The Soft White Underworld-Belly

Yes, A Nod To A Very Old Iteration Of Blue Oyster Cult
And I believe there are some new kids on the block who hail by the name 'Underworld' although this doesn't concern them, and is certainly nothing to do with that boy band, who might still be around, or may not, and your humble scribe certainly doesn't care enough about them one way or another to expend another second on typing -
     "You seem especially confused this morning, Conrad.  Did you have a torrid time on public transport today?" I hear you question.
     I was going for stream-of-consciousness, actually.  Frightfully arty and all that, the stream-of-consciousness, don't you know, although today we might go for the Scottish equivalent of "streams", that is, "burns" as it is Burns Day today.

The stream-of-consciousness!  It burns!

     So, I was going for burns-of-consciousness, actually.  Also, no, First Bus managed all three tick-boxes today - the 24 came on time, it was a double-decker (though still rammed at the end of the journey) and they had The Metro aboard.  This last point was especially important as there were several crossword clues I didn't get yesterday and which needed clearing up -

Tulip Tree, anyone?

     Well, having gone off on a tangent to the original tangent's tangent, let us get back on the rails.  No, I don't care if that's mixing metaphors, I like a nice metaphor cocktail.
     Let the Intro end!  Let us move on, to -

"An Underworld At War" By Donald Thomas
An interesting book in that it illuminates - an apt analogy - the dark underbelly of Britain at war.  The pre-war criminals seize the night, as it were, to carry out their dirty deeds.  The pre-war upstanding citizen also, on occasion, was tempted into breaking the law.  Also of interest is the frequent descent into bureaucratic stupidity of HM Government, such as the "Transportation of Cut Flowers Act 1942".  Because - er - because - it'll come to me - ah - because cut flowers are AGENTS OF THE NAZIS!
     Perhaps.

Perhaps indeed.

     And by golly gee, the Government surely loved to control people's lives, and to monitor and view them.  Rationing of this, and that, and most certainly the other, whilst carrying out inspecting and investigations and snooping, and a quite disgraceful amount of what we would today call "entrapment".  I may list some of the innumerable organisations that sprang up to keep a watchful eye upon the public, as there were lots (the "innumerable" acts as a clue here).


Dog At Rest
It is a constant trial and tribulation for Edna that the human component* of The Mansion do not salubriously acquiesce - no, I'm not reading Dickens yet this is all my own persiflage - in acknowledgement of her primacy in the household.  She considers her place to be in the comfort of a lap.  Anyone's lap.  If she can't reach a lap she lies on the floor in a profound sulk, then she tours the available humans*, letting them know how unimpressed she is with their Wicked Neglect.  Then comes her MOMENT OF TRIUMPH! which is not quite alongside the better moments of Indiana Jones in our eyes, but is at least as good in hers.  Thus.

Phurther To The Parrots Of - Peril?
Yes, yes, I know that the South Canadian spell checker has highlighted that as an incorrect spelling, well yah booh sucks to you, spell checker, it's my blog and I'll create words out of thin air if I care to**.
     As I was saying, phurther to the fearsome feathered flying <thinks> er - fandangos, the Parrots, can I introduce Johnny Morris, presenter of "Animal Magic", which was a children's television programme back in the days of monochrome about - you're probably ahead of me here - animals.  During the early years of the Second Unpleasantness he was sent to collect an African Grey*** from a provincial railway station.  

Oh no!  The evil and sinister Johnny Morris is strangling that leopard cub!

     When he arrived, Johnny went to seek out the Station-master - this is the chap who is in charge of a railway station - who turned out to be a white-faced quivering individual, who expressed a fervent desire for the parrot to be removed from the station premises forthwith.  As soon as possible, or quicker, if that could be arranged.
     Why so? pondered out canary-carrying courier of zoological origin.  What could possibly be the problem?

Ah - the tables turned.  Now he's getting a good choking.

     Well, he found out.  O yes indeed.  Parrots, you see, are excellent at mimicking sounds, and this one had obviously been living under the Giant Flying Mallets of the Luftwaffe, because it specialised in reproducing the sounds of a bomb dropping.  Johnny recounts that the explosion was a rather feeble "Clonk", but the protracted HIDEOUS BANSHEE WAILING of the bomb's descent was spot-on and the Station-master had been subjected to this aural assault for hours on end.    

Well I had lots more to tell you except I'm hungry and it's late, so ta ta for now.

* I include me in there, for the sake of convenience
**  And, as visible, I care to.
***  Possibly a Blue.  Memory hazy.