It was later that same night, when they were cuddled up in Maude's great round bed – they had come to Edinburgh on the two motor bikes in the afternoon, because Teri felt guilty about abandoning Maude's cats to the erratic care of The Famous Four, but on arrival had found that one of the pretty waitresses from Gennaro's Bistro had taken good care of them – that out of the Stygian darkness that enveloped them, with the curtains drawn tight and all the lights out and the only previous sounds those of the four of them breathing softly, or murmuring in that sated and utterly relaxed persiflage that only lovers truly have, Nikki asked about the telegrams, and while Teri was trying to think what Nikki could possibly mean, Rosie and Mhari reminded her that Ullo had said she was able to read the code; and Teri remembered: “yes, that's right – I can't recall the coded messages, but what Ullo translated them as was 'Dear Aunts, Griselda of Longformacus cited Parlane MacFarlane paternity Matilda; Filbert of Longformacus Paternity Suit against Parlane MacFarlane; Remitted to Dark, who what where when why? Famous Four plus coming to You, The Scribes, End' and Daphne's reply was 'Message Received And Understood, Hasten Here, No Time To Lose; Father Finnegan at Our Lady of Longformacus, Saint Griselda of Longformacus Archives, Aunts Daphne and Maude, End'; and the others clapped and cheered with delight, mingled with wonder that Ullo, so recently become a part of the Extended Clan, was so sagacious at code-breaking – I shouldn't be surprised to learn that she is highly trained in espionage or studied under one of the former savants from Bletchley, said Teri, herself having been approached at University by a rather mysterious lecturer who never seemed to take any classes in her subject of Tautology in Tense Romance Linguistics, but popped up everywhere and seemed to know everything about everyone – she'd even been at that Party, when Celeste O’Keeffe seemed to glow with an inner light and, when Jasmine Ahmedzai stood in front of her, the rest felt that they were in the umbra of a detached celestial body, obscuring the silvery Moon; now what was her name, Shanter, something Shanter, began with a T – Tabitha, Tabby Shanter, that was it, and she had a daughter Tammy, about the same age as me, I wonder who she really was and what Tammy's doing now – oh, goodness, I haven't thought of her for Yonks, and I was so fond of her back then.
Bernie Westwater stood under the fierce blast of hot water and scrubbed herself, outside and in, to remove as much of Martin Elginbrod's DNA as she possibly could; the first thing she had done on returning to her own flat had been to phone Dixie and give a report on her date with Martin Elginbrod – detailed and thorough, neglecting nothing, not even the most intimate details of the man, where he'd been and what he'd done; the kind of meticulous reporting that she had been trained to do, it distanced her true self from the person she had been while with Elginbrod, removing the psychological evidence, the words and thoughts which her mind had recorded and stored, now she was divesting herself of the physical traces and washing them down through the plughole at the end of her bath; this was the part she always enjoyed, alternating scalding heat with freezing cold and then, while she towelled her body, running a lovely, deep and foamy bath for a relaxing soaky soap, which would ensure an untroubled sleep; if she did it properly, Elginbrod's presence would be erased – his clumsy groping, his slobbery kisses, his need for a Viagra before entering and thrusting – unfortunately, the erectile dysfunction medication meant that part of the evening took longer than she would have wished, and he was certainly meticulous – squeezing every last drop of his nocturnal emission from it and managing to fuck her in all three orifices, not to forget her hands and face, which just meant that the cleansing also took a little longer; she suddenly laughed – levity was never far beneath her business-like façade – as she remembered the sight of him, standing naked after their coupling had finished and while she was quickly and efficiently dressing, and getting her first (oh, God, and Last, I pray, Hail Mary Mother of Jesus) sight of him standing there, belly hanging down, his man boobs (bigger than her own – does he take hormones, she wondered) - and the sad little shrivelled prick, and her eyes had found a tattoo, of all things, just to the right of his left nipple (probably done when it would have been over his heart, before he expanded) and which looked like a sturdy penis rising from a little bush of pubic hair and it occurred to her that if she narrowed her eyes it could look like a gravestone, some kind of hierogram, with grass growing at the base and an epitaph, but he was just too far away for her to read the words, and as she bent forward to zip up her boots she could just read the first line 'Here Lies Martin Elginbrod . . . . .' - oh, how very appropriate, considering where his little prick had been that night; and she was still grinning at the thought when, wrapped in a fluffy white bathrobe, with a towel around her head, she was sitting on the sofa, watching the BBC News Channel, when the door opened and her True Love came in, after working late, much later than usual, kissed her deeply on and in the mouth, and handed her a copy of the morning paper: “page 8, it's quite a splash, you'll be proud of me” and Tammy threw herself onto the sofa and threw her arms round Bernie.
Tavish Dalwhinnie slid an early edition of the next morning's Scotsman across the table to Linkumdoddie - “page 8,” he said, sotto voce, “I think you will find it interesting, my old friend”; and, indeed it was true that their friendship, despite the banter – some of it quite vituperative, which they often displayed in public, went back decades, to a day he, John George, a student at Edinburgh University, would never forget: Christmas Day 1950, the day on which he, and Dalwhinnie – who had met each other for the first time – drove the anonymous white, and rather battered, van in which the Stone of Scone was transported from Westminster Abbey to a field in Kent where the actual 'thieves' or 'liberators' depending on one's point of view, were camped; none of the four principals knew their names, they were all from Glasgow Uni – John was introduced to them as Laurel and Tavish as Hardy by their recruiter, a History Professor; and when he turned to page 8, Linkumdoddie was instantly taken back through the past 65 years to that bitterly cold morning, it's skies heavy with snow clouds, for in the photo-spread he saw the van, with two shadowy faces visible through the windscreen, a group of four figures in duffel coats manhandling (well, one of them was a girl, but he couldn't think of a pc term for the labour they were undertaking) a large and heavy object into the van while two others – presumably the drivers, held the doors open, and the third showed the two faces in the windscreen again as the van moved off, with the others, a group on the pavement, watching; the rest of the spread had photographs and short biographies of the four principals and a fifth who joined them at the camp-site, but nothing on the two mystery men from the van – in fact it posed that question, 'who were those two white van men?' and promised readers the answer tomorrow; Jock looked up at Tavish and noted the beaming face and the chuckle in his voice as he said “looks like we're coming out of the cold, Old Chum”; but Jock wanted to know where the photographs had come from, for he'd never seen them before, how did this, and he looked at the reporter's byline with it's now seemingly obligatory octothorpe - #tammyshanter – how did he find them, and Tavish laughed again. “he's a lassie, Jock, Tammy Shanter; not strictly a reporter, she's in the Research Department and had been doing a bit of trawling in British Government Archives, down at Kew, and she put in a bunch of disclosure requests under FOI and one of them was for information about the Stone – and that's what came back, a chemist's folder for holiday snaps with half-a-dozen black and white prints, originals, not even copies, and guess where from, you can't, can you, well it was MI5;” and jock felt himself getting quite heated, as his mind tried to process all this nonsense – why on earth would MI5 hold documents relating to the theft of the Stone, all those years ago – but Tavish was speaking again: “you would expect their Doormen would be rather like Cerberus, burly with big hands to stick in your face, but according to Tammy, MI5's a sweet girl in her early thirties, who couldn't be more helpful - you know, if I were like you and inclined towards young ladies, lassies really, I imagine I'd take a shine to our Tammy – she even itemised all the stuff on the back of the prints, which, if you read Tammy's article, isn't quite so risible as you might think – for instance, they seem to show MI5's code-name for their informer in the Nationalist Group who stole the Stone and went on to infiltrate further, and I'll tell you for free that they named him Parlane MacFarlane,” and Jock began to feel as though he was in a Roundelay, with the refrain of Parlane MacFarlane coming up again and again after every verse, “he seems to have sent them the photos, but he didn't take them, and before you ask, you're looking rather flushed, Old Dear, are you ok,” Jock nodded and took a large sip of his whisky, “well then, the spy in the cab, and I only say that because the snaps seem to have been taken from the back of a London taxi, they show the outline of the window and someone in the Picture Library's a bit of a taxi Spotter, or something like that, and they have the initials ME,” and Jock said that he knew it and before Tavish had time to say the name himself, Jock pulled the rabbit from his hat and snapped back: Martin Elginbrod, and Tavish, quick as a flash, responded: “yes, but the Father, not the Son, eh?”
After he left Jinglin' Geordie's, where the young folk were in the midst of heated discussions, Jock George, Lord Linkumdoddie went into The Halfway House next door, where he was soon joined by Frankie – having finished her shift at the other pub; she kissed him on the lips and sat beside him, where a glass of Irn Bru awaited her: “ma mither telt me no tae get mixed up wi older men like ye,” she looked him in the eyes and grinned, “an ye were older than hur tae”; he laughed and squeezed her hand affectionately; “I was old enough to be her father,” he said, “so I'm old enough to be your grandfather”; “och, stoap mitherin oan,” she giggled and squeezed his hand back: ye ken a luv ye, Jockie,” and he nodded: *it's reciprocated, and I'm sorry if I use words with too many syllables for you”; “och, ye cheeky auld goat – is it yer place or mine the nicht,” she asked; Linkumdoddie checked his watch: “I've got someone to see in here, in 15 minutes, pop up to mine and I'll see you there in an hour, maybe sooner”; “okie doakie, ah'll hae sum denner waitin fur ye,” and Frankie gave him a kiss and sashayed out of the bar, drawing admiring glances from three lads standing at the bar; “yer oan a promise there, M'Lud,” called one of them – a Solicitor's Clerk he knew well: the Legal Fraternity of Edinburgh was like a many-headed Hydra, popping up wherever you went: just as well I have no real secrets, he thought and then called out to the young fellow: “how's your Da, Iain, I've not seen him around The Court for a while,” for Iain had succeeded his father who had succeeded his father who wee Jockie George had run about barefoot in the heather with, when that iain's father had the next croft over from Jockie's Grannie; now Auld Iain McIain had really been a truculent brute of a man, who's treatment of his wife at a time when what went on between four walls was regarded as a matter for a man and his wife an' wha' daur meddle – until Wee Iain, Jockie's pal, turned 16 and beat his father to within an inch of his life and sent him packing, never to be seen in the Glen again; everyone knew what had happened, even the local Bobbie, but no-one in those parts would have spoken in condemnation of the son who had defended his mother; and when he, like Jockie, won a scholarship, his mother and the weans went with him and none of that family ever went back; Linkumdoddie sighed, there had been a lot of water under the bridge since those days, and wondered why his thoughts seemed to be turning back on themselves, but here was Tavish Dalwhinnie coming through the door, looking every inch the louche Edinburgh Criticaster, with his hobnail Ghillie shoes, checked socks, tweed plus fours and jacket, cream shirt under a caramel waistcoat with a pink cravat and his mane of auburn hair above a bearded, drinker's face; he asked the barman for a glass of Laphroaig and pulled out a chair to sit at Linkumdoddie's table; “sic a sicht, Tavish, you'll be giving your Gay fraternity a bad name in that ensemble; are you auditioning for Brigadoon, is it, or have you been transferred to the Farming pages?” at which Dalwhinnie snorted and said he'd eaten better men than Jock George for breakfast, to which his dear old friend responded by asking, “and did you get their cumuppance doon yer throat an' a'"! which produced such a burst of laughter between them and the rest of the drinkers – mostly other hacks from The Scotsman, that for the next five minutes everyone was coughing and hardly able to draw breath, and even the smokers didn't try to move out into the close.
“There is certainly something Plutonian about Martin Elginbrod,” said Uncle Jock to the four cousins, who formed the nucleus of The Justice League of Auld Reekie; “but I am not claiming that he has made a pact with the Devil – I am sure he doesn't believe in the Devil, for if he did, he would surely sign Auld Nick up for ME Enterprises – the Holding Company which manages all of his business interests and quite separate from his legal practise – did I ever tell you, Rankine, Felix, that ME Enterprises has all the publication rights for the Court of Session and the High Court – they supply the stenographers and the sound technicians for every court in Scotland and the reports which appear in the newspapers or in the broadcast media earn them a handsome royalty; Elginbrod is certainly a hard worker and very punctilious, you can't fault him for his attention to detail and he employs the very best technical people in Scotland; he leaves nothing to chance and as the umpteenth head of the family business, he is, like his forefathers – or many fathers – before him, is known for his longanimity – I recall Zhou Enlai, the Premier of China (though he had retired from being Foreign Minister by then) telling me that it was too soon to tell whether the Acts of Union between Scotland and England in 1706 had been a success – he considered Scotland a Beacon in the Age of Enlightenment and was a great fan of Rabbie Burns.....” and Felix burst in asking his Uncle if he had actually met the famous Chinese leader: “oh, yes, Felix; in fact he was sitting just where you are and Henry Kissinger was in your seat, Dixie – it was in late 1970 when the early feelers were being put out for Nixon's visit to China; and six months or so before Kissinger made his own first, and secret, trip to Beijing; they had agreed on the need for an initial contact on neutral territory and Edinburgh was an obvious choice; but I can't go into all of that now; my point is that, as with the Chinese, Elginbrod plays a very long game and leaves nothing to chance; but there is one unusual side to him, a sidereal one,” he paused and Rankine chuckled and said that it was true – Elginbrod reads his Horoscope in every Scottish morning newspaper before the Office opens for business; this morning, in fact, the theme had been about keeping his ears open in places of power, and Rankine had discovered that he was planning to bid for the recording rights for the Scottish Parliament and its Committees; “that's right,” said Linkumdoddie, “there is pressure on Parliament to put the transaction recording, written and electronic, out to tender and I am meeting with Ginger Goldfish in the morning to ask her, either to resist, and prevent this happening, or if she cannot, to at least put safeguards into the process; she is a niece of my good friends and rather distant cousins, Daphne Dumbiedykes and Maude Lyttleton, and we know each other well enough to be able to move beyond the strictly business and speak openly about the worries I have; so far as live and recorded television broadcasting is concerned, that is not in the pot, as it were, for the nonce, at any rate; but mentioning Ginger brings me to another point, Bunty: I wonder if you should make contact with members of Daphne and Maude's close family circle – you are already on its fringes – because I believe you might well find that you have common interests: I am thinking particularly of matters concerning the activities of Sir Parlane MacFarlane and Griselda of Longformacus and the involvement of MacFarlane in the death of Sister Evadne Eglantine, I know that Elginbrod has a similar interest, but with very different motives” there was an almost stunned silence as his young friends absorbed what he had said, broken by Bunty when she suggested that it might be useful if Uncle Jock could perhaps see a friend of theirs – one Angus Og of The Bog, and Rankine – while acknowledging that as Chief Clerk he had access to all of the legal work which went through the Chambers, he had no involvement in Elginbrod's other business activities, other than he could glean surreptitiously, but he did know that Elginbrod had two young lovers whom he kept in flats not far from his Chambers – he had given the girls – he indicated Bunty and Dixie – as much information as he had and Bunty said that The Economic Migrant was on the job, monitoring all of Elginbrod's communications and that their cousin Bernie had managed to get herself picked up by Elginbrod at Daphne and Maude's Wedding Reception and has a date with him tomorrow (she had cancelled the first one complaining of a severe migraine) and he has been calling and texting her a lot, so he seems to have swallowed the bait; and Dixie told them about The Shottstown Ladies Quick-Draw Club's arrangements to kidnap the two sex-slaves and put them into protective custody at their Clubhouse in Penicuik; Uncle Jock was pleased to see that the younger generation was demonstrating its ingenuity – and it was just at that moment that the door opened and he glanced up to see the newly promoted Detective Inspector Gordon Brevity and his wife, Station Sergeant Goldy Brevity enter, accompanied by Goldy's cousin, the sublime WPC Isa Urquhart; Linkumdoddie rose from his seat and beckoned them to join the group – “I don't think you all know each other particularly well, although I am sure that your paths have crossed a great many times, perhaps obliquely, perhaps tangentially, but I feel that it will be useful to introduce you all and give you the opportunity to get to know each other,” and he invited the officers from The Grassmarket and Cowgate Community Policing Hub to sit with the Justice League of Auld Reekie and called to Frankie, the barmaid he was so fond of, to send over drinks for everyone; and she gave him a wink, and he winked back and nodded.
Now it will, of course, be remembered that Lord Linkumdoddie, when he was plain wee Jockie George, biding in the cottage where his Grannie had been born, in a heathery glen in the West Highlands, a cottage with no name, just the number 5 painted in a large white numeral on the dark age-and-weather-hardened front door; what happened to cottages number 1 to 4 wee Jockie never knew, except that his Grannie used to tell him tales of the olden days and of whole families evicted from their homes to make way for sheep – The Damned Clearances, she called them, and wee Jockie learned to hate the Wicked Duke who had treated his tenants so harshly and burned out their homes so that no others might move in; old Grannie George knew a lot of Burns' by heart and on dark nights when the small boy and his old grannie sat by the peat fire, sipping cocoa and listening to the wind howl through the glen, she told him stories, recited poems and sang the songs – the Old Scotch Sangs Ma mither Sang Tae Me; and she called him by a strange name she had culled from Burns – Linkumdoddie, which she said meant “Bonnie Wee George” (Dod being the name commonly used in Scotland for anyone Christened George) for she was mother and father to the boy, and aside from from her own brother's family in South Uist, and Jockie's mother's sisters' families last heard of in France and trying to get visas for Britain or America, though no word had come from them, her closest living relation since her son and his young wife had been sent to a Concentration Camp in Poland when the boy was just two and who now knew whether they were alive or dead – John for his membership of the German Communist Party and his wife for being a Jew, at a time in the mid-thirties when anything could be declared a Crime Against The State, and anyone punished for that very anything, for this was in the frightening years of the Civil War in Spain and before the Second World War and the British Government seemed desperate to abase itself before the Fuhrer and his demands – but not so very long after that War, when he was an up-and-coming young Advocate, accepting any brief which came his way, but also beginning to feel that access to the Law was only easy for people with money and that wasn't fair, or just, and that he needed to be true to ideals which had cost his parents their lives and opposed to the ideas which had destroyed them, and certainly no dittohead, simply being a mouthpiece without either a mind or a conscience, John George, no longer so wee but still filled with the memories his Heilan' Grannie had given him, was able to trace the movements of his parents through the Nazi system: they had been separated almost immediately and passed through a series of Camps, each worse than the previous until they both perished in Gas Chambers within six weeks of each other in the Winter of 1944/5 – John managed to visit both Death Camps and obtained some ash from each (not his parents, probably only wood-ash, but that didn't matter, for individuals were just drops in that ocean of blood, but he kept these ashes, in memory of all who had met the same fate, in a small, black reliquary, a petrous box which he had been given by one of the survivors whom he had met and most significantly, a man who had known both his parents before they were rounded up with him in the frenzied days after the Reichstag Fire; the man, broken in body but never in spirit, said that the only day he should perhaps rue in his life would be the day he joined the KPD as a sixteen-year-old delivery boy. but he refused to do that, believing that the worst day for humankind was the day Adolf Hitler had been conceived, like some sort of Satanic version of the Immaculate Conception of Christ and to blame any decision or event in his own life would be taking responsibility away from the perpetrators – like saying a woman who smokes in public is asking to be raped; and John George believed that he could identify with the Christ Martyr as representing the Martyrdom of all peoples of all religions or none, simply because they are different from someone else; so when Jock George, Lord Linkumdoddie as he had become on his elevation to the High Court, heard from his nephew Riddle that Martin Elginbrod had called him a Pinko, he laughed and said that No, he was a Red, and from his German-Jewish Mother he was also himself a Jew with the same blood in him as that shed by Jesus on the Cross and like his Old Grannie, a member of the Free Church of Scotland and an Elder in his local congregation – “so Elginbrod can put that in his pipe and smoke it, for all I care”; and he had arranged to be in Jinglin' Geordie's that evening and while seeming just to be an old man sipping a Hot Toddy and doing the evening crossword, he had listened carefully to the discussion of his nephews and nieces at the adjacent table, and eventually he said to them: “I will tell you a few things you may not know about yon Elginbrod,” and his young relations drew their chairs closer to his and pinned back their lugholes, as he advised them to do!
It could hardly be described as a putsch, not even the beginning of a putsch, but had Martin Elginbrod QC, the suave, elegant, debonair, articulate, unruffled and always courteous Advocate, been aware that at the close of business, his Chief Clerk, Riddle Rankine had strolled along the High Street, turned into Buccleuch Street and down The Scotsman Steps – his usual route to Waverley Station for his train home; but this time, he turned into Jinglin' Geordie's, a pub halfway down the narrow close, and at a back table joined his cousin, Felix Rosenstiel (Jubbly Johannsen's Solicitor, and two other cousins, the O'Hooligan Twins, Dixie and Bunty, Elginrod's ears would have begun to twitch – all the more so had he glanced around the bar and noticed the elderly man seated alone at a different, but extremely near table, sipping a steaming Hot Toddy, for this was none other than Lord Linkumdoddie, Chief Justice in the Family Division of the Court of Session and – oh how small a world is Edinburgh – Uncle Jock to each of the four cousins seated almost in his lap; now – contrary to Elginbrod's outburst earlier, Linkumdoddie is certainly no dittohead, he is a man of extremely independent mind, dedicated to serving not merely the Law, though he would always strive to ensure that it is upheld, in spirit if not always quite exactly by the letter, but more so Justice, and had Elginbrod realised that the purpose of the meeting of the foursome was to begin to disinter certain facts about Elginbrod's life and works, beyond such as were already within their combined ken, and that these four were certainly not neophytes in the discovery of nefarious goings-on, and the tantalising truths which all of us – or, at any rate, those of us who are of a similar disposition to or indeed ilk as, Elginbrod – for between them, and with some discreet guidance from their Uncle Jock, freely given and gladly too – they had years of experience in digging beneath the many layers which, with time and perhaps even a whiff of sulphur in the air that they breathe, certain prominent citizens had effectively cloaked themselves, and dragging them, yelping and mewling into the bright light of publicity, not, it should be added, for their own material benefit, but rather because like their Uncle Jock, they love the idea of Justice, which is perhaps wryly, with tongue in cheek, they have secretly dubbed themselves, The Justice League of Auld Reekie!
Almost incandescent with fury, Martin Elginbrod, not normally one to show emotion, raged at his Clerk, Riddle Rankine, "he's an imbecile, a superannuated dittohead, that arselicking, shitshovelling fogdog of a pisspot, Linkumfuckingdoddie, what's he thinking of, she's a fucking Lezzie, furcrissakes, giving her custody of the brat, her husband's disconsolate, had to cancel his holiday in the Caymans with his secretary, it's so unfair, and abusing me and casting aspersions on my submission and my clothes, not to mention my fees, see if you can dig up anything on Lord Fucking Linkunstinkumdoddery he's a Pinko, a fucking Commie, there's a good chap, this time tomorrow - I want to bury him!"
Jubbly - Lord Linkumdoddie finds for you stop dismisses Martin Elginbrod's case for Husband stop says "the weasel words of a white-livered Banker presented by a Quisling Advocate who dresses and charges sumptuously have no place in a Modern Scotland" stop full Custody of the Minor and full Costs awarded to Mother stop no right of Appeal by Husband stop see you next Tuesday Felix end.
Jubbly Johanssen deftly extricated herself from Kenny Cramond's arms, legs and bed and crept to the door where she accepted a telegram from a sweet girl in uniform, whose eyes had widened on seeing Jubbly's sumptuous body; Jubbly gave the pretty girl a tip and a note with her phone number - though married, a mother, and presently entangled with Cramond, she was no Quisling - her true desires did not encompass men, but she feigned belief in their weasel words, promises of loyalty and devotion behind which - too white livered to admit their indiscretions - they shagged their secretaries or hotel whores; quietly she opened the envelope, almost too scared to learn how her absence had affected the custody hearing over her beloved daughter, but forced herself to read the words.
Cristal Caddy's nose wrinkled as she caught a whiff of the pong from the foul-looking effluvium that marred the prettiness of the Harbour, but she was of sea-faring stock: "maybe I'm no double-dome, but I'm totally allegiant," she said to herself, as she rode the deck of Phemie's boat, The Lady, for she was thinking of her future as ship-mate with Phemie on the sea-ways of life; although Cristal gave an impression of being innocuous, her calm waters ran deep, and once she had signed on for the voyage, her commitment was total and for life!
"But why so glum, Teri," asked Nikki, "why the long face?" and Teri, sighing, indicated the small screen and tiny keypad and replied, "my fingers feel like thumbs, and I really despair when I try to write a post on this, this, TOY - I try to catch all the typos but every time one slips through I feel such a duffer, such a hopeless, hapless, nincompoop; a wrong or missing letter has slipped past my vigilant subbing and is such a glaring error, like a blackleg walking into a miners' club - he stands out as if he was in a Guantanamo jumpsuit, even in a crowd - and in a piece of text, surrounded by a wheen, a foison of characters, seems to punch me between my eyes ......" and Nikki kissed Teri between her eyes and led her through the cottage, saying, "you've done enough for one day, my Lover, come, I know what will relax you!"
Lulu, Dora and Nora watched with glee as a hapless duffer with a camera, attempting to catch a blackleg gull - why that one out of such a foison, they could not comprehend, but were entertained by the spectacle - overbalance and tumble into the muddy water; this always beat the Telly on a Tuesday afternoon, and they cheered for The Birds!
Lulu, Dora and Nora watched with glee as a hapless duffer with a camera, attempting to catch a blackleg gull - why that one out of such a foison, they could not comprehend, but were entertained y the spectacle - overbalance and tumble into the muddy water; this always beat the Telly on a Tuesday afternoon, and they cheered for The Birds!
After one hapless duffer took 17 strokes on the first green and vented his fury on his Caddy, who was taken to Hospital with a fractured skull, the Caddies Union called a strike, and not one blackleg crossed the Picket Line, so the Club declared that Professional Caddies were superfluous in a time of foison and invited the disabled whose benefits were being cut to come and be paid while they got healthy exercise, for a Pound a Round!
Quadrivial Quandary (QQ) is owned and operated by Rudi Seitz.
Sentences submitted to QQ are the property of their authors. See our page on Copyright Information for details.
Dictionary definitions are the property of their respective sources, presented here via public RSS feeds or otherwise with permission.
All other material is copyright 2015 by Rudi Seitz, all rights reserved.
Use of this site is governed by our terms of service.
Contact: rudi at quadrivialquandary dot com.