Unfinished Business

As this year creeps inexorably towards its conclusion, the daunting prospect of clearing the backlog of incomplete missions is making my heart sink like a crateload of canned rhubarb jettisoned in the Solent.

The Xmas merchandising and panto aside, I still haven't even attempted to track down and exact sweet revenge on the vile Aznavour Quins or wreak a final act of destruction upon the Dorchester Hotel. Nor have I got round to driving along the coast at night in Y Nauci 14, pretending to be a lighthouse.  It all seems too much for one mantis to accomplish.

I must get the team in a huddle (provided Groida can keep his claws to himself) and allocate specific tasks to the most ably suited. Bro, obviously, is my closest and most trusted ally and can be relied upon in any situation, except when it involves the supernatural, when he tends to get a bit windy. Mercifully, encounters with wraiths, the Nosferatu and walking hodmadods are not currently on our agenda.

Groida has a wealth of experience assisting me in my exploits and occasionally displays a talent for inspired lunacy and mayhem. Unfortunately these bouts are few and far between and as a rule he tends to be as much use as a Bakelite suppository. At least he will make up the numbers and generally contribute to any havoc if nothing else.

Uncle Lucas is quietly determined, resourceful and the maestro of poker-faced menace. He also has a temper forged in the fires of Rhyl, as evidenced when he is trying to give the harmonium an overhaul.

What would our merry crew do without Auntie Pamela? She cooks like an angel and sings like a Saturn 5 launching. She also maintains discipline among us. She is the female of her species, Welsh and capable of hurling any of us the length of a football pitch. Need I say more?

I may also put out a call for Groida's mad cousin Vernon to swell our ranks and if we can find Big G's errant automaton Mr Prendergast, that would be a boon (okay, I mean asking for trouble - as long as it is not heading in our direction).

The run up to D-Day must have felt like this. I, of course shall lead from the front in the harmonium, like a gallant tank commander. Auntie Pamela has knitted me some long stripey socks which, once tied to my antennae, will  trail behind me in the slipstream like pennants. It's all very exciting, isn't it? Excuse me, I think I need the loo.