It is a fine spring morning. The sun has risen over the cliffs and warms the awesome Cornish landscape. The noble spirit of this great and ancient place and people has once again awoken to embrace and nourish another day, invigorating the populace to its toil in a timeless existence.
I have just done Groida with a rubber mallet and he is resting like a crashed Heinkel, breathing heavily, but still functioning. Dozy bugger. He didn't hear me creeping up behind him. I was warned by Auntie P to give him a punitive smack and no more, or I could expect dire consequences.
Truth to tell, Big G hasn't been pulling his weight. I believe "problem passenger" is the latest term to describe the dilemma. He is writing his memoirs. Please don't laugh. It even breaks my pumice heart.
A whop isn't enough. What can I do, short of turning all of Y Nauci 14's weaponry on him? I have experience of his diseased notions; a series of information pamphlets, including the titles: "Staring At People", "The Myth Of Insanity", "Build Your Own Beached Whale Carcass" (in 52 parts), " Odour Devices In Shopping Malls" and "Muttering As A Career". But his memoirs? A real eye-closer. I have to protect the public.
In the mean time, Uncle Lucas is giving the harmonium a serious overhaul (have you seen "Future Weapons" on TV?) and Auntie Pamela is hopefully wooing the mysterious Mr Wu into a new conflict with the Icelanders. Cod, debt and a volcano! Let's towse the weird-looking sods!
