I plan to disguise the harmonium as a bread van, I shall wear my trusty Morris Dancer's costume and Groida is keen to reprise his jaw-dropping performance as an Hasidic Jew, last witnessed in the cruelly condemned "Ambrose and the Beanstalk".
When Big G's mad cousin Vernon was last sectioned, the only way the men in white coats could get near him was to lure the deranged bugger from the convent with a papier mache mermaid on a carnival float. By comparison I think our ruse has the merit of subtlety. We simply drive up, calling out "Hot Hovis" (or something similar) and during the clamour, the enraged wasps are dispersed into the crowd via a concealed nozzle in the Mr Bunn roof effigy. If questions are raised, we claim to be an undercover psychiatric task force dousing nervous horses in chloroform. Find a loophole in that.
In case I am wounded or my shoelaces come undone, I have instructed Groida in how to effect a quick getaway without leaving half the vehicle behind. They won't know what hit 'em!
Brace yourself for the next instalment ...
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