Border Cobblers

How To Play Poker

noreply@blogger.com (Lord Garfunkel of CobbleFord) — Tue, 09 Oct 2007 14:36:00 +0000

I recall the smoky evenings of my youth spent poker-faced with the old boys, all hunched or sprawled around the tabletop. I once watched myself put down the whole bank, much much more than I could afford to lose, on a measly full house. I knew I was only chasing the money I'd already lost, but the cards had locked me in and there was only one way out: go deeper.

When the flop flopped, my luck vomited. I floated down from the ceiling back into my body to find it cold and disgusted with me. They say don't play the cards, play the player. Tight beats loose and loose always beats tight. They say if you don't know who the patsy is in a game of poker, then guess what: you're the patsy.

Brigadier Called

noreply@blogger.com (Lord Garfunkel of CobbleFord) — Tue, 09 Oct 2007 12:06:00 +0000

The Brigadier called to Spiffield House this morning. I had just finished scanning the old financial pages. He was wondering what ever happened to the projected Congo trip. Most disappointed he was to discover it had been postponed indefinitely. Although I daresay not as disappointed as I had been myself.

'Cancelled? That is most disappointing! Couldn't you persuade your good lady to let you go?', he enquired, twirling one waxed moustache between nicotine stained fingers.

'No no. Nothing of the sort.', I grumbled, 'I'm rather confined to barracks you see.'

He went on, 'Did you explain to her about the whole Richard Branston pickle?'

'Yes, yes I did. It's my foot, look here.', pulling up my trouser leg a tad as explanation, 'The rotten gout has been giving me dreadful jip since I finished that last crate of Um Bongo. Just can't have the bleddy stuff around the house.'

'And she still wouldn't have it eh? Well well. Of course your health's not as rude as it once was, back in your racing days, is it? Can't really expect go off gallivanting around the African jungle hunting mythical swamp creatures, while your better half sits waiting. Can you now?'

The Atypical Consequences

noreply@blogger.com (Lord Garfunkel of CobbleFord) — Thu, 04 Oct 2007 13:48:00 +0000

I don't think I knew of Thomasina before the infamous bike incident. I was an untidy 15 years at the time, and she was 5 teenage years my senior.

But after my friends and I heard about her disrespectful outburst, we began visiting her confectionery shop as often as possible, fascinated that a person (a girl!) could be so outrageous. In those days, a girl who committed a crime as serious as bad-mouthing even a junior member of the clergy (never mind the Bishop) could expect the entire community to turn its righteous back on her for life. Yet somehow Thomasina managed to escape that fate.

This was partly through dependence: Dufferin's tobacconist/confectioner was the only place this side of Newry (a good hour's train journey away) where whipped ice cream or Cadbury's Turkish Delight could be got in summer, and where horse blankets, tungsten light bulbs and other essentials were available in winter. She always bought her supplies in bulk and sold them on at prices that were by far the lowest in County Down.

But it was also partly through fear: It was said that Thomasina Dufferin ruled Kilmorey. On one occasion, a large package with her name on it had arrived at the railway station and sat on the platform all day. Her brother Aloisius nipped out in the middle of his shift to deliver it home, only to be sacked and disgraced for abandoning his post. Thomasina marched up to the station master, gave him a robust portion of her opinion on the matter, and Aloisius got his job back straight away.

A Stolen Bicycle

noreply@blogger.com (Lord Garfunkel of CobbleFord) — Thu, 27 Sep 2007 09:38:00 +0000

The second time that Thomasina got caught was in the Spring of 1915, on the morning after St. Patrick's day. The famously bitter winter of that year had thawed as late as mid-March and all the dogs in the country cried with relief. On St. Patrick's day itself, Edmund, to whom Thomasina was sworn, forgot to keep his eyes on his father's cattle. One of them, the prize of the herd, went into a boghole and drowned.

The couple walked miles out of Kilmorey Village that morning, half way to Bridgetown. Thomasina had not yet broken in her new boots and as a result she cut the backs of both her ankles raw. Limping barefoot homeward kept them late. By the time they reached the edge of Cobbleford Estate their breath hung in the cold evening air in great white clouds around them.

Just then Edmund spied the Baker's bike parked up outside Mrs. Mustner's house and hauled it away in a fit of foolish gallantry. The two climbed aboard and freewheeled laughing all the way down to the village. Thomasina's boots were in the basket with the day's spare bread and her chubby feet dangled bare.

But when they hit the cobbles on Church St., Edmund lost control completely. Squealing, terrified, they reared over the kerb, throwing boots and loaves skyward, and landed buckled in a heap on the steps of St. Pontius Chapel. Above them Bishop Boran (who had been standing in the doorway seeing off his flock after devotions) simply could not believe the sight before him.

Furiously he roared, eyes bulging, 'Garrolly! I simply cannot believe the sight before me! That bicycle belongs not to you! Nor does it belong to you Miss Dufferin! Does not the holy bible say "If a man steals, he is guilty of bloodshed! A thief, he must be sold to pay for his theft!"'

Gathered around him, several of the hatted faithful nodded, clutching small bags with gloved hands whilst Benny Cartney's mouth hung agape.

Thomasina's face flew out in embarrassment. She pulled herself up, planted her hands brazenly on her hips and with her two elbows struck out, smacked careless words across the face of the venerable Bishop: 'You great donkey! Doesn't it also say, "I care very little if I am judged by you! And if I had a sword in my hand, I would kill you right now!!! " That's Numbers 22 if you're interested.'

Boran fell backwards a little and bumped up against the collection box. On the steps below, a suspended bicycle wheel ticked and tutted as it spun. Mrs. Cartney nudged her son in the ribs, whispering 'Close your mouth Benny, you'll catch a fly.'

Bishop Boran

noreply@blogger.com (Lord Garfunkel of CobbleFord) — Sat, 14 Jul 2007 20:09:00 +0000

The first time that Miss Dufferin got caught was amidst the poppies one fuzzy afternoon late in June, her nineteenth.

Earlier that day, as Bishop Boran dined imperially with guests at Rudbane House, Thomasina strolled blissfully along the sun-bleached Kilmorey Road hand in hand with her most ardent admirer, one Edmund Garolly.

Boran's chin wobbled pendulously as he sawed through a juicy helping of gammon and cabbage. He speared a steaming mouthful and stuffed it greedily down between the words of his extended and rather boring prevarications.

After dessert he stood up roundly, to the relief of his shirt buttons and the ears of his visitors. He promptly announced a walk and grabbed a hawthorn stick from the press grinning 'I daresay we'll root out two pairs of the little scallywags in this heat.'

As Boran and his host ascended the lane towards to St. Pontius' shrine, the Bishop stopped abruptly at the booted feet of Thomasina and Edmund, then proceeded to beat them both squealing right out of the ditch. He whacked his hawthorn hard across Edmund's shirt back and scolded Thomasina, 'Your aunt will hear of this young lady'.

The two scuttled home blushing, looking back only to see a further courting pair get raked out of the rough and take off like startled grouse.

Ghastly Bureaucrats

noreply@blogger.com (Lord Garfunkel of CobbleFord) — Sat, 09 Jun 2007 09:12:00 +0000

A most incisive letter from Environment and Heritage flopped onto our doormat this morning.

Ms Pendegrast it seems, rather took umbrage at the pig's advances and is now regulating quite forcibly. She's not one bit keen on my splendid boundary fence. Demanded in her letter that we take down the whole cabooshe.

Frankly, that got my goat.

Apparently the Department of Wotsit refused planning permission. I didn't even realise we'd applied. That must have been down to my good lady, she's a stickler for all that letter of the law stuff you know.

Well really I ask you. How the devil are we going to keep the gnus, gazelles and bongos off the Old Kilbroney Road if we haven't a fence eh?

I'm damned if I'm going down the Fota route you know, digging all those ghastly trenches. This isn't bally Flanders you know. God rest their poor souls.

A short game of chess

noreply@blogger.com (Lord Garfunkel of CobbleFord) — Mon, 28 May 2007 11:36:00 +0000

The Brigadier despite a lifetime of military training served in neither the first great war (too young) nor the second world war (too old) and thus failed to fulfil a lifelong desire to stand and fight under enemy fire.

He has studied every book on strategy in chess and memorised countless openings and indeed played almost daily since the tender age of ten, however he has never once, to his chagrin, managed to win a single solitary game. This he attributes to an unusual visual condition through which despite possessing glorious colour vision he suffers blindness to black and white.

We often play in the parlour of Spiffield House at an original Lewis Chess Set carved from antique walrus ivory. The only other such set in existence being that on display at the British Museum.

I ventured: It's my turn to begin if I'm not mistaken, taking my seat at the White side and clunking a heavy Queen's pawn to d4.

The Brigadier rubbed his hands excitedly, flicked his mutton chop whiskers and announced: Dutch Defence!, sliding Black King's Bishop's pawn to f5.

I responded with a tentative sacrificial White King's pawn to e4.

Staunton Gambit eh? Why you rogue, that calls for Kingston's defence, empirically flashing Black King's Knight's Pawn to g5.

Are you quite sure about that old fellow? I queried, checking my White Queen victoriously to h5, thus bringing the game to an abrupt and rather foolish conclusion: Are you having that mate? I enquired.

Brigadier rattled and shook in disbelief before felling his king with a sigh. And then he bounced undaunted with a grin: Best of 3 what???

Spiffield House

noreply@blogger.com (Lord Garfunkel of CobbleFord) — Thu, 24 May 2007 23:16:00 +0000

Spiffield House is a classical Edwardian mansion built during the high Elizabethan period in the Georgian palladian style and set within uncountable acres of Capability Brown parkland nestled in the soft lap of the Mournes.

Building work began on the house in 1875 and rolled on through a bog of errors, false starts and failures until its final completion in 1580.

The three storey residence incorporates numerous magnificently proportioned formal reception rooms, bedrooms and bathrooms.

On entering the ballroom one discovers a vista of baroque panelling embracing the exquisitely hand-carved gothic stack. Passing through the Scullery, the Pantry, one comes to the Study, the Library and further to the living heart of the house. Boot room: game room: hat room: tack room: Consummately the discerning gentleman's idyll.

Who would live in a house like this?

Well, first the Black Canons of the Order of Augustine and once the Carthusian monks of Hinton Charterhouse. Then Chief of Names the Baron of Inchiquin, The Marquis of Bath, and The Earl of Kilmorey.

Now it's just I and my Lady for one and for another but also the poor ghost of Lassara Magennis who strums her harp lightly in the night at the top of the draughty stone stairs.

I think I think therefore I think I am

noreply@blogger.com (Lord Garfunkel of CobbleFord) — Wed, 23 May 2007 22:03:00 +0000

Today I was struck by a most disconcerting realisation which triggered a crisis of doubt of simply stunning proportions. I sincerely hope I've got this all wrong. It simply can't be true, but then there really isn't any other logical explanation.

It all started a few weeks back when I first noticed the appearance in my blog of an occasional incomplete extract from The Fellowship of the Ring, the first of classic children's trilogy The Lord of the Rings by J.R.R. Tolkien, identical to the very letter to a number of spam emails that had burst through in bulk to the sanctity of my Inbox.

And then it hit me. I don't exist. I am in fact a splog: a spam blog of automatically generated text masquerading as the blog of a real life person, void of content and context and existing solely for the nefarious purpose of generating obscene profit through pay per click fraud.

I rather hope that this condition is temporary, since I don't want any trouble from IrishEyes

A nice cup of tea and a sit down

noreply@blogger.com (Lord Garfunkel of CobbleFord) — Sun, 20 May 2007 22:40:00 +0000

A person who flings their door wide to the world very soon discovers the existence of others whose trade is in menace with vile intent. For even the humblest bundle of twenties in the shallowest of drawers issues a papery stench that drifts through open doors and seeps along corridors to find in the end dark rooms where green-backed spiders tend envious webs.

You know I was rather relieved to sit down to allow my senses to recover from their recent jarring encounter. My hostess suggested I taken quite a knock, but in truth it was only my pride that was reeling and in fact what distracted me at that moment was the certainty that the brute would come tearing back soon to exact from me some merciless revenge.

Thomasina set out two fine china cups with gold rims on matching saucers and left a pot of Tetley on the draw. As we waited she recounted the tale of the time Himself first prowled through her door and politely made firm the arrangements to follow. He was called the Border Wolf back then when he was hungry and always hunted alone but now he gets The General and deploys an army of henchmen to command his regime.

As she poured I noticed a spot of cotton mould that was stuck to the base of my cup disappear under, then bob to the surface as a globule of vile goo. Then another one popped up and together they wheeled revoltingly around the rim and waltzed around each other and around again.

She got to explaining that just six weeks ago her long time arrangement ended unexpectedly when her long familiar agent simply disappeared with the bumper takings he was hauling that day. It was his replacement officer I had crossed that morning to my regret.

Thomasina arched an eyebrow: Are you not drinking up Garfunkel?

Ah hmm yes, I replied, I appear to have accidentally let it go cold.

Not to worry, I'll top you up.

You Think You Know

noreply@blogger.com (Creepy Ben out of Lost) — Sat, 19 May 2007 08:58:00 +0000

YOu think you KnOw What's going on, buT you dOn't knoW what's going on.

An Alarming Encounter

noreply@blogger.com (Lord Garfunkel of CobbleFord) — Wed, 16 May 2007 08:00:00 +0000

Of course, hearing about Miss Dufferin's recent difficulties, I simply had to follow up to Kilmorey Village to see her. Not so much to unfold the delicate issue but rather to lend a friendly ear or such. In fact I became a good deal more involved than I necessarily expected or wanted in truth.

The shop door was low and wide open as usual and the dim interior seemed that day in a state of particular throughotherness.

Hello Garfunkel. I hear you're a Lord now is it? When did you start all that carry on?

Yes indeed old bean, We've moved up to Cobbleford, doing the old house up a bit. Plenty of room for the animals to run around there you see.

Right so. she agreed. I suppose you always were one for lording it about like you own the place, grinning her ghoulish worst and crowing and crackling and fuming like a furnace. What can I get for you now?

I'll take one of your finest Montecristo cigars if I may, I replied, turning away a trifle to stifle a minor retch. When the air had returned, I leaned in a little and cautiously offered: I hear Himself has a new man?

She stopped mid reach and stepped down from her half-ladder. Yesss, she shook. An evil devil he is too. He's a wrong'un I'm telling you. Gives me the...

Abruptly she took a small step back, and fixed her eyes wide on the heavy-necked man that stood easily filling the doorway, making the entrance and the room his own.

The man marched forward, splayed his fat gold ringed hands wide across the counter and casually asserted in a foul Belfast baritone: You can go now.

Miss Dufferin stared at me desparately.

You know, there's one thing I really can't stand and that's a bully. I cleared my throat as best I could and answered: I'll stay right here if that's alright with you.

He turned about in surprise, incredulous in fact, made a menacing advance and boomed: Pardon me?

I repeated my words with a little more affront. Well I swear his awful eyes whirled in their slots and stopped when they hit on the bells. What happened next was a dizzy blur of vicious manhandling that ended with a bump on the hard sore path.

I dragged myself up to the window. Straining to see through dusty net curtains I made out red faces rocking, tattooed arms flailing and angry words spoken. Miss Dufferin had pressed herself flat to the wall in terror. The brute stormed behind the counter, snatched his payment and grabbed not one, not two, but the entire box of Montecristos.

When he barged out past me a threat was cast: You'll pay for that, old man.

He roared off in his blood red BMW. Strangely I remember a bumblebee bouncing around inside the rear windscreen.

Then Miss Dufferin came out quivering: You'd better come inside, I'll put on a pot of tea. At that rueful moment I was more scared than she.

Three is Company

noreply@blogger.com (Lord Garfunkel of CobbleFord) — Wed, 16 May 2007 07:00:00 +0000

'You ought to go quietly and you ought to go soon,' said Gandalf. Two or three weeks had passed and

Young Thomasina

noreply@blogger.com (Lord Garfunkel of CobbleFord) — Sat, 12 May 2007 15:42:00 +0000

Thomasina started out with only her share (one seventh) of her mother's wit, enough to serve and stack and run errands. Later on she acquired a flourish which she applied to her duties with such aplomb that on her sixteenth birthday Mary proudly pressed upon her daughter's palm the key to the Ledger.

Which was timely indeed for that very night the elder of the pair pulled closed the shutters for her last time ever. Not one of her six grown sons came near her funeral. The railway had years before taken them all far abroad and beyond her reach. Eventually the sad news (of pneumonia) was whispered into the ear of Aloisius who immediately wrote a letter home, but the Postmaster in Santiago dispatched it straight into the bin along with the others sent that day without a stamp.

Thomas Aloisius Dufferin

noreply@blogger.com (Lord Garfunkel of CobbleFord) — Fri, 11 May 2007 10:55:00 +0000

It's rather well known that Thomas Dufferin died tragically whilst working for The Northern Railway Company. He left behind an expectant wife Mary and six young sons. His employer in recompense declared there shall always be a job for a Dufferin at the railway, and indeed kept true to its word for it took on Padraig, Michael, Samuel, William, Aloisius and Thomas Og each in his turn.

Thomas had presciently foreseen his own premature departure and had thus secretly purchased a policy sufficient to keep Mary, the boys and an early new arrival in coal and comfort thereafter. When Thomasina was still brand new, visitors nodded: she has her father's mouth. This (unfortunately for her) later turned out to be quite true.

Mary herself was favoured not merely an attractive countenance and an attentive demeanour but indeed a rare gift for numbers and these qualities all served her faithfully after she knocked through from her front room to the kitchen to make a counter and began first selling lemon bon-bons packed in paper bags to neighbours, then humbugs and brandy balls to locals, and soon expensive imported cigars and sundries to tourists and to all.

Miss Dufferin

noreply@blogger.com (Lord Garfunkel of CobbleFord) — Thu, 10 May 2007 11:58:00 +0000

It's rather a shame you know: Thomasina Dufferin rarely steps out any more from her store (Tobacconist Confectioner) on to the dusty Kilmorey Village back street to which it fronts.

A most pleasantly preserved lady she is, I must say. Her looks she gladly took from her mother and the latter in her youth won prizes at pageants. It's no exaggeration to suggest that Thomasina could pass for a girl of twenty-five or thirty. Many a man still upon meeting her first has struck a second look and smiled. Until, that is, she has grinned back to reveal an horrific array of rotten abandoned teeth, which sadly she took from her father, who in his day could fumigate an entire room when he laughed.

Pod the Poker

noreply@blogger.com (Lord Garfunkel of CobbleFord) — Mon, 07 May 2007 22:15:00 +0000

I got chatting to Pod O'Hainlon yesterday.

His manner was rather disparaging: You've let yourself go something shocking, he smirked and cast a mocking eye: Have you no respect for yourself?

Perhaps you're right old chap, I concurred. But may I propose that the untoned physique is the mark of a happily married man: a badge of fidelity no less.

Fidelity?! he spat. Feckless idleness and overconsumption more like! So how is the breadknife and family?

Very good old boy, I assured. I'll forward your kind regards. And how is your own good lady and children. Remind me, how many have you now?

How many good ladies or how many children? he sniggered, three at the minute and seven that I know about heh!

Pod makes a great living tearing down old and putting up new fireplaces. He wears his stinking blue boiler soot two sizes too big for his short and sinewy frame. His work is a source of hearty pleasure, notably when it demands he leave an awful indestructible wreckage of wire and concrete on some unfortunate doorstep. By the time the discovery (that the council will neither collect nor accept fixtures for disposal) is revealed, Pod has escaped off site and out of reach.

In addition, his routine puts him within regular chatting distance of a friendly wife or daughter and on such an occasion he never fails to cast a furtive line.

Have you heard about Miss Dufferin? He continued. Its a terrible terrible thing. Something should be bleddy done about it. Its just not right, that carry on.

A Plan is Projected

noreply@blogger.com (Lord Garfunkel of CobbleFord) — Thu, 03 May 2007 10:02:00 +0000

I do enjoy the extensive lakeshore and surrounding lands of Spiffield House. What a delight it is, marching the old green wellingtons ankle-deep into the turf eh? Sucking in the sweet mountain air ripe with heather and gorse. I find it blows away a century of cares and cobwebs and leads one stepping afresh into the unspoilt footsteps of one's youth.

I happened upon the Brigadier this morning as he scowled quizzically down the spring well. He was scratching his voluminous moustache and puffing out his whiskered cheeks whilst the hapless Wolfhound bounded around a grounding of starlings.

Ah Lord G! He exclaimed. Something jolly strange going on down there I daresay: tip-tapping his cane askit the worn well rim and tilting an overgrown eyebrow groundward.

Not the missing bees is it? I enquired.

No no not the bees. No sign of the little blighters anywhere. No, I think you might have a drought on your hands old boy. Not a drop left down there.

Well I never! Anyway, listen old chap, you're going to love this:

I've decided to fly down to the Congo next month. Get this: to see if I can't scalp the legendary Mokele Swamp Monster eh? Unless that ghastly Richard Branston gets it first. I wouldn't mind being the fellow to wipe that goofy grin off his rotten balloon you know.

Legendary eh? Surely you mean mythical! As in the Loch Ness Wotsit. So will you take the de Havilland ?

Why of course! The magnificent Tiger Moth: The only way to travel old bean. Is your co-piloting licence up to speed is it?

Yes yes. Sounds like jolly fun. Count me in old boy. I'll have to clear things with her Ladyship first.

Ah yes hmm, I better see to that on my side too. Tootle-pip.

noreply@blogger.com (Lord Garfunkel of CobbleFord) — Thu, 03 May 2007 09:01:00 +0000

The talk did not die down in nine or even ninety-nine days. The second disappearance of

You Say Tomato I Say Potato

noreply@blogger.com (Lord Garfunkel of CobbleFord) — Sat, 28 Apr 2007 14:39:00 +0000

The noble potato outshines the tomato.

Observe: The thin blue line marks searches for the smooth red fruit, whilst the red line above reveals the somewhat spicular nature of those who seek the tuber. Google Trends

A Most Dreadful Carry On

noreply@blogger.com (Lord Garfunkel of CobbleFord) — Thu, 26 Apr 2007 20:37:00 +0000

Shrew-faced Ms. Pendegrast of the Environment and Heritage Service landed up at Spiffield House with her stiff-backed clipboard yesterday. Sniffed and tutted the place right over.

The visit turned out thus far to be quite uneventful, to my relief: Ms. Peski (the help) rustled up a cracking buffet of cheese and cucumber on Ryvita, but unfortunately she left the bally drawing room door off the latch on her way out.

Well the pot-bellied pig stampeded straight in, polished off the whole spread and then turned his amorous eye on our esteemed visitor. I think he mistook her for that Becky Loos starlot.

After quite the chase she finally barricaded herself in the scullery while I beat the brute off with a carpet brush. I simply dread to think what she'll put in her report.

noreply@blogger.com (Lord Garfunkel of CobbleFord) — Thu, 26 Apr 2007 20:00:00 +0000

When Mr Bilbo Baggins of Bag End announced that he would shortly be celebrating his eleventy-first birthday with a party of special magnificence, there was much talk and

Greenpeace Interfering Busybodies

noreply@blogger.com (Lord Garfunkel of CobbleFord) — Thu, 26 Apr 2007 08:40:00 +0000

Well I've been getting quite the stick from the ghastly Green-eyed Peace-niks over a bottom drawer interest I have down in the Congo. Just can't shake the pests off.

A jolly good deal that was though, if i do say so myself: I only scooped the felling rights to a hundred score quarters of virginal rainforest heh?

King Ubangi-Shari (a first class gentleman, I might add) simply required the usual couple of hundred crates a week of the old Um Bongo fruit based drink quid pro quo .

They bally love the old U.B. down there you know. Can't ship it out to them fast enough.

Although I'm not that soft on it myself. Mango sets off the old gout you see. YouTube

Best Get To Work Forthwith

noreply@blogger.com (Lord Garfunkel of CobbleFord) — Tue, 24 Apr 2007 20:33:00 +0000

Those ghastly bureaucrats from the dreadful Environment and Heritage Service are calling at Spiffield House this noon, the third visit in as many months. I expect they'll be wanting to stick the bally oar in: Pull that swimming pool down! Put that collonade back up pronto! Don't let the animals have the run of the house!

I mean for goodness sake. What real harm can a pair of zebras and rafter of peacocks muster ?

Best get started on the old cleaning tut-suite eh? Now where did I put the bally maid's gong?

Jolly Strange about the Bees

noreply@blogger.com (Lord Garfunkel of CobbleFord) — Mon, 23 Apr 2007 21:48:00 +0000

Just this afternoon I was middle way through what was turning out to be a jolly nice survey of the old lakeshore when I met the prickly-cheeked Brigadier leering expectantly over his usual spot along the dry stone wall and peering indecorously into an oddly rectangular hole in the ground.

Rabbits eh? he remarked.

Poppycock old boy! Too large for that. Must be badgers.

Pishtosh! he snorted. Too small for badgers. Can only be that wretched fox.

So I let the beagle, who until that point had feigned whatsoever no interest in the unusually angular opening, sniff around it a bit but, you know, he just shrugged and went straight back to his other dirty business.

The Brigadier snorted, spat and sniffed: Old bean, you haven't seen my bees eh? Fuzzy yellow fellows, so big. He proffered a pincer shape between finger and thumb and scoped an eye at me through the gap.

They've only gone and buzzed off the bally lot of them. One minute the old hive was full as forty fridges, the next it's emptier than a kicked bucket.

Frightfully sorry about that old chap, I replied, I hear its the mobile phones is doing for them. Maybe they've gone off somewhere to get a better signal heh? Never mind. I'll keep an ear out.

I looked away to admire the extensive lakeside view when I spied a couple of Rostrevor mops who had appeared upon the sweeping farmland below.

Campers is it? Haven't you brought your buckshooter eh? he snickered.

Walkers I think. Afraid I haven't you know. Shall we set the dogs at them?

Rather! he grinned. He steadied his cane atop the wall and vaulted across. The monstrous Wolfhound scrabbled clumsily in pursuit, scattering a shower of rickety pebbles.

Shall we let the little oiks get a bit closer? Farther for them to run back you see.

We held their leashes tightly as the beagle and hound slabbered and strained, keen for the off.

Wait for it... Wait for it...