Oaks And Acorns And All That

Conrad Is Minded -

Of that old Castlemaine beer advert.  In case 1986 was before your time, or you have no idea what I'm talking about (Conrad suspects this to be a common occurrence) allow me to explain.  You have a general store in the Australian outback, with men busy humping pallets of Castlemaine XXXX onto a much-abused pick-up truck.  Art!

<Cue ominous creaking>

"Something for the ladies?" enquires one of the buyers.

"Yeah, two bottle of sweet sherry, mate," orders the other.  Art!

<Loud 'runch'>

"Looks like we've overdone it with the sherry,' laconically comments one.

     "What pettifogging nonsense is this?" I hear you query.  Pausing only to admire your use of an unusual and Dickensian adjective, I shall explicate.  Okay, as we all know by now, Conrad has a huge, mobile bookcase that sits in front of him, so he can gloatingly rub his hands in glee at all the books he has they are stored properly.  Yesterday he took charge of the slightly-despoiled giant (for which read 'heavy') television from the lounge, which is showing a small white spot on the screen where a few of the magical electronic display whatnots have gone out of alignment.  Art!

Thus

     There was a slight problem, which the eagle-eye of Wonder Wifey spotted when she came to see if I'd broken the pre-owned telly yet.  Not the television, no, but one castor on my mobile bookcase felt that adding a large and heavy television was going beyond it's duties, and did a sweet sherry.  Art!

Wonky!

     You can't see this clearly, so let me tell you the MDF had given way and the castor collapsed, digging into the base.  There's no way to repair this unless you Gorilla Glue the whole corner, with no guarantee it would hold. This is cutting to the chase, for to manage to examine the damage I had to empty the entire bookcase, which is when I began to realise how many books it contained.  A whole lot.  I've not bothered to count, as it's easier to show you a picture.  Art!

     This omits a big batch of comic books now stored in a box that hadn't been filled completely.  Let us now see the results!  Art?

THE HORROR OF AN EMPTY BOOKCASE!

     I know, scarier than "The Mezzotint", isn't it?  The solution was to take the wheels off, then move it into a space against the door, after moving the CD stacker and the base unit and storage unit over, so the TV can be placed upon them.  Art!

     It will, of course - obviously! - take ages to re-fill the now immobile bookcase, since the shelves are all upside down.  Into each life a little rain must fall, hmmm?  In recompense I do have Netflix on a really big monitor and was thus able to watch Episode 5 of "Midnight Mass" which had a truly surprise ending I didn't see coming.  And "Don't Look Up", which is an hilarious satire with an altogether prescient look at modern culture*.

Big Bad Boy in the background

Conrad's Mind Is At It Again

You recall that my recall can be not at all.  Meaning odd words and phrases will pop up in my mind for no good reason, nor for any bad reason either.  They're just there.

     Hence "Bustopher".  Who?  Quite.  Your Humble Scribe considered that this might have been a saint from the New Testament, before he Googled for an explanation -

     GREAT SQUEAKING BATS!

     Art?

<gags in revulsion>

     It is a character from that loathsome musical farrago "Cats", which Conrad has never seen and never intends to see**.  Why on earth did this name pop up in my mind?  I may have read "Old Possums Book Of Practical Cats" once, forty years ago and that's it.

     FYI Bustopher Jones is not skin and bones, and in painful fact is a morbidly obese cat.

Well, If I Have To Suffer A Few Outrageous Slings -

You can jolly well suffer through "Tormentor", too.  I've written it so you can be darned sure and certain you're going to read it.

Monday morning was every bit as unpleasant as he’d expected.  He woke to more consternation about life, the universe and the meaning of what he’d experienced. 

               Plus, the dirty dishes from last night that he’d left lying about the lounge were all neatly washed and arrayed on the draining board.

               ‘Thanks,’ he said to the empty house, not knowing if the spirit was there and invisible or not there at all. 

               Which made him wonder how long, exactly, Jennifer’s spirit would hang around.  If her killer was identified and arrested would she depart this mortal coil?  In fact, how could she depart?  Did she want to?

               Getting to college this Monday morning was his own idea: the vicar who offered pastoral care to students would be available today, as he always was on Monday mornings.  Louis found the small non-dedicated office, door open, and the reverend Sharples sitting making notes from a book.  Knocking, he went in, careful to close the door behind him.

               The vicar looked at him curiously, then very intently, very intently indeed.  Louis found the scrutiny uncomfortable.

               ‘Mister – McMahon - isn’t it?  You’ve undergone a sea-change.’

               ‘You know me already?’ replied Louis, surprised.

               ‘Your reputation precedes you,’ said the vicar, with a touch of sly amusement.  ‘I must say, you are the very last person I’d expect to see in here.’  He paused.  ‘Except you’ve undergone a change.  Can’t put my finger on it, but you seem different.’

               For a second Louis wondered if the vicar meant the experience of loss, of Jennifer being murdered, then dismissed the idea.

               ‘This is going to sound insane, Reverend, but I’m going to tell you anyway.  I’ve been seeing a spirit.  In my house.  A girl I know, you may have seen the news, she – well, she was murdered.  Then I woke up to see her spirit sitting on my bed.’

               The vicar leaned back in his chair, frowning, then realised his expression didn’t look encouraging.  He waved a hand for Louis to continue.

     Prescient Reverend Sharples; perceptive chap, that.  I don't think he crops up again, so don't get attached to him.

Benjamin Bathurst

You may have heard of this chap in connection with umpteen science fiction stories and supernatural tales that were created about his 'inexplicable and mysterious' disappearance.  Briefly put, he was a British ambassador travelling in Prussia in 1809, during the Napoleonic Unpleasantness.  He had been recalled to London and, whilst in the town of Perleberg, vanished the night he was due to take a carriage to Hamburg.  Art!

Ben in better days

     Cue all the woo-woo about how he'd been taken away by aliens, or stepped into an alternative reality, or fell into a dimensional rift, or was kidnapped by cyborg weasels from the future, that sort of stuff.

    In fact the truth was far more prosaic.  He had been wearing a very expensive fur coat, Prussia at the time was practically lawless and he was very probably murdered for his coat.  The finger of suspicion pointed at a local family called Schmidt, since his coat was found in their possession.  Not only that, in 1852 a skeleton was dug up near the inn he had been staying at, the skull of which had been shattered at the back.

Wrong!

     Which proves the efficacy of Occam's Razor: entities should not be multiplied un-necessarily, and you don't need to invoke time-travelling wonder-weasels in order to explain a sordid murder.

     I think it's time to get back to ordering and filling that bookcase, Vulnavia.  Definitely a first world problem.

Chin chin!

*  Or lack of it.  Which is dabbling in Politics, so we shall stop there.

**  Remember our Mission Statement: CONRAD - HATES ALL MUSICALS!