"Where am I?" or at least, that was what Martin Elginbrod meant, but what actually came out was a kind of borborygm, a belch or a fart, and the voice in his ear whispered: "not so self-assured now, without our henchman to watch our back, are we? why, fiddlesticks! not only no Minder, not even your propugnaculum – what is an Advocate sans his wig and gown? an ordinary mortal – if they prick us, do we not bleed? you've bled plenty in your sordid scurrilous life, ain't you dearie?" the voice tone and syntax changes unsettled him even more than the weightless, floating sensation, that reminded him of an afternoon spent – oh, some 25 years ago, he supposed – in the Edinburgh Flotarium, in Stockbridge, but wherever he was now, it was certainly no Flotarium!
Only it wasn't, not really, revealed that is, to Martin Elginbrod after his strenuous climb to the top of Arthur's Seat, discreetly pursued by Riddle Rankine, Felix Rosenstiel, Dixie and Bunty O'Hooligan, all of The Justice League of Auld Reekie, not to mention other eyes and ears in disparate parts of the Universe that just happened to be watching and listening; the Elginbrods were a sept of the MacFarlane Clan and, ever since the first Martin Elginbrod had come south from his home in Elgin – where his body was returned for burial under the headstone with it's famous inscription (look it up for yourself) - to rise to the top of the Legal Trade, Elginbrods had been one of the main powers behind the city: not for them any dreams of becoming a Deacon, Baillie, or Lord Provost, of standing for election to the Town Council or it's more recent successors, they preferred to manage their control from the shadows; Martin remembered a boy in his year at school whose father was Lord Provost and who dreamt for his son the same position, but Martin already knew that his own father owned that boy's father as, in maturity, Martin now owned that boy, the present Lord Provost; this is no flapdoodle, for in a monopsony, a market with only one buyer, the seller is caught by the throat and Martin's grip on the throats of all the men he owned was like a vice; and yet here he now sat, smoking a cigar, on the very pinnacle of the great hill which looms over the city, at the mercy of the one who owned him; the susurrous whisper of the grass in the breeze which gusted around him, the whispering grass, carried messages which he strained to catch, believing that they were of that branch of pataphysics which had guided him through his life; he knew all about Sir Parlane's mastery over Time Travel, and had his own terrifying memories of it, but had preferred to remain here, in his own lifetime, while MacFarlane and Doubleday roamed through the centuries and entertained him at their regular reunions with their tales of adventure, conquest and blood; yes, he was squeamish, always had been, always would be, but at second hand he relished the detail and was always ready to refill their glasses and elicit more; hush, there was a distant click – quite distinct from the natural whispering in the wind, and he turned to peer towards whence it had come, which was when a hand clasped his shoulder and a voice hissed into his ear: "not here, not now, too many eyes and ears," and all Rankine and Rosenstiel saw was a shimmer, like the Aurora Borealis but too close to be that, and Elginbrod was gone; they ran to the top, closely followred by the O'Hooligan twins and the only thing that remained was a still glowing cigar on the ground where it had been dropped!
"I'm a wicked, wicked woman," wailed Sadie Siddons as she wept before Dr Jekyll, "wickedest as ever was, to let such an abomination of a man wind me round his little finger, entice me away from my old Pa's seasteading an teck me to London, interdooce me to a life of vice an depravity, use me an abuse me an meck me find other gels for 'im to ruin as 'ee ruined me, an that bonnie lass, poor young Gracie, the goodest, purest, finest little soul as ye could find who looked to me when she funded herself alone in a strange place, trusted and believed in me as I tinked 'er morals an' b'leefs an' prepared 'er for 'im an' 'is friend Mister Walter to 'ave fer they're pleasure an' makkin' out that they loves 'er an' cares fer 'er same as they done to poor wee Minnie Bannister knowin' full well that when they've lost interest they'll jest 'ave me put 'er on the streets to sell over an' over again to their kind o' so-called gennlemen, an' it's all my fault!" she howled, until Jekyll managed to squeeze his voice in while she took a long and deep breath: "dear Miss Siddons, cast aside a' thon flapdoodle, it is neither your fault nor that o a little moose wha bides ahent the wainscotin; ye can be exculpated o a' blame, ah assure ye – evil men like MacFarlane and his freend hae sich a wey wi theirsels that they impress an deceive wi the facility o confidence tricksters an politicians, they ken fell weel hoo tae spin their webs an' ensnare wee slips o lassies, an grown wimmin tae, an men an' a' iffen they've a devious bent aboot their desires – an they come fae a class as has power an social staunin an money as weel, enuff tae turn ony bairn's heid an iffen they jist spot the tiniest chink in yer armour, even a merrit wummin wi bairns an a husband, that's them through it an ye kin dae nothin aboot it fer like the skilled fisher wi his hook, he's caught ye an there's no a damn thing ye kin dae tae save yersel efter that, no alane that is, an comin here lookin fer Gracie is the first step oan yer road tae self-salvation an self-actualisation!" and through her shining, tear-soaked eyes, Sadie gazed enraptured at the good Doctor who had shown her the truth and the way and the light, had removed the weight of the guilt she had loaded about herself and set her free!"
"Ye canna bamboozle me, Miss Siddons, am urny gien tae sideromancy, palmistry, belief in Bogey Men or aw things supernatural, as a Doctor o Medicine, ye'll ken that ma beliefs are in the Sciences as opposed tae Seances," said Dr Henry Jekyll, not aggressively but rather in that calming voice which has become associated with the term, Bedside Manner but in his case was a natural, innate and comforting way of being; he continued: "ah ken much aboot yer protector, Sir Peveril MacFarlane; ah ken he's whit in common parlance micht be ca'd a high roller, a gadaboot, a big spender, even in some circles, a gentleman, in others a cad, a procurer of wimmin, a ruiner of maidens an the enemy of conjugal love; he resorts wi ither rakes and pursues until he obtains, by seduction, promise, deceit or coin, ony wummin or girl wha taks his fancy, catches his e'e, or simply happens to be in the wrang place at the wrang time; he never taks NO for an answer, regarding it merely as a delaying tactic; but his danger is greater than ony ithers, for he has discovered the secret o Time Travel an has spent the last ten or twenty year in a hunner ither years, past an future, combined wi an ability tae move from ane continent tae anither as weell as movin through Time; somewhaur in the depths of your soul Miss Siddons, ye may believe that he truly does love ye, despite all the evidence to the contrary, that while he enjoys the boadies o ither wimmin an children, he regards yours as his favourite – and perhaps he does, when he is wi ye; but when he's no with you, Miss Siddons, whaur is he? and whae is he wi? the truth is he may be in France in the 17th century, in Russia in the 20th, in the Americas in the 18th, in the East Indies in the 23rd; nane of this is fanciful, a' is documented, ah hae the proof; but whit use does it avail me? this is 1868, a crime committed in 1968 has no happened yet, anither in 1768 cannae be prosecuted when a' the witnesses are deid lang syne! oor courts hae nae jurisdiction ower ither countries, let alane continents, so the man goes untouched, an even if it were possible tae bring charges agin him here, noo, today, what wud happen? shall ah tell ye, Miss Siddons? he wud decamp, as ye micht say, he'd scarper, up sticks, scram. disappear, go up in smoke! for he has that ability, tae transcend Time an Space, which is denied tae the rest o us – although yer young freend Grace Lang is somethin o an exception, fur she wis born Lady Griselda o Langformacus, close tae ma ain faimly hame, but some 700 hunner year afore, so ye micht say ah hae a vested interest in her case, no as a Doctor per se," which was when Sadie, with a puzzled look on her face, asked: "oo's ee then? this Doctor Percy? wot's ee gorra do bout it?" and Jekyll laughed and patted Sadie's hand: "weel said, Miss Siddons, touché! we doctors are ower fond of wur Latin, whether in medical matters or considerin the supper menu, so ah'll try tae stick Latin phrases in my pipe and smoke em! no, ma interest in Griselda is that o a concerned neebour; ah ken the descendants o her brither Gibby, ah ken o the terrible rape an murder of her beloved sister, a nun, Sister Evadne Eglantyne, committed by that self-same MacFarlane in his true name, an ah ken the pain that has tormented her faimly for the past seven hunner year, a rapist an murderer never been confronted wi his guilt, a faimly losin ane dochter in an oubliette in Embra an another simply vanished aff the face o the Earth; so mony questions unanswered a' that time; so a' o thon an mair comprise ma interest an determination tae dae whit little ah may tae gie that faimly Justice!" and to his surprise and some shock, Sadie Siddons fell to the floor before him and wept upon his knees!
"Oh! the puir wee diddy!" cried Nurse Jekyll, Doctor Henry's sister, "whit a whigmaleerie, I never thocht tae hear fi ane sae young!" and she called the housemaid, Phemie, to fetch smelling salts and then run to the fruiterer for a lemon, "that'll bring her tae her senses," said Nurse Jekyll, but Dr Jekyll fixed Sadie with a penetrating gaze: "it's no tomfoolery, is it, Miss Siddons?" and though she wanted with all her being to deny Gracie's outburst, though she wanted to defend her protector, Sir Peveril, she could not face up to the Doctor's inherent honesty and she lowered her eyes, silently shaking her head then threw up her apron to cover her face, hide the red guilt which suffused her cheeks and burst out weeping, though for Gracie, for shame or for herself, she hardly knew; and the Doctor's sister lifted Gracie to her bosom and carried her out of the parlour to lay her on the day-bed in the small sun-room at the garden side of the house, while Henry lit his pipe and waited patiently for Sadie to stop crying, knowing from his years of experience that the dam having burst, the river must flow it's own course and no intervention would succeed until the waters ceased of their own accord.
"In my humble opinion," said Dr Henry Jekyll to Gracie Long – actually, as assiduous readers know, the Lady Griselda of Longformacus, accidentally whizzed by a Wormhole through the Space/Time Continuum from Tavish Dalwhinnie's cloak in 13th Century Edinburgh to a wardrobe in London's Drury Lane in the 1880s, much as a Snake will transport a player's counter from Square 89, all the way down the length and breadth of the Board to square 2 – and her dear friend, owner of the wardrobe and mentor in the Game of Harlotry, Miss Sadie Siddons, who had just half an hour ago knocked at the Doctor's door in search of her missing Ward, "this man Sir Peveril MacFarlane, is none other than the Evillest Man Who Ever Lived, the Fiend of Fiends, that inveterate recalcitrant, the hydrophobic Phantom Raspberry-Blower of Ye Olde Londone Towne, Sir Parlane MacFarlane!" there was a shocked silence in which the ticking of the Grandfather Clock in the lobby seemed to echo around the house, gaining momentum as it swirled through the rooms, and each person's heartbeat seemed to by sucked into it, as lava spouting from a quaquaversal volcano runs down every slope carried by both gravity and it's own terrible momentum until all is obliterated; and Dr Jekyll's delicate but strong surgeon's hands toyed with an old rustic thatcher's legget, tapping it on his desk in time with all those other thuds and thumps until Gracie leapt to her feet, hands to her ears, cried "No! No! the Dastardly Devil! he ravished and murdered my own sister, Sister Evadne Eglantyne! save me from his clutches!" and fell to the floor in a swoon!
You might want to dismiss Hyman Z Kaplan as a huckster, a purveyor of fallalery – albeit in the political arena where he had positioned his candidate as an unabashed heresiarch, a proud non-politician taking on the seasoned politicos at their own game, and going on to lose the popular vote by several million votes but scoop up the Electoral College votes, the only votes that really count, where they counted most, to win by several furlongs; that strategy took chutzpah and Kaplan and Trumpet-Trousers had that aplenty – but remember the old adage that it takes a skunk to smell a skunk in the dark: well,
as he learned a few more details of the double tragedy, the car wreck on the railway level crossing and the home burned to the ground, and read the invitations for companies to bid for tenders to carry out various works as part of the development of a major new Tourist Attraction, smack bang on the site of the burned-out house, Hymie smelt the most rancid skunk he had ever encountered and wasn't in the least surprised when Rose Mitnick carried out a search on the succession of shell and holding companies behind the proposed development and identified the ultimate sole proprietor to be none other than Sir Parlane MacFarlane, Laird of MacFarlane County and owner of the Clan MacFarlane Castle Hotel and Health Spa, in which they were presently resident, together with Sadie Moskowitz, Detective Inspector Isa Urquhart and Detective Sergeant Milly Millican of Police Scotland; now that they had something to work on, the various tasks were distributed and like ferrets, they set about digging!
And while these various devious and nefarious plans were being laid deep under the triple-peaked Eildon Hills – though they had no names other than The Cavern, The Tunnels and externally, The Three Plooks, for Melrose lay well in the future unlike the present episode which took place this very afternoon, November the 9th, in The Year of Our Lord. 2038, when Hyman Z Kaplan, formerly Chief Speech-writer and Huckster to Donald Duck Trumpet-Trousers until the day of his inauguration as POTUS when he was summarily dismissed by Tweet, called a Council of War in his bedroom in Clan MacFarlane Hotel, where he was joined over a pot of arrowroot tea by his good friends, Rose Mitnick and Sadie Moskowitz, together with Inspector Isa Urquhart and Sergeant Milly Millican, both of the Scottish Borders Police; Hyman got the ball rolling be confiding to them that . . . . . which was when he received a phone call from his Scotch friend, and after he ended the call he said: "a couple celebrating heir wedding anniversary and their taxi driver were killed last night when their car was hit by the Quebec Express, a faulty signal on a notorious level crossing – apparently people have been complaining that it was an accident waiting to happen; but that same night the couple's home burned down with their two daughters, the sitter and the wife's mother all in it, at the same time that the train hit the taxi! miraculously all the folks in the house were saved by MacFarlane County Fire and Rescue and are at the hospital; strange co-incidence if you believe in them, eh?" and Sadie commented: "pure boustrophedon if you ask me, Hymie, but who's writing it?" at which Isa asked: "who's responsible for the level crossing? is it the railway or the local authority?" at which Hyman held up a finger: "all roads, crossing, bridges and so on in MacFarlane County are the property of and come under the jurisdiction of the Laird, our esteemed friend Sir Parlane MacFarlane – or whatever alias he's using at present!" and Milly Muttered: "oh, he's such a Nice Nelly, who could possibly doubt his innocence?" and then: "me for one!"
MacFarlane went on to describe in some detail the guardianship he had acquired in a part of Prince Edward Island, off Nova Scotia in Canada – all of which was quite beyond the ken of his audience: Nigel, Digby and Percy; but when he spoke of the feats of derring-do in which he had overcome many obstacles, making extensive use of what he referred to as Worm Holes in the Space/Time Continuum which, he firmly believed, he was to only person, ever, to work out how to use them in a controlled way, they were completely baffled and in danger of sinking into that form of melancholia in which one realises that all is lost, there is no way to turn, and every scent one follows is merely a heel-way, leading one further and further from one's prey! but – no matter: he was proposing to take the entire tribe, genetically Neanderthals with a sprinkling of human genes which he had sown personally during his many visits and extended sojourns in their company; they would form a chain, hand to hand, with Nigel in the middle and Digby and Percy as the fore- and end-members and, so long as the hands are kept tightly clasped right along the line, they would all arrive on Prince Edward Island in the latter part of the 21st Century, where he had already built them a Stone Age encampment in a protected site which would draw anthropologists and tourists from around the world, to watch them live, work and play and Special Honoured Guests would have the chance to become intimately acquainted with members of the Clan according to their personal tastes – a unique offering added to the delights of the Clan MacPherson Hotel and Leisure Centre which was Sir Parlane's personal pride and joy!
Now, a couple of weeks later - it might have been a couple of months, apart from the fact that the Chieftain o the Pudden Race's 21st Century watch kept perfect time - Nigel, that selfsame Chieftain, woke Digby and Percy, the two former Russian Oilygarchs - although they had no memory of the Before Time - and told them to hurry, for there were two visitors to The Cavern who wanted to meet them. two special visitors! so, without taking umbrage on being ordered about by a man more Neanderthal than human, they donned their loincloths, ran their fingers through their matted hair, and hurried through the tunnels they had been in before, to Nigel's Den, what might be called his penetralium, where they were surprised to see two very dapper gentlemen who looked nothing like the other people of32,018 BC: "guid mornin' sirs," said one, who proceeded to introduce himself as Sir Parlane MacFarlane – the very one, something of a stormy petrel, whose Diary or Journal they had found so explicit, el Capitano or The Chosen One, regarded as a God-like being by the Neanderthals who lived in and around The Cavern! and the other as his Valet, Dominic Doubleday – "ah'm here oan verra speshul beesness, an ye kin imagine hoo gratified ah'm ur tae find yese twa, unexpectit-like, bit a bit o a bonus, ye micht say, micht ye no?" and Digby and Percy, a truly audient pair, nodded like a couple of toy dogs on the parcel shelf of a 1980's family car!
Heinrich Himmler, Reichsfuhrer-SS, in his immaculate black SS uniform, strode out from his Headquarters, freshly-polished black boots gleaming in the sun, and actually beaming – out of character for one who rarely displayed an arrident demeanour, being naturally shy and squeamish, who detested physical contact and avoided it if it could possibly be avoided – accompanied by his adjutant, Prince Hubertus of Saxe-Coburg-Gotha, his fair hair rippling slightly in the gentle, balmy breeze which had happily settled on Berlin; together they walked to the edge of the pavement and, on a quiet word from his boss, Prince Hubertus moved to the first car, which had Uncle Hans from the Gestapo Motor Pool at the wheel; Hubertus climbed into the cab and took his place on the right of Hans, and waited; they waited until Himmler had successfully climbed into his, made himself comfortable, fidgeted until he was settled, consulted his watch and give a word to the driver, who signalled Hans, and both cars peeled away from the kerb, followed in close order by the third, carrying only armed bodyguards – including the driver – and drove through quiet streets: all road access to their route to Prince Paul's Hotel and then on to The Führer’s Reich-Chancellery had been sealed and only civilian pedestrians carrying passes, either to join the crowds which would line the pavements on both sides of the route, or to admit them to their places of employment within the closed-off area, were admitted; meanwhile, beneath the city, in it's hundreds of miles of tunnels – sewers, water supply, gas, electricity, and communications – Vlado Chernozemski was already at work, indeed he had been there for twelve hours, since before the day's business began and the lock-down put in place when the cars arrived, Prince Hubertus hurried to open Himmler's door for him and was surprised when the Reichsfuhrer-SS swore at him! now, Hubertus could think of nothing which could possibly have occurred during the short drive to trigger this displeasure, but Himmler quickly let him know what it was: "how dare you do this, you little royal pipsqueak? if this wasn't such an important day with our State Guest waiting for me I'd kick you in the goolies, right here and now!" and Prince Hubertus, flabbergasted, said only: "Herr Reichsfuhrer-SS, I truly do not know what I have done to displease you, but if I can rectify any error I will . . . . ." and Himmler flung a sheet of paper at him: "you dare to deny that this recension of my speech of welcome addressed to Prince Paul is your doing? all the best bits have been excised and I am left with 'Hello, Prince Paul and Frau Paul, come this way and I will drive you to meet our beloved Fuhrer,' it makes me sound like a blooming taxi-driver!" quickly Hubertus scanned the sheet and saw the H scribbled underneath the one line of text; he took a deep breath and said: "oh, Herr Reichsfuhrer-SS, I believe Der Fuhrer has been poking fun at me. with his mordant sense of humour, see," and he pulled a sheaf of pages from inside his jacket, "this is your speech," and presented them to Himmler, who sniffed and said: "well let that be a lesson to you, Prince Hubertus, we wouldn't need trumped-up charges to put you and your lot of blue-bloods in the salt-mines, or cleaning the latrines with your toothbrushes, just you wait and see, and take that stupid monocle out, you look like an English nincompoop, and remember, these Yugoslavs are cosmopolitan intellectuals, so don't go fluttering your lashes at Princess Olga, she's Greek and you know what they get up to, now be a good boy and keep behind me, not right behind me, keep three paces back, that's better, well let's go and rouse these Levantines, we don't want to keep Der Fuhrer waiting, ha ha, that joke speech was a cracker, oh, but he's such a wit!"
At last, in Berlin on June 2nd 1939, the Great Day came: Heinrich Himmler, Reichsfuhrer-SS was beside himself with excitement; Prince Paul of Yugoslavia was filled with a sense of his own Destiny; and Vlado Chernozemski was quietly satisfied – his Stink Bomb was in situ beneath the well-prepared manhole cover which, triggered by the first car in the motorcade, driven by Uncle Hans Steckrube with Prince Hubertus of Saxe-Coburg-Gotha riding shotgun, would blow upward in front of the State Car and the occupants would be blinded and incapacitated by the noxious fumes and he (the infamous Bulgarian Assassin) would leap from his pre-chosen hiding place and kill The Usurper (Prince Paul) and the other occupants of the State Car before making his escape in the confusion; the two Americans, Major Holly Martins and Major J Alfred Prufrock, would have the getaway car waiting just round the corner, to spirit Vlado away through the grid-iron of Berlin's suburbs to safety on the Wannsee where Gertie Mountcastle and Palestrina MacFarlane were waiting to provide the first part of the escape plan which would take them all to safety outside Germany; "there's no risk," Vlado kept saying, "iss all good, and soon we party – my months of abnegation over, yippeee!" and 'famous last words' you all say. thinking that Vlado was cloud-headed because you already know what in fact happened next, but you forget that there are many parallel universes and that Time is not as consecutive as you perceive it, for in reality Past, Present and Future are always with us, hence deja vu, that strange feeling that you have been here before, that this conversation, or that event already exist in your memory because they truly do – you have been here before, have heard those words from that person before, have experienced that kiss or orgasm, that kick or surprise, only in another dimension, and that ghost or glimpse of a long dead parent or even historic person has merely been through the flimsiest of gauzes that separate different Times from each other; so suspend your disbelief and prepare yourself to accept that what in this life is well established and documented historical fact has already been altered in another life, another Time Dimension; in fact, there are Time Dimensions in which Adolf Hitler never made it to the Reich Chancellery, President John F Kennedy was not assassinated in Dallas and actually celebrated his 101st birthday in March of this year in Martha's Vineyard, where he lives quietly – and thoroughly detests the current POTUS who, he believes, has done more to sully the office of President than any previous incumbent! and John Lennon is still singing and imploring the world to Give Peace a Chance and he made it to the Ultimate, Final, Very Last Concert Ever 0f The Travelling Wilburys a fortnight ago! he was Jake Wilbury alongside Bob (Reverend Wilbury). Jimi (Widdly Wilbury). Tom (Lightnin' Wilbury), Jeff (Orville Wilbury) and Hank (Doc Wilbury) - unfortunately I missed it because I was unwell, but apparently as I've got a Doctor's Line I'll be able to exchange my unused ticket for the next concert, in December: phew!
The Very Reverend Angus MacAngus took a long draught of Glenfiddich and tried to focus his eyes on the screen, to make some sense of his homily on abnegation, but it was no use, his sinews were too relaxed, his head felt like that of an overstuffed amigurumi and it struck him for the first time that he had actually written in cantefable form, alternating passages of prose and verse, quite without intending it; his body felt woolly, as if he indeed were merely a knitted toy, with no control over his own actions and he wondered how long this had been the case? the telephone rang and when he answered it, expecting to receive a call from his old friend Syphilis Greengage, and an exchange of the dubious banter which passed for conversation between them, and was pleasantly surprised to hear the voice of Sir Parlane MacFarlane: "where and whence are you?" MacAngus asked dreamily and was further surprised to learn that MacFarlane and his chum Dominic Doubleday were alive and well in Melrose, right now, ensconced in The Ship Inn, but well-disguised as a pair of stravaigers, doing the Southern Upland Way!
Meanwhile, in Melrose, this afternoon, the Very Reverend Angus MacAngus sat at his desk and stared at the screen, reading the homily on abnegation he had connived to deliver on Sunday and it made him realise that he was a Hypocrite, like the hatamoto who agrees with everything his shogun says because that is his role – not to advise or counsel anything that differs from his master's opinion even if he knows in his secret heart that the shogun is wrong; and he remembered the quotation from Oscar Wilde: "I can resist anything except temptation," and that it summed him up so well: the only things he gave up for Lent were things he didn't like or enjoy; "oh, Angus," he whispered, "what became of your Ideals, your Faith? where did it all go wrong?"
After he had bought Delilah the Talaria sandals – pink, size 4 as confirmed by the Souter o Selkirk who sang "doon wi the Earl o Home," softly, while he measured – for 5 shekels, less the tuppence he had already paid for the measurement, Tom, watchful, lest the bloodthirsty bigger brothers of the dead Goliath should be seeking him among the crowds in the sook, led her down Peristeronic Passage, long famed for the pigeon trainers, whose shops had been located there for five times five generations or more and whose birds could cross Arabia and the whole known world carrying urgent messages before human runners could pull their boots on: *oh!" – – said Delilah, giving a little start at the painting of a wolf in sheep’s clothing above retro-fashion store: "though I'm not quite a lycanthrope, I still feel a certain frisson when I hear a wolf-whistle – do you think the new generation of kids will ever whistle at girls, or will Political Correctness rule the world?" and Sam's Son laughed: "if you pulled screenagers away from their virtual worlds and pushed them outdoors without a phone in their hands, they probably wouldn't be able to find their way to the corner shop!" so Delilah took his hand and pulled him along, and she said: "okay, I'll give you fair warning, I used to be a Werewolf, but I'm alright Nowoooooooo!" and they turned into another clothes shop, where she announced that she was going to buy Sam's Son a new outfit: "a Granddad shirt and black dungarees might be ok in Ponty, but when in Rome, or Judea, you should really dress the part!"
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