Soupercharged

I am pleased to report that Auntie Pamela's "Welsh Chapel Penicillin" has cured us all of our colds, but at a cost. I believe she may have included some sort of mysterious fungi with the seaweed which has led to some peculiar side-effects.

Mordecai has been running about like a three-year-old, which is unfortunate as he keeps falling over and grizzling his eyes out. Uncle Lucas has also suffered the indignity of having the ground come up to meet him, which he petulantly attributes to "these bloody bifocals", despite not wearing specs. Even I, with my superb constitution, have been affected. I would swear on a crate of Libby's Victoria plums in light syrup that I have started picking up "The Archers" on me antennae.

Groida has discovered that he is able to insert all five of the Aznavour clarinets in his gob in a fan formation and has been roaming the mine shafts issuing an unholy racket reminiscent of a herd of startled moose. I can at least put a stop to that, if my nerve snaps, with a few well-chosen words of reproach and a judiciously applied lump hammer.

As the Ambrose and Mordecai toy project has been put on ice until next year, all my efforts are now being directed toward the panto. Auntie P has told me in no uncertain terms that she will only participate if she gets to play a fairy godmother. I had earmarked that particular role for Janet Radcliffe Richards but (a) she never answers my letters and (b) I don't want laver bread & chestnut stuffing inserted into my body cavities.

Frankly, I believe the entire team is in need of a fillip. Therefore I propose a surprise staff Xmas party. Well, it will be a surprise for the staff of the Dorchester anyway! If we tunnel up from the sewers we can be in situ before they have a chance to erect barricades or call the Polis. Trop tard, Maitre d', and just see what happens when you point out we are not wearing ties ...