My marketing manager, Dr Mark Booth, has just informed me that my book is now featured on the Google books site. He's apparently allowed anyone to read 20% of the contents online. All you have to do is click on the following link
Preview the book
He also asked if I was ready to publish volume 2! What a cheek. I mean, it's not as if he's made much headway with volume 1. As if that wasn't enough, he suggested that I 'fill in some of the blanks' before submitting the manuscript. When I told him that my priority was to re-establish some kind of family life before I undertake any more writing, he simply sighed and said that it was up to me what I did, but that my readerhip might well expect something in the near future. Given that my readership is less than stable (numerically, not mentally), I'm not sure they are really expecting anything.
I turned the tables and asked what he was doing to market the book. Again he sighed, this time following up with a lamentable tale about being buy at work, finding it hard to get publicity, no-one willing to give a review etc. Given this, I said that I fail to see how going to the effort of producing another volume would be worth it. 'Aaah, but, Joseph', he replied. 'If you produce two books, that's more space on the bookshelves, more material to your name, and how many people do you know who have published 2 books for charity?'
'I'll think about it...', I said, solemnly. 'My level of enthusiasm is currently quite low.'
'Cheer up, old boy!', responded Dr Booth. 'I know you've had a hard time, but it could be a lot worse. Look on the bright side!'
At this point I looked out of the window in my temporary office. It was pelting with rain. So hard, in fact, that I couldn't see the other side of the yard. A sudden melancholy descended, and I wished Dr Booth farewell before stepping outside. Within moments I was soaked to the skin, but I remained for some minutes, reflecting on recent events as rivulets of rain water trickled over my face. The twins saw me from their room and banged on the window, telling me to get inside before I contracted pnuemonia. For a moment I was tempted to shout back and tell them that getting wet in summer rain does not, in itself, cause pneumonia, but then I remembered that a great-aunt had died under such circumstances some years ago (she had got lost during a rain storm and was found 2 days later. She died of pnuemonia shortly afterwards). Acknowledging the twins, I retreated indoors, where Dolores insisted that I remove all my clothing before stepping into a shower. What she forgot to tell me was that there was no hot water, on account of her having had a bath whilst I was on the phone.
Oh happy days, where have you gone?
J McC
Thursday, July 26, 2007
Tuesday, July 17, 2007
Catch Curly
Hello all
Following the destruction of my Institute, a reward has been offered for information leading to the capture of the chief suspect - the man whose picture is displayed in the previous post. My Uncle Jake, who was the main benefactor of the Institute, issued the following statement yesterday, and asked me to post it on the blog in case Curly was reading this:
'Attn Curly:
You burnt down my nephew's Institute, and for that you are going to pay. I am not only offering a substantial reward of $10,000 for your capture, but I am ensuring that the British police force are given additional resources to help them in your quest. On top of that, I am launching legal proceedings to sue you for damages to my property. Yes, that's right Curly. It was I who owned the Insitute, and I do not take kindly to sinners like yourself making other people's lives a living Hell by your phsycotic actions. The best thing you can do now is turn yourself over to the British police force, to prevent me from having to actually pay out the reward.
Yours truly
Jake'
Following the destruction of my Institute, a reward has been offered for information leading to the capture of the chief suspect - the man whose picture is displayed in the previous post. My Uncle Jake, who was the main benefactor of the Institute, issued the following statement yesterday, and asked me to post it on the blog in case Curly was reading this:
'Attn Curly:
You burnt down my nephew's Institute, and for that you are going to pay. I am not only offering a substantial reward of $10,000 for your capture, but I am ensuring that the British police force are given additional resources to help them in your quest. On top of that, I am launching legal proceedings to sue you for damages to my property. Yes, that's right Curly. It was I who owned the Insitute, and I do not take kindly to sinners like yourself making other people's lives a living Hell by your phsycotic actions. The best thing you can do now is turn yourself over to the British police force, to prevent me from having to actually pay out the reward.
Yours truly
Jake'
Saturday, July 07, 2007
Burning down the house (Part II)
Hello all
The last few weeks have been unsettling, to say the least. Fortunately, we are now in new accomodation and connected to the internet. I can now begin to piece mine and my family's lives back together, and hopefully re-build the Institute - albeit in a different physical guise.
But first - you need to know what happened, and why I have been absent. So here is the concluding part of the final chapter detailing the end of the previous incarnation of the Cumbernauld Institute of Parasitology...
-----------
I couldn't believe what I was seeing with my own eyes. Inside the laboratory someone was deliberately attending the bunsen burners that were heating the charcoal that was heating the steel bath. What was inside the bath I had no idea. My previous panic that perhaps No.3 was the occupant had now subsided, which meant I was less concerned about immediately busting down the door. But there was still a need for action, and it was my duty as head of the Institute to stride forth in full McCrumble mettle.
'Ravel!, ' I called to my research assistant, who was over by the reception desk, looking at the cctv images from the lab. 'Break down this door now!.'
'Better to go in back door boss', said Ravel, still concentrating on the camera image. 'Hey I recognise this man. You see here. Look.'
I strode over to the reception desk and peered at the image. It was becoming increasingly smokey in the lab, but I could still clearly identify the person inside. It was a man whom I thought had left for good, someone I never expected to see again, and someone I never thought badly of in our previous meeting. Yet here he was, in full view, caught red-handed on cctv (woe betide anyone who tells me our surveillance society is a bad idea!).
It was Curly.
Yes, the very same man who so recently had taken advantage of my hospitality (and bike) was now in the very act of conducting what was either a) poorly planned and totally unauthorised experiment or b) an deliberate act of arson. In my state of relative calm I now vascillated between the two ideas - my natural belief in the goodness of other people advising me that he was simply an overexcited fan of experimental research who was seduced by the academic lifestyle and unable to control his enthusiasm, whilst my sceptical side suggesting that he was a lunatic criminal acting out some lurid fantasy.
'Boss, look, he is removing clothing!'
Sure enough, Curly had just stripped to his underpants. His semi-naked appearance confirmed that he was well endowed with body hair, and also revealed a medium-sized tattoo on one shoulder. It was the internationally recognised biohazard symbol.
'Right, Ravel, we need to stop him before he causes any real damage. You distract him here whilst I sneak in the back door.'
'Er, ok, boss, but maybe I go to catch him. In army days we were taught to...'
'No, Ravel. Sometimes negotiation is preferred over brute force. I could never forgive myself if I let you come to any harm. You stay here and take care of Dolores and the child. It's time I took charge of the situation.'
Dolores grabbed my arm.' Let Ravel go, Joseph. He's....'
There was no time for argument. Already Curly was in some advanced stage of his 'experiment' - talking manically to himself whilst pouring what appeared to be dry ice over his upturned face. I turned to my wife and cupped her face in my hands, smiled, kissed her lips in mid sentence, kissed the head of my screaming infant, patted Ravel on the shoulder, and exited by the front door. Moments later I had pulled open the back door of the lab and was face to face with the near-naked American. He was startled to see me suddenly beside him, and reacted by throwing what was left of his cannister of dry ice in my face.
'Hey McCrumble!', he shouted as he lept away. 'Good to see you again. Sorry I stole your bike but I had to go buy the tin bath and they didn't have one in the village. I brought the bike back - it's up by your exhibition shed.'
'Er, fine. Good.', I said slowly, unsure how to react to his apology.
'I was going to finish this experiment on my own, but seeing as you are here, you can be my assistant. Hey, how about that - the great McCrumble becomes my assistant!'
I wasn't sure where this was coming from. So far as I was aware, Curly had no prior knowledge of either myself or the Institute. Our previous meeting had been entirely opportunistic and engineered by the police.
Or so I thought. Curly was clearly in the mood for engaging in conversation, and it wasn't long before the truth came out...
'OK, so before we go any further here...', he said, 'I should let you know that my background story -you remember, the one about searching for my ancestors - well, that was a load of bullshit. I really came looking for you.'
'You did?'
'Sure. Your Uncle Jake sent me.'
'Huh?', I cried, surprised to hear the name of the Institute's benefactor coming from Curly's mouth. 'What? How?'
'Well, OK, if you put me on the spot I have to admit he didn't actually send me. He kind of fired me, on account of some genuine mistake I made in his lab and sort of accidentally blew it up. But I needed to continue with my experiments, and he told me all about you Dr McCrumble, and I knew I had to find you. But I didn't know where you were, on account of the fact that you live anonymously - why is that, by the way?'
I was listening intently to his story, but at the same time aware that there was still an unauthorised fire in my laboratory. Whilst I was prepared to explain myself, it seeemed more appropriate to attempt a resolution to the current threat, so I said, 'It's a long story. I'll, er, tell you later. You want to put out the fire now?'
'Nah. The fire is an essential part of the experiment. You see, if I don't have the fire, the bathwater won't get any hotter, and the hedgehog won't cook properly.'
'You are cooking what?' I said, a uncomfortable image suddenly flashing through my mind's eye. 'A hedgehog? Why? What hedgehog?'
'I dunno. Just a hedgehog. He was in that cage over there.'
I didn't need to look. The only cage in the laboratory containing a hedgehog belonged to Timothy. It was now, finally, clear to me what was in the pot.
'Timothy! Are you in there?' I cried, stepping forward to make absolutely sure. Curly moved to block my path.
'No time to waste Dr McCrumble. The experiment is reaching a critical stage. We, er, need some more dry ice. You get some whilst I take measurements.
I had to think fast. If Timothy really was in the tin bath, he was either already dead, or in the process of being boiled alive (somewhat oddly perhaps, I was reminded at this moment of the classic experiment involving Shroedinger's cat, whose state of being was unknown prior to observation). Whichever was the truth, I had to persuade Curly to put out the fire, for should there be any altercation, it was possible that a nasty accident would ensue. 'It's OK, Curly', I said quietly. 'I can take charge now I'm here. You've done a great job so-far, and I'll make sure I mention you in the lab book.'
'Hey Doc, that's what your Uncle Jake used to say. Like Uncle like Nephew! But it's OK, really. I can handle it. You need to trust me more. I spent six years as a trainee technician because I was, you know, a bit slow at getting things right. So you can probably see that I'm a bit proud of my acheivement that I finally got a job at your Uncle Jake's. And I really appreciate you taking me on here, but you gotta trust me or I'm going to be worried that all that training was for nothing. You trust me, don't you Dr McCrumble.'
'Er, of course, Curly. So, in your training you would have learnt about inter-observer measurement error, yes?'
'Sure, Doc. It happens because one person always measures things slightly differently to another. I get it. So you think we both need to take measurements, huh?'
'Exactly!' I shouted, clapping my hands with relief at this breakthrough.
'Yeah, well, I never did believe the textbooks. That's why it took me so long to train. I kept questioning things. I think I can take pretty accurate measurements. I've got 20-20 vision and rock-steady hands. Now you get the dry ice will ya like I asked, or the experiment is going to be ruined, and it will be your fault, and I may have to fire you for incompetence.'
Damn, I thought to myself. He was clearly irrrational, and therefore unlikely to respond to negotiation. The time had come for physical intervention. Ravel was peering in from the door, and I knew that he was waiting for my signal. But I was afraid that Ravel's entry into the lab would precipate a brawl, with potentially dire consequences. My first priority had to be to put out the fire, so instead of collecting dry ice, I poured some distilled water into the pot, making sure that my back was turned. Once back at the scene of the 'experiment' I waited until Curly was writing something in his notepad and threw the water over the flames from a safe distance. Unfortunately, my aim was poor, and most of the water landed on Curly's feet.
Now, most people would be a little annoyed at finding their shoes suddenly wet whilst indoors, but I had clearly struck a nerve. Curly's face took on a purple shade as he glared at me with what I can only describe as a look of absolute hatred. His fists were tightly closed as he spoke, his speech suddenly peppered with expletives. He told me in no uncertain terms that I had ruined the experiment, that I was no longer his employee, and that I should leave immediately. I shouted back that I would do no such thing, and squared up to him. I reminded him, also in no uncertain terms, that this was my laboratory, my equipment, and that he was not actually employed.
'That's enough McCrumble!' he shouted. 'You just clear up this fucking mess right now then get your sorry ass out of here, you piss-faced limey.'
'What mess?'
'This!', he shouted emphatically, raising his left leg and kicking the 'equipment' on the bench beside him. He struck three times to dislodge first the bunsen burners, then the steel bath, and finally the charcoal platform. The whole assemblage looked very unstable for a moment, before a fourth kick brought it crashing down. The bunsen burners continued to spew flame as they dangled off the bench, whilst the hot charcoal scattered and the bath disgorged its contents.
Timothy was not inside. Neither was there any water. Instead, he had filled the bath with almost my entire collection of preserved rodent specimens. Each rodent was still in it's jar when the bath tipped over, but as they hit the ground they burst open. The preservative was formaldehyde - a highly inflammable chemical. One of the bunsen burners had fallen on the floor whilst still attached to its line, and just a few moments after the first jar hit the ground, I was facing an almighty conflagration, not to mention the sight of Curly picking up burning rodent carcasses and throwing them around the laboratory. There was, I surmised at this point, nothing to do but run.
'Run!' I shouted, and headed for the back door. Ravel met me, extinguisher in hand. We turned round to minster the extinguisher, but in doing so received two or three flaming rats in our faces, one of which set light to Ravel's hair.
'Retreat!' , I shouted, and we left the laboratory. 'Phone the emergency services!' I yelled to Dolores, who told me she had phoned them as soon as I had entered the lab. They turned up a few minutes later, by which time the lab was in a poor state. Most of the benches were on fire, and the cupboards had been emptied. The thick smoke had turned acrid, and was leaking through the main door. Curly was no longer visible, but I forbid anyone from going to look for him. Laboratories are notoriously unsafe places when on fire, a sentiment re-inforced when the fire chief told me they would operate in 'defensive mode' until a risk assessment had been made. This meant the fire was not going to be put out in hurry. We were told to evacuate the building, and promptly obeyed. Fortunately, both Ravel and Dolores had managed to remove most of our valuables and sentimental items before the order was given, and all we had to do was retreat to a safe distance whilst we watched the Institure burn.
Perhaps it could have been saved if the lab hadn't actually exploded. The fire-doors would have prevented the fire from spreading, but in the end they were useless. The explosion sent burning material onto the roof of the living area, and within minutes the whole place was ablaze, despite the brave attempts of the fire brigade. Hours later, only a smouldering wreck remained. Curly must have made good his escape (he is still at large), and, as I have already mentioned, Timothy hedgehog is missing.
So what about us? Well, this all happened a few weeks ago. Since then we have moved out of the area, and are now living in England. I'm not prepared to say where, just in case Curly comes looking for us. For the time being, at least, I'm going to have to remain anonymous. I'll keep up the blogging as we start our new life. Whether I will carry on my valuable scientific work depends on many things, and I won't know for a while. Until such time, dear reader, please be patient as we try and adjust to our new lives.
J McC
The last few weeks have been unsettling, to say the least. Fortunately, we are now in new accomodation and connected to the internet. I can now begin to piece mine and my family's lives back together, and hopefully re-build the Institute - albeit in a different physical guise.
But first - you need to know what happened, and why I have been absent. So here is the concluding part of the final chapter detailing the end of the previous incarnation of the Cumbernauld Institute of Parasitology...
-----------
I couldn't believe what I was seeing with my own eyes. Inside the laboratory someone was deliberately attending the bunsen burners that were heating the charcoal that was heating the steel bath. What was inside the bath I had no idea. My previous panic that perhaps No.3 was the occupant had now subsided, which meant I was less concerned about immediately busting down the door. But there was still a need for action, and it was my duty as head of the Institute to stride forth in full McCrumble mettle.
'Ravel!, ' I called to my research assistant, who was over by the reception desk, looking at the cctv images from the lab. 'Break down this door now!.'
'Better to go in back door boss', said Ravel, still concentrating on the camera image. 'Hey I recognise this man. You see here. Look.'
I strode over to the reception desk and peered at the image. It was becoming increasingly smokey in the lab, but I could still clearly identify the person inside. It was a man whom I thought had left for good, someone I never expected to see again, and someone I never thought badly of in our previous meeting. Yet here he was, in full view, caught red-handed on cctv (woe betide anyone who tells me our surveillance society is a bad idea!).
It was Curly.
Yes, the very same man who so recently had taken advantage of my hospitality (and bike) was now in the very act of conducting what was either a) poorly planned and totally unauthorised experiment or b) an deliberate act of arson. In my state of relative calm I now vascillated between the two ideas - my natural belief in the goodness of other people advising me that he was simply an overexcited fan of experimental research who was seduced by the academic lifestyle and unable to control his enthusiasm, whilst my sceptical side suggesting that he was a lunatic criminal acting out some lurid fantasy.
'Boss, look, he is removing clothing!'
Sure enough, Curly had just stripped to his underpants. His semi-naked appearance confirmed that he was well endowed with body hair, and also revealed a medium-sized tattoo on one shoulder. It was the internationally recognised biohazard symbol.
'Right, Ravel, we need to stop him before he causes any real damage. You distract him here whilst I sneak in the back door.'
'Er, ok, boss, but maybe I go to catch him. In army days we were taught to...'
'No, Ravel. Sometimes negotiation is preferred over brute force. I could never forgive myself if I let you come to any harm. You stay here and take care of Dolores and the child. It's time I took charge of the situation.'
Dolores grabbed my arm.' Let Ravel go, Joseph. He's....'
There was no time for argument. Already Curly was in some advanced stage of his 'experiment' - talking manically to himself whilst pouring what appeared to be dry ice over his upturned face. I turned to my wife and cupped her face in my hands, smiled, kissed her lips in mid sentence, kissed the head of my screaming infant, patted Ravel on the shoulder, and exited by the front door. Moments later I had pulled open the back door of the lab and was face to face with the near-naked American. He was startled to see me suddenly beside him, and reacted by throwing what was left of his cannister of dry ice in my face.
'Hey McCrumble!', he shouted as he lept away. 'Good to see you again. Sorry I stole your bike but I had to go buy the tin bath and they didn't have one in the village. I brought the bike back - it's up by your exhibition shed.'
'Er, fine. Good.', I said slowly, unsure how to react to his apology.
'I was going to finish this experiment on my own, but seeing as you are here, you can be my assistant. Hey, how about that - the great McCrumble becomes my assistant!'
I wasn't sure where this was coming from. So far as I was aware, Curly had no prior knowledge of either myself or the Institute. Our previous meeting had been entirely opportunistic and engineered by the police.
Or so I thought. Curly was clearly in the mood for engaging in conversation, and it wasn't long before the truth came out...
'OK, so before we go any further here...', he said, 'I should let you know that my background story -you remember, the one about searching for my ancestors - well, that was a load of bullshit. I really came looking for you.'
'You did?'
'Sure. Your Uncle Jake sent me.'
'Huh?', I cried, surprised to hear the name of the Institute's benefactor coming from Curly's mouth. 'What? How?'
'Well, OK, if you put me on the spot I have to admit he didn't actually send me. He kind of fired me, on account of some genuine mistake I made in his lab and sort of accidentally blew it up. But I needed to continue with my experiments, and he told me all about you Dr McCrumble, and I knew I had to find you. But I didn't know where you were, on account of the fact that you live anonymously - why is that, by the way?'
I was listening intently to his story, but at the same time aware that there was still an unauthorised fire in my laboratory. Whilst I was prepared to explain myself, it seeemed more appropriate to attempt a resolution to the current threat, so I said, 'It's a long story. I'll, er, tell you later. You want to put out the fire now?'
'Nah. The fire is an essential part of the experiment. You see, if I don't have the fire, the bathwater won't get any hotter, and the hedgehog won't cook properly.'
'You are cooking what?' I said, a uncomfortable image suddenly flashing through my mind's eye. 'A hedgehog? Why? What hedgehog?'
'I dunno. Just a hedgehog. He was in that cage over there.'
I didn't need to look. The only cage in the laboratory containing a hedgehog belonged to Timothy. It was now, finally, clear to me what was in the pot.
'Timothy! Are you in there?' I cried, stepping forward to make absolutely sure. Curly moved to block my path.
'No time to waste Dr McCrumble. The experiment is reaching a critical stage. We, er, need some more dry ice. You get some whilst I take measurements.
I had to think fast. If Timothy really was in the tin bath, he was either already dead, or in the process of being boiled alive (somewhat oddly perhaps, I was reminded at this moment of the classic experiment involving Shroedinger's cat, whose state of being was unknown prior to observation). Whichever was the truth, I had to persuade Curly to put out the fire, for should there be any altercation, it was possible that a nasty accident would ensue. 'It's OK, Curly', I said quietly. 'I can take charge now I'm here. You've done a great job so-far, and I'll make sure I mention you in the lab book.'
'Hey Doc, that's what your Uncle Jake used to say. Like Uncle like Nephew! But it's OK, really. I can handle it. You need to trust me more. I spent six years as a trainee technician because I was, you know, a bit slow at getting things right. So you can probably see that I'm a bit proud of my acheivement that I finally got a job at your Uncle Jake's. And I really appreciate you taking me on here, but you gotta trust me or I'm going to be worried that all that training was for nothing. You trust me, don't you Dr McCrumble.'
'Er, of course, Curly. So, in your training you would have learnt about inter-observer measurement error, yes?'
'Sure, Doc. It happens because one person always measures things slightly differently to another. I get it. So you think we both need to take measurements, huh?'
'Exactly!' I shouted, clapping my hands with relief at this breakthrough.
'Yeah, well, I never did believe the textbooks. That's why it took me so long to train. I kept questioning things. I think I can take pretty accurate measurements. I've got 20-20 vision and rock-steady hands. Now you get the dry ice will ya like I asked, or the experiment is going to be ruined, and it will be your fault, and I may have to fire you for incompetence.'
Damn, I thought to myself. He was clearly irrrational, and therefore unlikely to respond to negotiation. The time had come for physical intervention. Ravel was peering in from the door, and I knew that he was waiting for my signal. But I was afraid that Ravel's entry into the lab would precipate a brawl, with potentially dire consequences. My first priority had to be to put out the fire, so instead of collecting dry ice, I poured some distilled water into the pot, making sure that my back was turned. Once back at the scene of the 'experiment' I waited until Curly was writing something in his notepad and threw the water over the flames from a safe distance. Unfortunately, my aim was poor, and most of the water landed on Curly's feet.
Now, most people would be a little annoyed at finding their shoes suddenly wet whilst indoors, but I had clearly struck a nerve. Curly's face took on a purple shade as he glared at me with what I can only describe as a look of absolute hatred. His fists were tightly closed as he spoke, his speech suddenly peppered with expletives. He told me in no uncertain terms that I had ruined the experiment, that I was no longer his employee, and that I should leave immediately. I shouted back that I would do no such thing, and squared up to him. I reminded him, also in no uncertain terms, that this was my laboratory, my equipment, and that he was not actually employed.
'That's enough McCrumble!' he shouted. 'You just clear up this fucking mess right now then get your sorry ass out of here, you piss-faced limey.'
'What mess?'
'This!', he shouted emphatically, raising his left leg and kicking the 'equipment' on the bench beside him. He struck three times to dislodge first the bunsen burners, then the steel bath, and finally the charcoal platform. The whole assemblage looked very unstable for a moment, before a fourth kick brought it crashing down. The bunsen burners continued to spew flame as they dangled off the bench, whilst the hot charcoal scattered and the bath disgorged its contents.
Timothy was not inside. Neither was there any water. Instead, he had filled the bath with almost my entire collection of preserved rodent specimens. Each rodent was still in it's jar when the bath tipped over, but as they hit the ground they burst open. The preservative was formaldehyde - a highly inflammable chemical. One of the bunsen burners had fallen on the floor whilst still attached to its line, and just a few moments after the first jar hit the ground, I was facing an almighty conflagration, not to mention the sight of Curly picking up burning rodent carcasses and throwing them around the laboratory. There was, I surmised at this point, nothing to do but run.
'Run!' I shouted, and headed for the back door. Ravel met me, extinguisher in hand. We turned round to minster the extinguisher, but in doing so received two or three flaming rats in our faces, one of which set light to Ravel's hair.
'Retreat!' , I shouted, and we left the laboratory. 'Phone the emergency services!' I yelled to Dolores, who told me she had phoned them as soon as I had entered the lab. They turned up a few minutes later, by which time the lab was in a poor state. Most of the benches were on fire, and the cupboards had been emptied. The thick smoke had turned acrid, and was leaking through the main door. Curly was no longer visible, but I forbid anyone from going to look for him. Laboratories are notoriously unsafe places when on fire, a sentiment re-inforced when the fire chief told me they would operate in 'defensive mode' until a risk assessment had been made. This meant the fire was not going to be put out in hurry. We were told to evacuate the building, and promptly obeyed. Fortunately, both Ravel and Dolores had managed to remove most of our valuables and sentimental items before the order was given, and all we had to do was retreat to a safe distance whilst we watched the Institure burn.
Perhaps it could have been saved if the lab hadn't actually exploded. The fire-doors would have prevented the fire from spreading, but in the end they were useless. The explosion sent burning material onto the roof of the living area, and within minutes the whole place was ablaze, despite the brave attempts of the fire brigade. Hours later, only a smouldering wreck remained. Curly must have made good his escape (he is still at large), and, as I have already mentioned, Timothy hedgehog is missing.
So what about us? Well, this all happened a few weeks ago. Since then we have moved out of the area, and are now living in England. I'm not prepared to say where, just in case Curly comes looking for us. For the time being, at least, I'm going to have to remain anonymous. I'll keep up the blogging as we start our new life. Whether I will carry on my valuable scientific work depends on many things, and I won't know for a while. Until such time, dear reader, please be patient as we try and adjust to our new lives.
J McC
Wednesday, July 04, 2007
gone but not forgotten
Hello all
Sorry for not yet completing the tragic tale of the demise of the Insitute, or being around much to answer comments / visit other blogs. I'm trying to piece things back together and keep everyone else going. We are moving into new accomodation soon, and hopefully once there I will be in a better position to consolidate and bring closure to the events of previous weeks.
yours
Joseph
P.S. Anyone who thinks they have seen Timothy Hedgehog (who was certainly not kidnapped, as some may believe) - could you please contact me. He is somewhat distinctive in appearance, and is also noticeable for the fact that he can converse in fluent english.
Sorry for not yet completing the tragic tale of the demise of the Insitute, or being around much to answer comments / visit other blogs. I'm trying to piece things back together and keep everyone else going. We are moving into new accomodation soon, and hopefully once there I will be in a better position to consolidate and bring closure to the events of previous weeks.
yours
Joseph
P.S. Anyone who thinks they have seen Timothy Hedgehog (who was certainly not kidnapped, as some may believe) - could you please contact me. He is somewhat distinctive in appearance, and is also noticeable for the fact that he can converse in fluent english.
Sunday, June 17, 2007
Burning down the house
It is with great regret that I have to announce the end of the Cumbernauld Institute of Parasitology. My heart is heavy, and the tears are welling up as I type. I never thought I would see the end of a place I have called home in such a dramatic and unnerving way. What happened can only be described as a tragedy, both in terms of bringing an end to a great Institute, and the loss of Timothy Hedgehog. He has not been seen since the events of a few days ago, and is presumed to have lost his life in the inferno.
Yes, dear reader. The Cumbernauld Institute of Parasitology has been burned to the ground. The picture above shows a fireman trying to douse the flames, but it was to no avail. Within three hours, the place was nothing but a carbonised shell of its former self. Only the Art Institute escaped the flames - it now stands as probably the loneliest portacabin in the world.
You must be keen to now how such a bastion of scientific integrity was brought down. I can tell you that it was no accident. I feel not a small amount of guilt, but I was in no way responsible for the actual events that took place. The responsibility for the fire that destroyed my Institute instead rests with two parties with whom I have differing degrees of association.
It is a sad day when a father has to implicate his own sons in a tragedy of this nature. But I must adhere to my principles of honesty and integrity, even if it means sacrificing the reputations of my nearest and dearest. You see, it was the twins who produced the experimental protocol that involved bunsen burners heating a bath of water containing a baby. They denied they would ever actually put their protocol into practice. The irony is that they didn't need to - someone else tried it on their behalf.
I first knew something was wrong when the smoke alarm sounded. We were all asleep. I got up and followed the sound. It was coming from Laboratory 1. Peering through the glass part of the door I first saw only the red light of the beeping smoke alarm. Intrigued, I peered closer into the gloom. What caught my attention was a row of bunsen burners arranged on top of one of the lab benches. On top of the burners was a barbecue grill covered in charcoal, and on top of the charcoal was a steel bowl, contents hidden from view. The smoke from the charcoal had obviously triggered the alarm.
It took me a couple of seconds to work out what was going on. Please remember that I had been awoken from a deep slumber, and the arrangement was so unfamiliar that at first I couldn't quite place things in my mind. When the realisation eventually hit, I was almost frozen to the spot with fear. My mind raced back to the moment I saw the twins' drawing of their planned experiment on the baby. Here, right in front of me, was the physical manifestation of that repulsive idea. The absolute horror and confusion of the situation made me feel physically sick. My son, in that bath! Why was it happening now? Who was responsible?
I pushed on the door, expecting it to open. But someone had locked it. I shouted for Ravel and Dolores to come quickly, before using my shoulder in a futile attempt to get past the fire-doors (new ones, installed not 2 weeks ago with re-inforced glass). A few seconds later Ravel was by my side, battering away at the glass with a boxing-gloved hand. It was hopeless. I started to hyperventilate, smacking at the glass, crying my son's name as if it would force him to awake. There was no response - just the regular beeping of the smoke alarm to drive me into a twisted state of blind panic.
'What's going on?', asked Dolores. Her voice was calm, reasonable, utterly inappropriate.
'What do you mean?' I shouted hysterically, tears in my eyes, my words barely forming in the maelstrom of my disordered mind. 'Our son is being cooked alive in there! Twins! bunsen burners! Phone the fire brigade! Ravel, smash down that door! Now!'
'Look, right in front of you Joseph. What is this?'
'No time!' I shouted, running past her to fetch the nearest fire extinguisher, figuring that, if I could just smash the glass in the door, I could jump through the gap and save my boy.
Dolores was in my way as I approached the lab door, extinguisher in hand.'Out of my way!' I shouted, raising the extinguisher in readiness.
'Joseph!', she shouted.
'Boss..!', shouted Ravel.
'Waaaaa!', wailed No.3.
Am I hearing things? I briefly wondered, as I brought the extinguisher down on the glass door. It hit the strengthened glass and bounced off, forcing me to lose balance. I tripped over, falling half backwards, half sideways, the extinguisher still in my hand. The fall winded me, leaving me helpless on the floor for just long enough to draw my companions' attention away from trying to bash down the door. Ravel peered down at me, his face expressing nothing more than mild concern. My wife, clad in dressing gown and carrying something in a blanket, looked at me with nothing more than slight scorn. 'You alright?', she asked pointedly.
'Don't just stand there!', I yelled whilst grabbing Ravels outstretched arm. Back on my feet I was about to swing the extinguisher once again when I heard the distinctive cry of my son. Oddly, like the last time, the sound appeared to be coming from behind. I had become inflicted, I thought, by some bizarre form of tinnitus.
'Waaaaaa!'
'I'm coming son!', I shouted, my arm poised for what I knew had to be the definitive strike. 'Stand back everyone!'
'JOSEPH! HE IS RIGHT HERE, IN MY ARMS! Will you please calm down and look!' My wife's urgent voice cut through my panicked brain like a laser through jelly. Such was the force in her words that I was interrupted in mid-lunge, and my eyes reflexively obeyed her command. They turned towards the blanket in her arms, where, to their surprise, they happened upon the screwed up face of none other than No.3, my new born son, who, just moments before, had been boiling alive in a tin can on top of a row of bunsen burners.
'He's alive!', I cried, as if that was the last thing I expected.
'Of course,' replied my wife. 'He's been here the whole time. Your red mist was so thick you just couldn't see him. He was never in any danger. Honestly, Joseph. Sometimes you really should try and keep a grip.'
'Son!', I cried, the tears streaming down my face as I realised my error and approached my wife. 'I thought you...oh dear...I'm sorry, I just...'.
'Er, Boss,' said Ravel, as I stroked the infants face and hugged my wife.
'Not now Ravel', I said quietly, as I felt the welcoming wave of calm and relief sweeping through my recently tortured mind. And with the tears of relief came an absolute mandate. This was the last time. Never again would I panic unnecessarily. No longer would the name of McCrumble be syonymous with misplaced hysteria. If this episode had taught me just one thing, it was that I should never lose sight of the facts.
'Boss, I think you should stop making hugs and look at this', said Ravel, his voice slightly more urgent.
'Can you please deal with it Ravel. I'm trying to mend something here', I countered, still embracing my wife and child, my tears of joy dripping onto the infant's angry face. Let him be angry, I thought. He could be the angriest baby in the world and I would still love him.
'I can, but you won't be happy if I do it my way.' It was Ravel again, persistent as ever.
'Alright Ravel, what is it?' I sighed, my attention still firmly on wife and child.
'There is someone in the lab boss. I see them just now.'
I'm sure you will agree, dear reader, that such a revelation would cause many people to experience a loosening of their grip on the situation. But not I, Dr Joseph McCrumble, scientist, guardian of my family, leader of men. Something approaching an epiphany had just occurred, and nothing was going to upset my karma. Not even if I was facing the biggest ever threat to my life and livelihood. A typically melodramatic sentiment to some, perhaps, but this time entirely appropriate. For as I peered into the gloom beyond the still-intact firedoors, I saw first the body and then the face of the man who was trying to destroy my Institute...
**********TO BE CONTINUED!!!!***********
Friday, June 15, 2007
Sad news
He came back.
The Institute is no more.
Timothy Hedgehog is missing, presumed dead. Everyone else OK.
I am blogging under emergency conditions.
Will tell full story when I have got my head around what happened.
Sadly yours
Joseph McCrumble
The Institute is no more.
Timothy Hedgehog is missing, presumed dead. Everyone else OK.
I am blogging under emergency conditions.
Will tell full story when I have got my head around what happened.
Sadly yours
Joseph McCrumble
Saturday, June 09, 2007
Jailhouse McCrumble part II
The story so far...
The local police inspector requested me to host a suspected thief for the night in my supposedly secure Art Institute (in truth, a portacabin). You can find part one of the story below this post. I pick things up at the point where the suspect arrives at the Institute, accompanied by an officer of the law.
'The inspector sends his apologies for any inconvenience caused, Dr McCrumble', said the constable as he promted the suspect to leave the car. The man emerged rubbing his eyes, which were quite red. Hayfever? I wondered.
He was a large chap, dressed in short-sleeved shirt and shorts, head almost completely shaven apart from what looked like goatee stubble. He looked American, a hunch confirmed when he opened his mouth and said 'So you're McCrumble then, huh?'
'Dr Joseph McCrumble, yes. I'm the director of this Institute - the Cumbernauld Inst...'
'Sure', interrupted the man, stretching his rather hairy arms. 'I need to pee like a racehorse. Where's the john?'
'I've put a bucket in your, er, room', I said.
'Huh?', growled the American. 'Look sir, I don't mean to be rude, but I'm not pissing in a bucket. When I go, I really go. You want splash back on your nice floor?'
He had a point, so I asked the officer if it would be ok for the man to use the toilet inside the main building. The constable didn't make any objections - indeed he seemed rather keen to hand the suspect over to me and get back to the station, citing a very busy charge sheet as his excuse (I found out the next day that the cells were full of scantily-clad female partygoers who'd decided to put on an impromtu 'show-and-tell' at the local May Ball. The policemen spent the evening trying to find out what the 'show and tell' involved.)
'What if he makes a run for it?', I asked as we walked towards the Institute bathroom.
'That's very unlikely Dr McCrumble. We have his passport and wallet back at the station.'
'Can I ask what he's in custody for?'
The American answered, 'they think I stole the priest's barbecue. It's a pile of bull. I was putting it back. We already used it. The priest gave us permission before he left on holiday. These clowns couldn't work it out so they arrested me.'
We walked the rest of the way to the toilet in silence. Once there, I was minded to ask if the suspect should be accompanied, as I knew the window was open. But a quick mental reckoning made me realise that the barrel-shaped torso of our new house guest would be unable to fit through the small square window.
'We'll be back at 7:30 or thereabouts to pick him up', said the constable as we waited. 'I suggest you keep an eye on him using your cctv. If he does cause any trouble, just give us a call. Though if it's after 3am we might not be able to send anyone in a hurry, or at all.'
'Great,' I sighed, looking at my watch. It was now 12:30 am. Everyone else was asleep, and they would not appreciate being told that they had to take turns guarding a suspected barbecue thief. It would have to be me, I decided, my heart sinking further at the thought of another sleepless night.
Once the American had emerged, we took him over to the Art Institute. He was polite enough not to make any disparaging remarks, and even complimented me on the abstract design of the duvet cover. At this point the policeman made his excuses and departed, jogging to his car.
'Are you likely to need the toilet again?', I asked of the American as he lay down.
'I sometimes get loose bowels in the early hours - it's not for certain, but if I need to take a crap I'll wave at the cameras. You'll be watching me to make sure I don't push through one of these walls and run for the hills, won't you?'
My resolve to do my duty was already thinning. The American did not give an air of a persistent offender, and his story was plausible - the priest often took pity on visitors to the area in need of facilities. I as also feeling very tired, and knew I would not be able to keep my eyes open all the time, waiting for the sign of the impending poo.
'Look', I said at length, 'As far I see it, I'm not actually bound by any law to keep you in here all night. If you promise not to make a run for it, I can't see any reason why I should lock you up in here.'
'Hand on heart, sir.', said the suspect, a broad grin on his face, offering his hand.
'OK, let's go. You can sleep in the boy's bedroom. They are at boarding school.'
I led the American (his name was Donald, but he said everyone since college called him Curly, on account of penis having a slight bend when erect) to the main building. En route, he told me his story. It turned out he was in the UK researching his family history, and was visiting the village to find the grave of his great-great grandfather. The priest was about to leave the village to see visit a friend in Cornwall, but had met the American in the churchyard. Curly had told the priest that he wanted to cook up a big steak for his dinner, but didn't have access to the kitchen at the bed and breakfast he was staying. The priest had said he could borrow the church barbecue, and even threw in some charcoal and lighting briquettes. Having cooked the steak, Curly had been walking back to the vicarage when he was spotted by the police, who thought he was a vagrant, and arrested him on suspicion of theft, pending contact with the priest to confirm his story.
'Typical', I said in response to his tale. 'They wouldn't spot a real criminal if he walked into the station carrying the head of their latest victim, but they seem very keen to arrest innocent people like you and me for no reason at all.'
Standing at the entrance to the boy's room, we shook hands once more and bade each other goodnight. I told Curly that Ravel would bring him a cup of tea at 7:00am, so that he would be better prepared for the police when they came to pick him up at 7:30am. I went straight to bed, and listened only for the clicking sound of the boys's bedroom door to indicate it had been closed.
My dreams that night were extremely vivid. Curly made a brief appearance, trying to persuade me to measure the curvature of his spine, before turning into a football and bouncing into a nearby lake. The baby slept soundly, and I did not wake until Ravel brought tea at 6:30am. I told him of our house guest, and instructed that tea should be given. Two minutes later, I heard a gentle knock at the boy's bedroom door. There was no answer, so Ravel knocked again. 'Go in,' I whispered loudly, and I heard Ravel open the door. A few seconds later, my research assistant was at my bedside, holding not only an un-delivered cup of tea, but a note. It read:
'Dear Joe
Thanks for putting me up last night. I gotta skiddadle as I'm meeting an old friend and I need to catch a train. I'll go to the police station myself - hope you don't mind but I'll use your bike to speed me along. regards Curly.
'Phone the police!' I shouted.
To cut a long story short, Curly did not go back to the police station. He took my bike, cycled to the nearest train station, and is now somewhere unknown. The police suspect his passport is a forgery, and his wallet belonged to someone else entirely. Why they didn't check that when they arrested him, I have no idea.
He doesn't appear to have taken anything from the Institute, at least, probably on account of my good acting as a good samaritan. So as far as I'm concerned, it's case closed.
The local police inspector requested me to host a suspected thief for the night in my supposedly secure Art Institute (in truth, a portacabin). You can find part one of the story below this post. I pick things up at the point where the suspect arrives at the Institute, accompanied by an officer of the law.
'The inspector sends his apologies for any inconvenience caused, Dr McCrumble', said the constable as he promted the suspect to leave the car. The man emerged rubbing his eyes, which were quite red. Hayfever? I wondered.
He was a large chap, dressed in short-sleeved shirt and shorts, head almost completely shaven apart from what looked like goatee stubble. He looked American, a hunch confirmed when he opened his mouth and said 'So you're McCrumble then, huh?'
'Dr Joseph McCrumble, yes. I'm the director of this Institute - the Cumbernauld Inst...'
'Sure', interrupted the man, stretching his rather hairy arms. 'I need to pee like a racehorse. Where's the john?'
'I've put a bucket in your, er, room', I said.
'Huh?', growled the American. 'Look sir, I don't mean to be rude, but I'm not pissing in a bucket. When I go, I really go. You want splash back on your nice floor?'
He had a point, so I asked the officer if it would be ok for the man to use the toilet inside the main building. The constable didn't make any objections - indeed he seemed rather keen to hand the suspect over to me and get back to the station, citing a very busy charge sheet as his excuse (I found out the next day that the cells were full of scantily-clad female partygoers who'd decided to put on an impromtu 'show-and-tell' at the local May Ball. The policemen spent the evening trying to find out what the 'show and tell' involved.)
'What if he makes a run for it?', I asked as we walked towards the Institute bathroom.
'That's very unlikely Dr McCrumble. We have his passport and wallet back at the station.'
'Can I ask what he's in custody for?'
The American answered, 'they think I stole the priest's barbecue. It's a pile of bull. I was putting it back. We already used it. The priest gave us permission before he left on holiday. These clowns couldn't work it out so they arrested me.'
We walked the rest of the way to the toilet in silence. Once there, I was minded to ask if the suspect should be accompanied, as I knew the window was open. But a quick mental reckoning made me realise that the barrel-shaped torso of our new house guest would be unable to fit through the small square window.
'We'll be back at 7:30 or thereabouts to pick him up', said the constable as we waited. 'I suggest you keep an eye on him using your cctv. If he does cause any trouble, just give us a call. Though if it's after 3am we might not be able to send anyone in a hurry, or at all.'
'Great,' I sighed, looking at my watch. It was now 12:30 am. Everyone else was asleep, and they would not appreciate being told that they had to take turns guarding a suspected barbecue thief. It would have to be me, I decided, my heart sinking further at the thought of another sleepless night.
Once the American had emerged, we took him over to the Art Institute. He was polite enough not to make any disparaging remarks, and even complimented me on the abstract design of the duvet cover. At this point the policeman made his excuses and departed, jogging to his car.
'Are you likely to need the toilet again?', I asked of the American as he lay down.
'I sometimes get loose bowels in the early hours - it's not for certain, but if I need to take a crap I'll wave at the cameras. You'll be watching me to make sure I don't push through one of these walls and run for the hills, won't you?'
My resolve to do my duty was already thinning. The American did not give an air of a persistent offender, and his story was plausible - the priest often took pity on visitors to the area in need of facilities. I as also feeling very tired, and knew I would not be able to keep my eyes open all the time, waiting for the sign of the impending poo.
'Look', I said at length, 'As far I see it, I'm not actually bound by any law to keep you in here all night. If you promise not to make a run for it, I can't see any reason why I should lock you up in here.'
'Hand on heart, sir.', said the suspect, a broad grin on his face, offering his hand.
'OK, let's go. You can sleep in the boy's bedroom. They are at boarding school.'
I led the American (his name was Donald, but he said everyone since college called him Curly, on account of penis having a slight bend when erect) to the main building. En route, he told me his story. It turned out he was in the UK researching his family history, and was visiting the village to find the grave of his great-great grandfather. The priest was about to leave the village to see visit a friend in Cornwall, but had met the American in the churchyard. Curly had told the priest that he wanted to cook up a big steak for his dinner, but didn't have access to the kitchen at the bed and breakfast he was staying. The priest had said he could borrow the church barbecue, and even threw in some charcoal and lighting briquettes. Having cooked the steak, Curly had been walking back to the vicarage when he was spotted by the police, who thought he was a vagrant, and arrested him on suspicion of theft, pending contact with the priest to confirm his story.
'Typical', I said in response to his tale. 'They wouldn't spot a real criminal if he walked into the station carrying the head of their latest victim, but they seem very keen to arrest innocent people like you and me for no reason at all.'
Standing at the entrance to the boy's room, we shook hands once more and bade each other goodnight. I told Curly that Ravel would bring him a cup of tea at 7:00am, so that he would be better prepared for the police when they came to pick him up at 7:30am. I went straight to bed, and listened only for the clicking sound of the boys's bedroom door to indicate it had been closed.
My dreams that night were extremely vivid. Curly made a brief appearance, trying to persuade me to measure the curvature of his spine, before turning into a football and bouncing into a nearby lake. The baby slept soundly, and I did not wake until Ravel brought tea at 6:30am. I told him of our house guest, and instructed that tea should be given. Two minutes later, I heard a gentle knock at the boy's bedroom door. There was no answer, so Ravel knocked again. 'Go in,' I whispered loudly, and I heard Ravel open the door. A few seconds later, my research assistant was at my bedside, holding not only an un-delivered cup of tea, but a note. It read:
'Dear Joe
Thanks for putting me up last night. I gotta skiddadle as I'm meeting an old friend and I need to catch a train. I'll go to the police station myself - hope you don't mind but I'll use your bike to speed me along. regards Curly.
'Phone the police!' I shouted.
To cut a long story short, Curly did not go back to the police station. He took my bike, cycled to the nearest train station, and is now somewhere unknown. The police suspect his passport is a forgery, and his wallet belonged to someone else entirely. Why they didn't check that when they arrested him, I have no idea.
He doesn't appear to have taken anything from the Institute, at least, probably on account of my good acting as a good samaritan. So as far as I'm concerned, it's case closed.
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