Jailhouse McCrumble

'You must be joking!', I cried down the phone, interrupting the police Inspector at the other end before he could finish his, admittedly rather ridiculous, suggestion.

'Not at all Dr McCrumble', countered the policeman. 'Your facility will meet our needs very well. Not only is it secured to a high standard, but you also have CCTV. We will be in touch on a regular basis, and it will only be for a night or two. I understand this is most irregular, but the situation here is simply too much for us to handle on our own. Think of it, if you will, as an example of community policing. And you owe us a favour. And we'll compensate you for your inconvenience, of course.'

'I do? You will?'

'Yes. Let's not get into details just now, shall we? I'll send him round now. You might like to check your window locks and such like. And hide any valuables you might be keeping there. We've also run out of bedding, so you might like to find a spare mattress and duvet. Well, I must go now as our guests are demanding some dessert wine. He'll be with you in thirty minutes.'

I placed the receiver and rubbed my eyes. It was close to midnight. I had been in bed for nearly an hour before the police called, dreaming that I was pulling No.3 out of a crater - the result of the twins tying the poor baby to a home-made rocket. It was one of those calls in the middle of the night that makes you wonder who's just died. Mrs McHaggarty (the mother of Dolores), has not been well lately - she claims she has deep vein thrombosis, so she was the first person on my list.

Anyways, to cut a long story short, it was the local police Inspector. He was having a dinner party, and had been alerted by the duty sergeant regarding an acute shortage of cells at the local station, on account of the village May Ball having turned riotous and several revellers having been arrested for lewd behaviour. The Inspector then called me, to discuss what he called 'a matter of local security'. The ridiculous suggestion he made was that I should host a suspected thief in the Cumbernauld Art Insitute on account of the police cells being full. Such was my surprise, and so brief was the conversastion, that I didn't have time to suggest I house one of the revellers instead. What was the inspector thinking? A thief, in my Art Institute? What if he took a liking to one my works of art?

This question was one of many racing through my mind as I awoke Dolores. She was even more annoyed than me, and told me to tell the police Inspector to choke on his After Eights (actually, she swore rather badly, but I know the local police read this blog, so I've censored her comments). 'What are you going to do?', she finally asked.

'I suppose I'll have to go along with it. The Art Institute is secure, I suppose...'

'Its a portacabin with single glazing and flimsy window locks! If he stamps his foot hard enough the floor will give way. Has the Inspector ever actually visited?'

'He came to the opening ceremony a couple of years ago. I'm a bit surprised actually, now you mention it. Well, mmm, actually, now I think about it - maybe I did exagarate the level of security to him a little bit.'

'You idiot. Trying to impress were you?'

'Not so much impress as....well, you know how it is...'

Dolores turned over at that point and switched off the light. I tried to rouse her, but she refused to become more involved, citing my own buffoonery as reason for her recalcitrance. In the end I was made to search out the spare mattress and duvet on my own. I dragged them down to the Art Institute and opened up the door. The exhibition space was empty, as I've not had time to produce any new art work this year. The door to the office was ajar, so I closed and locked it before checking all the window locks. I briefly wondered about toilet facilities, as the only one for the Art Insitute is a portaloo outdoors, about 10 metres behind the cabin, before spying the bucket I had filled with sand for putting out small fires / stubbing out cigarettes. On emptying the bucket I felt a small surge of pride in my ingenuity. So long as he wasn't prone to sudden bowel movements, the bright-red receptacle would easily suffice for the night.

I'd barely finished locking up when I saw the police car pull up to door of the main building. I recognised the officer as one who had previously arrested me, and we exchanged brief smiles before he opened the rear door of his car and motioned for the inhabitant to emerge....

***********TO BE CONTINUED*************

Songtime

Hello all

Following the decision that the weekend was cancelled after finding a note-pad full of experiments to be performed on the baby by the twins, we were left to entertain ourselves. The twins are under house-arrest until this evening, and have been sulking the whole day. They still protest that they were not going to actually perform any experiments, but they both have form, and frankly I don't believe them. Dolores is in complete agreement, which makes things a bit easier.

I was in the office, reading some emails, when I heard Dolores start to shout. I left the office and ventured into the living area. Dolores was clutching onto the latest copy of 'Green solutions' - a locally produced publication aimed at people interested in saving the environment. She heard me enter, threw the magazine on the floor and shouted 'I don't believe it!'

'What's up dear?', I asked.

'Global bloody warming!' she said loudly, scowling.

'It's here to stay, darling, so you might as well get used to it', I suggested, trying to be helpful.

'Every day I get bombarded with new ways to help save the planet. I mean, how much further can we go? Look at this...' she jabbed at the magazine on the floor, '...this bunch are saying we should piss in our plant-pots to save water. It's sending people barmy.'

'Yes dear. Do you want me to go to the garden centre?'

'Sod off, Joseph.'

I left my fragrant, if occasionally irrascible wife to her diatribe against the environmentalists and retired to the office. Having read my emails I was suddenly struck by a nugget of creativity, and thought of writing a song. This is something in which I've dabbled previously, but without much success. My trouble is not with the lyrics, but with the tune, for I have no gift for melody. This time, I decided, I would use an existing tune. I had the famous 'My favourite things' from the Sound of Music in my head, and Dolores' rant as a basis for the lyrics. Three hours, 6 flapjacks, 4 cups of tea and one lunch later, I had it. Here then, for the first time ever, I present a song what I wrote. It is to be sung to the tune of 'My favourite things', and is entitled...

'Ode to the disgruntled environmentalist'

Argentine Mangoes and Lamb from New Zealand
Too many airmiles to fly them to England
Organic turnips are what we must buy
So long as they've travelled no more than 2 miles

Chorus:
On a donkey's back, in a woollen sack
Shorn by hand from the sheep
Pick your own berries and wash them in pee
Recyle the tears, that you weep

Meat from a small cow that never saw light of day
Crabs that were plunged into death the old fashioned way
Frogs legs in garlic served on a hot plate
These are the foods we've been told we must hate

Trainers and clothes from developing nations
Coffee from farms in rainforest plantations
Engery from unsustainable source
These are all forbidden products of course

Opting to fly on your annual holiday
Leaving your dvd plugged in the mains all day
Driving to anywhere beyond your street
All of these things are stamped on your crime sheet

you've...got...to

Grow your own compost and eat it for dinner
Nettle tea stewed with bath water's a winner
Rip up your decking and use it for fuel
Wear long grass skirts, pack your kids off to school

Chorus

Twin trouble

Oh dear

The twins came home yesterday from boarding school. They were very pleased to see No3 again, and for a short time, in the early evening, I was content with the whole family. Dolores was cooking dinner, the twins were paying attention to No.3, and I was reading the local free paper. There was a story about a local farmer paying someone to dispose of a suspected case of bird flu, a picture of twins who were doing a 3-legged marathon for charity, the sad tale of the demise of the village butcher's shop, and a guest article by the village's new community support officer, warning of a local crime spree.

It was whilst reading this story that I noticed a piece of paper hanging out of the back pocket of Twin X's trousers. I couldn't make out all of what it said, but I did quite clearly see the word 'Experiment'. Pleased to see the twins taking an interest in science, I asked them what the experiment was about. Their reaction was somewhat unexpected. Instead of simply relaying the required infomation, they spun round and began to back away from No 3's cot. They then began disssembling in the manner of 12 year old children caught in the act of some petty crime to which they cannot possibly admit.

So far as I was aware, no crime had been committed. They'd only been back for a few hours, and had been supervised the whole period. The fact that they ran away therefore made no sense. I called them back into the living area, keen not to ruin the peace and quiet that had so far blessed their return. But it was fruitless. They were determined not to yield to my gentle persuasion, and that fact alone made me increasingly suspicious. If they hadn't already committed an act of hostility towards something/someone, they might well be planning it.

'Show me the piece of paper boys!', I shouted down the corridor at their rapidly retreating selves. On hearing this cry, Twin X did not do as commanded, but instead tore up the paper and put it in his mouth, chewing furiously before swallowing. The act of standing still to destroy the paper was their fateful flaw, as it slowed them enough that I could catch up. I just managed to pull the last piece of paper out of his mouth. It was blank.

'Why did you swallow the paper?', I asked in a traditionally firm tone.

'I was hungry?', suggested the youngster. This was an unlikely explanation as they had recently finished a pre-dinner snack of cheese dippers.

Faced with this clear untruth, but a lack of any evidence, I had to concede that they were just being their usual, boisterous, dad-baiting selves.

Or so I thought.

We were putting the boys to bed that evening. It was quite late, as they'd been regailing us with dubious tales of their escapades at school. I volunteered to tuck them in, and held their hands as we walked towards their bedroom. The sound of one of my favourite Genesis tracks - the 23 minute long 'Supper's ready' - was playing on the Hi-Fi in the living area. Ravel was out somewhere with friends, and Dolores was reading a magazine. The scene was set for a peaceful night, free of stress, free of admonishment, free of punishment.

The boys changed into their pyjamas, brushed their teeth and climbed into bed. They looked almost angelic as they smiled and said they were glad to be home. I returned the sentiment, kissed them on their foreheads, and made to leave the room. Had I not paused before switching off the light, maybe the night would have continued to offer a sense of calm, and not a cross word would have been spoken. But pause I did, and all because I wanted one last look at my twin boys, a moment to ponder how fast they had grown, how much they had developed in recent months as puberty began to transform their minds and bodies. I was filled with a small amount of pride, knowing that, despite their flaws, I had raised two fine, intelligent boys

Perhaps I was jumping ahead in my expectations of my children. After all, they were still just only just 12 years old, and it's well known that boys develop slower than girls. On the other hand, maybe I'd just drunk a little too much wine.

It doesn't really matter now.

What happened is this: as I turned back to gaze once more on the face of Twin Y, I saw his hand move rapidly to push a bag underneath his bed. One eye was open, the other tight shut. For a fraction of a second I was tempted to ignore what I had just seen, but unfortunately for Twin Y, the act of pushing the bag had dislodged an A5 sized note-pad that had been sitting in the top. It fell out of the bag with a barely audible whisper, as the pages brushed over the bag's handle, and flopped onto the floor, opening in the process to reveal a page with writing and a diagram.

Perhaps if the boy had remained calm, I might have overlooked what had just happened. After all, I have always tried to distill a sense of tidiness in the twins, and this hasty act of self-organisation could have been considered to fall within that remit. But unfortunately for him, and his brother, and me, and Dolores, he didn't remain calm. Instead, he looked down at the pad with a look of horror, pointed over to his brother and shouted 'he's farted!', before pulling the covers over his face as if to avoid the smell.

Twin X looked non-plussed for a second, which was just long enough for me to realise that the notebook was significant. I stepped forward and peered down at the page. This is what I saw...

We did not get much sleep that night. The pad was full of protocols, the majority of which used No.3 as the experimental subject. None of them, so far as I could tell, had the health and welfare of the newborn anywhere on the agenda. The boys strenuously denied that they were going to carry out any of the experiments, but as I looked back on the evening, I recalled that they had taken a particularly keen interest in the day-to-day activities of the infant, even going so far as to write down details such as what time he generally slept in the afternoon, and where we disposed of his nappys.

I confiscated the note pad. The kids have been confined to quarters until further notice. The bank holiday weekend trip to the village fair has been cancelled. No.3 is never more than two feet away from either myself, Dolores or Ravel.

J McC

Roger's dilemma

Hello all

In a recent post, I encountered a sick badger called Roger. I was concerned at the time that he was coughing in a way not dissimilar to an animal suffering from TB, and resolved to test him for the disease. Timothy Hedgehog appeared to be satisfied with my suggestion, but the badger was less than keen.

'I cannot submit, Doctor' said the short legged mammal as I bent down to pick him up.

'Huh?' I said, although I wasn't entirely surprised. Seeing as the animal could talk, it was possible he already knew what would happen if he was positive for the disease.

'It is not that I am personally afraid...'

'But...'

'But I'm afraid that I belong to a badger sect whose prophets are the revered Bodger and Badger, bovine blessings be with them. The teachings of Bodger are sacred to us, and one of his commandments is that we should never submit to medical tests, for fear of disturbing the universal badger aura that unites us all. I cannot allow you to test me doctor. You may only offer palliative care.'

I sighed. This was a clear case of sect-conditioning. I doubted that Roger had any real idea who Bodger and Badger were, but he remained adamant that I must not test him for TB. I was faced with a dilemma. Should I go against his wishes, and risk violating his badger's rights. Or should I take a wider view that society was more precious than the wellfare of a single animal.

Timothy hedgehog supplied a surprisingly diplomatic answer. 'We have some spare cages I think, Doctor. Perhaps you could put Roger in one of them, temporarily, until he gets better?'

I was forced to mull over the idea as we walked back to the hotel. I held Roger in my arms, stroking his fur and equating him, in some bizarre anthropomorphic way, to No. 3. I imagined that myself and Dolores had the same ideaology as the badger, and that someone wanted to test our baby for a genetic disease - the outcome deciding the baby's fate. What would we expect?

Of course, we would expect others to respect our way of life and leave us alone.

I couldn't bring myself to break the poor badgers heart. His stoicism was admirable, more so in my eyes, perhaps, because I lack stoicism sometimes when it is required. As we approached the Institute, I therefore resolved to offer the badger the care he desired, and let nature take its course. Roger is now in a cage, and is given all the food, water and warmth that he desires. So far, there is no sign that the disease is progressing, but he does have a chronic cough and rheumy eyes. I'll let you know he he progresses.

J McC

dreamcoat

Hello all

Like every blogger, I get stray visitors looking for somewhere else but whose keywords seem to fit in with a post of my own. I ignore most of them, but this one from google made me chuckle..

'i close my eyes to see for certain ahh - joseph'

I had no idea a story about a disastrous trip to a pizza restaurant by Ravel and a girl from the village would find me associated with the Lord Lloyd Webber. I am humbled.

J McC

Love to win

Hello all

Well, who would have thought it possible....

After a rather volatile affair lasting 4 months, it is finally all over.

I wrote several times, hoping to explain myself and give answers to several difficult questions.

For almost the whole four months I was spurned, and eventually I gave up trying.

Then, quite suddenly, the following email appears....

-------------------

From: Jason@lovetolead.info
Subject: Merit prize

Good afternoon

I've pasted a url below which links to the article which, it has been
decided, is the best of the competition.

http://lovetolead.info/ViewArticle/tabid/56/EntryID/124/Default.aspx

Would you agree?

Warm regards

jason

--------------

I clicked on the link and hey presto....

Of course I agreed, and yesterday I received the congratulatory email. So my thanks finally go to Love to Lead and Toshiba. Bless 'em.

I'm now an award winning blogger!

cheers

J McC

Badger in the undergrowth

I wondered last week why Timothy Hedgehog was so keen on me writing something in support of the badger community. He told me it was essential that people took pity on badgers and treated them with the respect they deserve. I was a bit surprised by his approach, mainly because I've never heard Timothy lobby for anything other than a more comfortable cage since his arrival several months ago.

After the post had been up for a few days, everything became clear. 'Dr McCrumble...' said Timothy one morning as I was picking lice and other ectoparasites from his body. 'I have something to tell you...'

'Mmm...' I murmured, not really taking much notice due to be pre-occupied with a particularly strong tickthat refused to be removed, and was grasping hold of one of Timothy's hind legs.

'You like badgers now don't you?' asked the hedgehog.

'I always like badgers. Unless they're sick...'

'He's not sick, as such...OUCH!'

'He...?' I replied, holding up the tick, now fully engorged with hedgehog blood.

'Do you have to be so rough?'

'I had no option I'm afraid. I might have been too late already. If he was carrying....'

'I don't want to know.'

'So, what were you saying?'

'There is someone I'd like you to meet. His name is, er, Roger.'

'Right...', I said slowly, unsure where this was going.

'He's over by the art studio. Can we go now?'

I'd just about finished picking arthopods off Timothy's legs and so agreed. En route to the art studio I heard the sounds of No.3 crying, and the gentle tone of my wife asking Ravel to find Timothy to help soothe the infant. 'I'll bring him in a minute', I shouted.

Timothy directed me to the back of the studio, and pointed with his front left leg towards a sheet of corrugated metal sheet that had been previously used to shield some firewood. Lifting the sheet must have startled the animal hiding beneath, and all I saw were the back legs and stripey rear of a small badger as it scuttled out of sight underneath the art studio.

'Roger!', cried Timothy, 'It's me, Timothy. You can come out. I've brought the doctor.'

I mulled the combination of Roger and Badger in my mind whilst waiting for the timid animal to re-emerge. The combination sounded not unlike Bodger and Badger - the name of a long running children's TV show starring a puppet badger (named Badger), and his master (called Bodger). It was a show I've never seen, but which was immensely popular during its ten year run, apparently.

Anyway, it took a few minutes of coaxing by Timothy before Roger emerged. I could see immediately from the dullness of his coat that he was not in the best of health. Judging by his size, I could also tell that he was a juvenile.

Roger sniffed loudly and looked at me inquisitively with rheumy, dark eyes. He then produced a rather large amount of phlegm, which he coughed out at my feet. It was yellow-green, indicating that he might be carrying some form of infection.

'Hello Roger', I said quietly, as one might to anyone one meets for the first time.

'Are you a doctor?', asked Roger, his quiet voice barely audible above the background sounds of birds in the neighbouring wood.

Before we go any further, I should point out that I am not Dr Doolittle's twin or direct descendent. Nor have I ever met Rex Harrison or Eddie Murphy. I was not expecting a reply from the badger, as I was under the distinct impression that Timothy hedgehog was alone in the universe for being the only animal that could talk on a par with humans. To be faced with another mammal that apparently converse, in English, was momentarily both surprising and shocking. It is a testament to my scientific training that I was able to keep control of my feelings in order to keep the animal calm.

'Well, er, Roger', I began, 'I'm not actually a medical doctor, nor indeed a vet, but rather a Phd. Is that any help?'

Roger emerged a bit further into the light. I could see now that he was really quite sick. He looked both underweight and dehydrated, and I was forced to manifest the idea that the poor animal may be infected with tuberculosis. If so there was only one course of action...

******TO BE CONTINUED!*******