Other Nonsense

The Musings

...Meanwhile, in the back room, still trapped beneath the file cabinet which had fallen on him last Thursday week, Geraldo the library lemur contemplated the Lancashire file, obviously not as weighty as the Yorkshire files he had eaten 3 days previous, but a tasty morsel to be sure. Surely somebody would find out the secret sooner or later and Geraldo would die a satisfied lemur, knowing that the truth had been returned to it's rightful position, just left of centre slightly above the mooing cream jug on the mantle in the den.

Thanks to his infuriating bout of Random Writer's Block, Horatio Tamarin was blissfully unaware of the danger that lurked just beyond the back step of the rear porch at his great aunt's cottage in South Clement, Kentucky. And anyway, he was stuck just left of Albuquerque, West Afghanistan. Increasingly frustrated he turned, once again, to the bottle. A small drop, dripped onto his forearm, confirmed to Horatio that the milk's temperature was perfect.

All of a sudden, without any warning whatsoever, coming as of much of surprise to me as to anyone else, totally unbeknownst to Geraldo, let alone Horatio, or Archibald, the portrait of her sister fell from the den wall - knocking the mooing cream jug a full 6 inches into the next afternoon's story (but that's another story all together). It wasn't a great loss; after all with out the mooing cream jug's unexpected appearance in the next afternoon's story, it was ugly anyway. And you always ended up pouring cream all over the gerbils when you tried to make it moo.

His bottle finished, Horatio fell off his chair in a state of asleepedness. Woken by the force of the floor leaping up at his head, Horatio Tamarin let forth the most complete vocabulary of filth known to primates. In total four complete words and half a dozen mumbles were left all over the freshly tarmaced carpet in the small office he called his office. And it was his; it had his name on the window, backwards in the event that a prospective client may be looking in their rear view mirror at the time of passing.

Geraldo released a horrendous and largely audible, not to mention vaguely odorous and slightly tasting of beetroot, belch after ingesting the 734th and final page of the Lancashire file - a page documenting the curious legal position of (those claiming to be) Highlanders pertaining to Lancastrian parentage. Perhaps a touch of salt would have aided in the digestion but other than that a fairly palatable meal and it should sustain him for at least another two days 13 hours 43 minutes and 3 seconds. But even so, that Cornwall file was looking mighty tempting for dessert.

The knocking on the door alerted Horatio to the presence of somebody on the other side, thinking that the interruption would affect his concentration on his current work; he simply ignored it and continued with his lack of progress. Irritated by the ignorance of Horatio, the aforementioned knocking, or rather the perpetrator thereof, left by the back door, only to be set upon by a horde of things best left undescribed - they might have been elk, or possibly caribou, I have difficulty with telling the difference.

What happened after that is anyone's guess - answers on a postcard to me - and to be quite honest, nobody's problem. Last I heard Horatio Tamarin collected a Pulitzer for 'Musings on Nothing In Particular' and Geraldo the library lemur was up to lower east African provinces. No one has ever heard whether or not Archibald managed to obtain everything on the list but Moberland Snordwekkin's record of 3,000 words is believed to still be intact. The horde of elk/caribou is still at large and there has been a recent legislation invoking the renunciation of Scottishness of all (those claiming to be) Highlanders pertaining to Lancastrian parentage. I myself am a figment of my own imagination, and as I ghostwrote 'Musings on Nothing In Particular', I should have received that Pulitzer instead of Horatio Tamarin, but I guess you just can't trust the Tamarins like you used to be able to. I knew his father, Xavier Tamarin, you know, a man of principle and honour, not like his stinking, two-timing, back-stabbing, good-for-nothing, illegitimate half son!