The Hard Times of Joseph McCrumble

teenage angst

2009-03-05T09:28:00.004Z

Oh dear. I was trying to read a newspaper that someone had left in the village hut yesterday, and was concentrating on doing the sudoku puzzle in my head (I'm rationing my pen usage to increase their longevity), when I caught sight and sound of Twin X shuffling around in circles at the far end of the barn. His voice was melancholy enough, but it was the words he was using that alarmed me. 'One step closer to death', he moaned with each shuffle.

'What are you on about?', I asked in alarm that my son had become suddenly so mobid.

'I'm just stating the obvious, you can't deny it's true. Go on, try...', he challenged.

Hard as I might, I could offer no reposte. 'Are you thinking upon your own mortality?' I asked instead, trying to understand where the idea of acting this way had emerged.

'No, dur. I was pretending to be you. For one, you are much closer to death than me, so if anyone should be worried it's you, yeah? And for two, haven't you noticed you've been shuffling around talking to yourself lately? You thinking about your own mortality? Mum says you're heading for a midlife crisis already.'

The boy was right of course - at least about the shuffling. But that is entirely explained by my need to move in a rhythmic manner when contemplating a scientific idea. More of that later. In the meantime, I'm beginning to suspect my twin boys might be brighter than myself. This is not the first time I've been caught out, and things are only likely to get worse as they discover the true meaning of precocious. Puberty is upon the pair of them, and I predict tough times ahead. If they don't suffer any angst, I will, for sure.

J Mcc

Wan Ton Soup

2009-02-21T20:45:00.004Z

Hello all

Very fortunately, a library not ten miles from our accommodation is providing free internet use to people on low income. All I had to do was look pitiful and say I was of no fixed abode (technically true as the barn has no postcode and is not a designated dwelling due it being 'uninhabitable' according to the local council). Having no access to transport means I have to walk a couple of hours each way (my legs are getting stronger each day), but it means I can continue to bring my story to the attention of the public. Why? Because I believe that someone out there might recognise my distress as genuine, recognise the latent talent that lives and breathes below my jaded skin, and perhaps even act as patron for the re-establishment of the Cumbernauld Instiute of Parasitology. Failing that, maybe they'll just let me tutor their kids in A level biology. It would be a start.

On this trip to the library I am allowed only 10 minutes as there is a group of benefit claimants awaiting a lesson on using job websites to find gainful employment. I have chosen not to claim benefits on the grounds that I vowed early in life never to become dependent on the State. Dolores thinks my principled stand is about as useful and fiscally sound as an Icelandic banker's draft. I remind her that she too cannot bring herself to make contact with the DSS, and so we live as nature intended - self sustaining, slightly malnourished and generally uncomfortable.

The minutiae of our new life are of no interest to others, unless they are to serve as a simple record of this frugal period in our lives. I will therefore attempt to draw on events, thoughts and processes that at least stand a small chance of raising some tiny dribble of interest in the mind(s) of my reader(s). To begin, I must go back some months and finally tell the end of Ravel's tale in China. For those of you at all interested in how this started, please read all posts from 2008 -2009 (there aren't many).

Ravel was detained at the station without speaking to anyone for the rest of the night. In the morning, an interpreter was brought to the station to read the charges against him in English. Ravel listened to a long list of completely false allegations around the themes of avoiding tax, extortion, breaking copyright, false imprisonment and, perhaps most dangerously 'incitement to subvert the political power of the state and overthrow the socialist system by spreading rumors, slander or other means'. Ravel had no idea what any of the charges meant, and tried to insist that they had arrested the wrong man. He asked to see one of his lawyer friends, but no-one at the police station knew any of the names, and he was therefore required to wait in his cell for an undetermined period of time. Ravel asked if he could make a phone call, and partly to his surprise that was allowed. Guess who he phoned? That's right, me...

'Hello?' I said on answering my pay-as-you-go mobile (we have had no landline since we moved here, and I cannot afford a contract).

'Boss, I am happy you are there. I am in big trouble', came the faint voice of Ravel.

'Where are you ?', was my immediate response. Establishing geographic location, in my experience, conveys a mountain of information rarely captured so economically by other means.

'Jail!', came his plaintive cry. I could tell he might be a little distressed even over the poor connection. However, I still did not know in which jail he was located - something I needed to understand before acting further.

'Where is the jail?'

'I don't know boss. They bring me here in darkness. I sit in my cell and they tell me nothing!'

'OK, stay calm, Ravel. Let's start at the beginning. In which country are you currently located?'

'China Boss. Can you help me get out of here?'

At this point, I was forced to sigh. My knowledge of Chinese jails and the justice system was (and still is) somewhat lacking. I could no more help Ravel get out of jail than help my own mother-in-law find the heart to payback the victim of her latest misdemenour (she apparently stole and ate a box of black-magic chocolates bequeathed to a former friend whose husband had died on valentines day - having initially denied the charge she then admitted under questioning that she had stolen the chocolates out of jealousy because such a beautiful gesture had never come her way). Instead I suggested he contacted one of his lawyer friends. Ravel told me he didn't have their number, and asked could I make the relevant enquiries. Being somewhat short on resources myself, I could only shrug my shoulders. 'I'm afraid you are on your own at the moment, my friend', I said, before wishing him well and hanging up (my battery was about to expire and was rationed to one re-charge a week).

Dear reader(s), I understand you may think this harsh of me, but under the circumstances I truly could do no more. I knew from our brief conversation that Ravel was at least safe(ish) from harm. I also knew that his lawyer friends were extremely resourceful and would be on the case imminently. And I was right of course. The next day, I received another phone call, this time from a rather happier sounding Ravel. He was now out of jail and sitting by a hotel pool. It turned out he had been arrested after an anoymous tip-off by someone in his enemy's organisation, suggesting that Ravel had been sending subversive messages about the Chines state through a blog under the pseudonym of Joseph McCrumble. Yes, that's right. My own name had been implicated in this farce. Well, the authorities checked the blog and found nothing subversive at all. A preposterous idea in the first place, if you ask me. I asked Ravel if he was still intent on persuing his aim of avenging the loss of his replica world cup trophy business. Fortunately for all of us, he decided he had been beaten by a force greater than his own will to succeed. 'I'm coming home boss', he told me, 'I give up.'

Ravel returned a few days later, somewhat thinner than when I had last seen him, head bowed and bleary eyed. He had managed to recover the copy of the replica trophy that had descended from the roof of the warehouse during the poker-game stunt, but otherwise was devoid of baggage. He was sullen for many days later, refusing to eat the Chinese takeaways we were living on at the time (this may seem crass, but we had struck a deal with a local chinese restaurant whereby I would walk around the village with a sandwich board three evenings a week in return for half-price meals. Sadly the restaurant has now become a victim of the recession and is closed.). But time heals all wounds, and within a few weeks he was back to his old self, playing an essential role in the maintenance of the barn. His lawyer friends promised to fight on, but we have heard nothing in weeks and can only assume that the enterprise has now had a line drawn underneath it. Sometimes, life jsut doesn't give you what you want, and you have to move on, I told Ravel one evening about a month ago. Since then, the subject has not been raised.

There ends the story of Ravel's adventures in China. Nothing else exciting has happened, so this blog will now revert to commenting on the occasional event of interest as I try to beat the credit crunch and keep my family's soul together. Here's hoping we aren't all doomed!

J McC

Sweet and sour pork

2009-02-14T10:37:00.000Z

Hello all

Thanks to finding a ten pound note in the middle of the road the other day, I have been able to purhase some petrol for the generator. Not only were we able to watch an hour of television last night, but I have also been given permission to spend fifteen minutes on the computer. Such fortune does not come our way very often, so I thanked Dolores fulsomely and set to work. I could spend the next 14.5 minutes (my 15 minutes started when I fired up the internet browser) telling you how lowly we have sunk, but that would only make me depressed. Instead, I'm going to finally reveal the ending to Ravel's attempts to recover his intellectual property rights in China. I understand this may be the slowest serialisation of a short story you have ever encountered, and I do apologise for the circumstances in which I find myself. Anyways, here goes....

Ravel was down to his last few yen. There was perhaps just enough for one more hand of 5 card stud. He hadn't won a hand all evening - 3 hours of increasingly stressful effort for nothing. It was all about to slip away in a near-empty warehouse somewhere in Beijing. His dreams of bringing the man who stole his world-cup replica trophy idea to justice were now torn. It was the last role of the dice, so to speak, and not spark of sympathy was evident on the inscrutable faces of the dozen men in suits who now stood breathing down the back of his neck, shouting and gesticulating each time he turned over a card. Ravel held the cards as close as he could to his chest, peeking only at the corners, but he time he looked at a card, he felt like the men behind him were peeking aswell.

This last round of 5 card stud preceded like all the others. No matter how much Ravel bluffed, his opponent would always call and raise. No matter how good his cards were, his opponent's were always better (when Ravel saw them, which was rare). This time, he was forced to fold almost immediately as there was no more money in the pot. His opponent gathered up the cash on the table and added it to his sprawling pile. Rather clumsily, thought Ravel, considering his opponent must have been in this situation before. It was almost as though presumed Mr Foo couldn't see very well, the way he simply stretched his arms out wide and gathered everything within reach. A few times during the night money had fallen off the edge of the table to be left on the floor. Ravel has not once been tempted to pick it up.

As the last hand came to its near-inevitable conclusion, Ravel simply pushed back his chair and made to stand up. His egress was halted, however, by several pairs of hands pushing him firmly back down into his seat. Unable to wriggle free, Ravel had no option but to pay attention to the presumed Mr Foo, who was now leaning forward as if to get a closer look at Ravel's face. In doing so, he made his own face visible, and Ravel saw for the first time that the presumed Mr Foo had cateracts in both eyes. Essentially, as you will no doubt have deduced by now, the man was blind.

Ravel swore in a Bulgarian dialect, using words he promised at his late uncle's deathbed never to utter to a living soul. The intended effect (which Ravel describes as ' ball shrinking') was somewhat lost, however as none of the targets seemed to understand. Their response was to laugh and cackle, slap Ravel on the back and point to the ceiling of the warehouse. Looking upwards, Ravel was more than a little surprised to see one of his world cup tropy replica's being lowered, spotlit, on a rope. Even more suprising was the sound of laughter from the assembled crowd on top of Nessun Dorma as sung by the three Tenors to a beaming Diana Princess of Wales all those years ago.

Now, I have been confused a few times in my life (see blogs passim), and as result I hope I have learnt how to handle the occasional deus ex machina, but even this would have had me in spasms. Within the space of a minute, a darkly serious situation had transmogriphied into farce. Ravel tells me that he was not only lost for words but quite unable to move despite the fact that he was no longer being held down. He was totally captivated by the descent of his replica trophy, that eventually landed on the table in front of him with a soft thud. It then toppled over, to reveal a piece of paper stuck to the bottom that Ravel had not so far noticed. On the paper was a symbol - reproduced below as a warning to others...

I say 'warning' because if you ever come across this sign, I advise you to run back to where you started your journey. Not because it signifies some type of mortal curse, nor because it is an assassination target, but because it belongs to a maverick television company (name witheld for legal reasons - we will call them Wang-Toon) who specialise in lampooning con-men and revealing them to the nation through setting up elaborate scenarios such as the one just played out in that warehouse. As per their usual form, after the symbol is 'disovered', by the con-artist, their presenter steps forward and takes a polaroid picture which he then reveals to the audience with a flourish and a cry of the Chinese equivalent of 'Gotcha!'.

Ravel was slack jawed as the presenter went through his routine to a camera that had emerged from the shadows. All around him people were laughing and chatting as if they had all enjoyed the same joke. But for Ravel it was no joke. He didn't know this was a TV stunt as he couldn't understand the director shouting 'Cut!', he didn't know what to do next as he couldn't understand the instructions being given to him by a lady with a clip-board and wearing a Wang-Toon badge. He didn't see the police man come from behind, but did feel the handcuffs. He also quite clearly heard the policeman say 'You arrested for fraud. Come with me.'. At which point, Ravel was helped up and out of the warehouse, into a police car and off to a nearby station, where another TV camera recorded his entry inside....

************ TO BE CONTINUED!************

(sorry, I have run out of generator time, and must attend to my chores. I hope to blog again soon and finish the story.)

Prawn Crackers

2009-01-27T21:14:00.001Z

Hello all. It’s been a while since I was in a position to write anything owing to our continued need to ration the amount of petrol we put in the generator. We huddle together in the evenings to fend against the bats that have taken roost in the barn. On more than one occasion I have awoken as the flying menaces swoop down to snatch at one of our other resident populations – moths. They are attracted by our single lightbulb hanging from a hat stand that Ravel scavenged from a car boot sale a week ago. Yes, dear reader, the credit crunch has hit the McCrumble household very hard indeed. All income streams have dried up and we are now living more frugally than I ever imagined to be possible. This blog entry is only appearing because I didn’t wish anyone to think we had actually given up completely. I’m also not doing it to ask for charity. The McCrumble spirit will prevail!

So, anyway, I must finish Ravel’s tale of his time in China. At the end of the last post he was about to face the music, so to speak, at the card table. Men in suits and sunglasses approached the table as he offered to call on the tenth hand of the evening. The presumed Mr Foo wanted to keep raising but Ravel’s confidence had abandoned him after losing the previous nine rounds of 5 card stud. The pot of money given to him by the lawyers was rapidly diminishing, and by Ravel’s reckoning wouldn’t last another 2 or 3 hands. Ravel desperately wanted to switch the game over to Texas Hold’em, but his knowledge of Mandarin was somewhat limited even by tourist standards (he could just about pronounce ‘Beer’ after being in the country several weeks. Trying to signal his wishes using the charade of pretending to be wearing a ten gallon hat whilst cuddling himself didn’t work either.)

His hesitancy was beginning to annoy the assembled crowd of men in suits. They appeared to be urging him onwards more aggressively with each hand, moving closer to the table as failure piled up and his stash of yen all but disappeared. The tenth hand fell as all previous hands had fallen and now the suits were just two feet behind him. There seemed to be twice as many now, all wearing the same suit, sporting the same sunglasses, the same shoulder-length hairstyle. Even with his army training, Ravel knew he would have trouble fighting his way out of his predicament. There seemed to be no option but to play until the money was gone and then try to leave quietly.

Such might have been Ravel’s idea, but he couldn’t tell anyone, and I doubt they would have listened. For this was no ordinary game of poker, and no ordinary crowd of gangsters. Sometimes, the truth of a matter is beyond the comprehension of those involved, hidden behind dark suits, sunglasses, aggressive movements. A distraction perhaps, something to ensure that one of the players takes his eyes off his cards. Such deviousness was happening right there in that warehouse. But not, dear reader, for the reason you might be thinking. I’m just about to shut the generator down so I can’t write what happened next just yet. I promise, though, to beg borrow or steal some petrol so that I can finally reveal the astonishing ending to Ravel’s adventure in China.

******** TO BE CONTINUED!! **********

Chinese Laundry

2008-12-22T11:26:00.005Z

Hello all

The last message suggested that Ravel's revenge adventure was about to be unwound and turned into rice noodles by a text-message of gloom. The message simply said that the lawyer (let's call him Mr Woo) who had managed to penetrate the organisation producing fake copies of Ravel's World Cup trophys had to prove his prowess by playing a rival of the boss (let's call the boss Mr Wong and his rival Mr Foo) at poker in a high-stakes game that evening.

'Why is this a disaster?', asked Ravel.

'Mr Woo cannot play poker to save his bacon. He will lose bigtime and not get the job with Mr Wong. Then Mr Wong will will get new lawyer and we are doomed.'

Ravel contemplated this latest twist as he ate some rice crackers in the hotel bar. The lawyers had decided they would go shopping to help clear their minds, and Ravel was quite glad to have some time alone. He tells me that he almost gave up the idea of getting one over on Mr Wong at that point, but that his pride and sense of injustice kept him propped up just enough to eventually come up with a solution to the problem. He would, he decided, take the place of the incompetent lawyer at the table on the pretext that the lawyer had fallen sick after eating poorly cooked duck's feet at a backstreet stall.

The lawyers were not sure Mr Wong would fall for the sting, but could not offer an alternative solution. So they told Mr Woo to feign illness and offer Ravel as a substitute. To their initial surprise there was no objection, but it then turned out Mr Woo had persuaded Mr Wong that he operated as part of a team and that Ravel was a former Bulgarian champion who could provide Mr Wong with enough money to fight any legal challenge to his activities.

'I think this is what they call 'no-pressure-then'?', said one of the lawyers as they took Ravel to the designated meeting place. Ravel smiled grimly. He was no Bulgarian champion, and was indeed feeling the pressure. His last winnings had been whilst in the Bulgarian army, and his opponent had been a drunken youth boasting that he'd never been beaten. To make matters worse, he had a headache and was feeling a bit sick from too eating of many rice crackers (incidentally, this is the first time in the years I have known of Ravel showing any signs of nervousness. It softened some of my own inedequacy fears for a while).

The meeting place - where Ravel had been instructed to enter alone - was an empty warehouse on a small industrial estate. Inside was a table with 3 chairs. One chair had a man, wearing a dealer's visor, sitting facing Ravel as he entered. Another, bald headed man was facing the table but Ravel could not see his face. Around the table stood four other men in dark suits and sunglasses. One of them stepped forward and told Ravel to sit at the table. On taking his place, he noticed that the bald man (presumed to be Mr Foo) was sweating quite profusely despite the dim lighting and ambient temperature. Immediately Ravel suspected something was not quite legitimate (his soldier's instincts were kicking in despite the rice-cracker induced nausea), but he also knew he could not blow his own cover. It was a tense start.

The tension was not helped when the dealer began explaining the situation in Chinese. Ravel had picked up a few words whilst in the country, but the localised rules of poker were not in his phrasebook. The only word he recognised was 'money' - after it was said the bald man put a wad of notes on the table and Ravel followed suit (the lawyers had clubbed together confident in their man to deliver a hefty winnings). As the hefty bundle hit the table, he bit his lip in frustration at not discussing the gameplan more rigourously with the lawyers - without knowing what they had told Mr Wong he could not risk appearing anything less than fluent.

The presumed Mr Foo pushed a few notes into the centre of the table. Ravel copied him, trying not to reveal his nervousness. The dealer began to shuffle the deck and deal the cards - one face down and one face up. Ravel correctly recalled this was the opening round of 5 card stud. To many poker players this would have registered as just one of several games with the same probability of success. But to Ravel it spelled potential disaster. For some reason he'd never been able to fathom, 5 card stud was the one variation that the drunken youth back in his army days had used to trounce him time and time again. In fact, as Ravel recalled, it was only a last ditch gamble where he put up his stash of bisongrass vodka on a round of Texas hold'em winner-takes-all that won the day. With no bottles of vodka about his person, Ravel could only pray inwardly that Mr Foo could not read his mind and pummel his self-doubt into submission. It was going to be a difficult night....

*********** TO BE CONTINUED!!!! *************

Chinese noodles

2008-11-30T15:49:00.001Z

Hello all

When I last wrote, Ravel was in deep trouble in big China. His compatriot lawyer friends were essentially helpless as they watched one of their team being escorted in the wrong direction. It looked for sure as if they would have to abort their mission just to stay safe. None of the lawyers had any idea of what to do except to start walking slowly back towards the main road. Their fierce skills in the arena of marital disputes was of little use to anyone at that point. Only Ravel had any training in jungle survival, and even he was taxed as to how they might continue without a car. It was growing dark, and they were getting hungry again, having eaten all their packed lunches much earlier during the day. I don't know if you, dear reader, have ever spent any time in the Chinese countryside with hungry lawyers. I haven't either, so I have to take Ravel at face value when he said they started acting like (I quote verbatim here, so do not assume this is my sentiment) - 'women chasing last chocolate bar'.

After about half an hour of squabbling and having just walked a couple of miles towards the main road they heard a car coming towards them. Ravel recognised the sound of the engine - it was the same car that had escorted their compatriot away. Everyone tried to find cover exept Ravel, who by now was determined to face down anyone - and steal their vehicle if necessary - in order to prevent the lawyers scratching each other's eyes out. He stood in the middle of the road waving his arms. At first it appeared as if the car was going to stop, but the engine suddenly revved firecely and the mud was splattering everywhere. Ravel had but a moment to throw himself out of the way as the car sped past. Glancing towards the car as it passed, he saw two figures in the front seats. One was the man from earlier. The other was the lawyer he had escorted away. Although only catching the briefest glimpse of his expression, Ravel saw quite clearly that the lawyer was smiling.

'Look here!' shouted one of the other lawyers a minute later when they all came out of hiding, 'he dropped something!'

'Crispy fried duck and rice?', asked another lawyer, running towards the first man.

'No man. It's a note. Listen up. It says he phoned for help and a car is coming to pick us up. It also says he has made a deal with the head of the operation to defend him against accusation of selling fake goods.'

'Aaaah!' cried all the other lawyers in unison, as if a tipping point in their understanding of the situation had been reached, and they knew what this meant.

'What does this mean?', asked Ravel. Despite travelling with them for some weeks, he was still flummoxed on a regular basis by their cryptic mechanics of reasoning.

'It is easy. He is worst lawyer amongst us by a long, long way. He knows he cannot successfully defend businessman. He will have tipped off authorities. He will give poor information to barristers. We just wait now for trial and job is done. Ok?'

Ravel was not entirely sure but could offer no solution. The lawyers were adamant that their colleagues incompetence would win the day and so thy waited for the car to pick them up. The driver was know to some of the group, and they were so pleased to see him that they dived straight into the car and told him to drive as quickly as possible back to their hotel. Once there, they waited for more news. There was nothing that night, but the next morning Ravel was awoken early by someone knocking on the door. It was one of the lawyers brandishing a mobile phone. 'I just got a text', he said forlornly. 'Bad news. Sit down....'

*********TO BE CONTINUED!!!*********

Chinese mud

2008-11-23T19:20:00.002Z

Hello all

There’s nothing like an international crisis to prompt action in the McCrumble household. We’ve been largely unaffected by things until the other day – after all, if you have nothing to lose then what do you have to fear?

To bring you up to speed on events in recent months I’ll spend a short amount of time relaying what happened to young Ravel, my faithful assistant who was last heard of when departing his Bulgarian homeland for the Far East, notably China, where he planned to confront the criminal mastermind behind the theft of his physical and intellectual property (viz a viz wooden replicas of the World Cup trophy).

Despite early promise of progress – namely the name and address of a possible perpetrator, Ravel soon hit soggy ground – literally. They (Ravel and his team of Chinese-Bulgarian lawyers) were sent on a wild goose chase through marshlands to reach an isolated village where the man was reported to have his factory. About half way along their two hundred mile journey they were caught in a rainstorm that rapidly turned the road to mud. Needless to say, they got stuck. No amount of legal expertise, nor even Ravels well conditioned thighs and biceps could extricate them from their situation. It was, perhaps unsurprisingly, a road less well travelled, and not a soul passed the bedraggled gang for 6 hours. It was only Ravel’s training in story telling that prevented the lawyers from suffering further – he told tales of my misadventures (see blogs passim) that apparently had them ‘pissing in the mud’ with laughter. So many stories, in fact, that the 6 hours passed in no time at all (or so Ravel says - he may have embellished his story a little).

Eventually someone driving a pickup coming from the direction of the factory. One of the lawyers (disguised as a manual worker) flagged the car down and asked for help whilst the rest of the gang hid behind some trees. The car was hauled out of the mud and the lawyer started the engine. It was at this moment that the driver of the other car asked where the lawyer was going. Since there was only one place he knew lay at the end of the road, the lawyer was obliged to give its name, since to lie would have aroused suspicion.

What the lawyer didn’t know at the time (it was later explained during a game of double-or-quits poker) was that the place in question had 2 names – one for people who weren’t trusted by the informant, and one for those whose business did not clash with the inhabitants of that place. On hearing the lawyer’s name for the place, the man became immediately suspicious and ordered that the lawyer turned around to avoid ‘bandits’. When the lawyer refused, the man produced a gun and waved it around as if to emphasise the point about ‘bandits’. He offered to escort the car back to the main road and see him on his way towards Beijing.

Fearing that the man with the gun might be willing to use it, the lawyer had no choice but to agree. He did not so much as glance towards his compatriots crouching in the undergrowth, but simply got in the car and drove slowly away, ahead of the man with the gun. Ravel and his legal aides were now stranded, a hundred miles from the main road and with no prospect of reaching their target anytime soon. For all they knew, the man with the gun might have been carrying Ravel’s precious wooden trophies. A suspicion that was, in fact, actually and very positively confirmed when one of the stranded lawyers used his high powered zoom camera to take a picture. What should he spy but this….

**************** TO BE CONTINUED!!!!!!!!!******************

Home alone....

2008-07-26T14:59:00.002+01:00

Hello all

Today I'm all alone at home - Dolores has taken the children to see her mother, Mrs McHaggerty, who still lives up in the north of the country. By mutual consent we agreed I would stay behind - my relationship with my mother in law has never recovered since I accused her publicly of being a kleptomaniac on the front cover of my book. Understandably, perhaps, she has said if I ever say a bad word about her again she'll sue me for defamation of character. So be it. I will make no defamatory remarks about her whatsoever in this blog from here on in.

I've had a couple of requests to give an update on my faithful assistant, Ravel. First of all let me just assure you all that he is safe and well. What appeared to be a successful kidnap attempt by a gang of Chinese-Bulgarian lawyers (sanctioned by the local police chief, no less!) was in fact a misunderstanding on my part. They no more wanted to whisk Ravel away for ransom any more than I would like to see my mother in law take the place of a crash test dummy. Rather, they had arranged to take him back to Bulgaria in order to begin a legal case against the people who stole Ravel's replica-world-cup-trophy idea (see blogs passim). Ravel knew the lawyers through his uncle - a prominent judge in Bulgaria, apparently. They were in the UK for a conference when they heard about Ravel's predicament. Being half Chinese, they had inside knowledge of the legal system in that country, and promised to help the young man in his fight against the criminals.

What Ravel didn't tell me is that they are taking the fight to the enemy. I found out because he told Dolores not to tell me. She didn't tell me, but Twin Y overheard their telephone conversation and said he had valuable inside information that would only cost me a twenty pound top-up on his mobile phone. Wanting proof that he had such information, I made him sign a guarantee that, if the information proved less than invaluable, I would not only take away his mobile phone, but make him write letters to everyone in his phonebook apologising for his lying ways. I was tempted to threaten him with spending two weeks with my mother in law - who, incidentally, is is not an embittered old hag with a face like a mouldy walnut - but such a threat could easily backfire if they joined forces, so I let it go.

So, to cut a long story short, Ravel is on his way to China, accompanied by two of the lawyers who took him away from here. Twin Y told me that they plan to track the perpetrators down and serve them with the appropriate legal papers. I only hope they manage to get in and out of country without any problems. How exactly they'll find their targets I'm not sure. The criminals who stole Ravel's business are unlikely to be amateurs. I'm becoming more than a little concerned for his welfare - more concerned, even than I would be for Mrs McHaggerty if she, say, took up eating lightbulbs as a hobby to while away the kind of long and lonely nights that are often experienced by people with no social skills and unpleasant body odour issues.

J McC

teaser

2008-07-25T11:51:00.002+01:00

Hello all

This is just a teaser. Sorry for the long delay since last posting. All will be, er, Raveled (geddit?) as soon as I get the opportunity. Since he's been gone I've found myself incumbered by all manner of parental duties that were formally his domain. I'm beginning to think No.3 in particular might now actually recognise my status.

As per Daphne's suggestion, I'm going to start doing shorter posts - just to keep my keyboard from rusting up, mainly, and to hopefully make it back up Kim Ayre's blog list.

cheers

J McC

knock, knock, who's there?

2008-05-25T19:44:00.004+01:00

Hello all

This is not a time for self reflection. Poor Ravel is the one who needs all the help he can get. I feel I have toughened up at least a small amount over the last two years. Being the instigator of one's own downfall has a sobering effect, and I like to think that my experiences put me on a sure footing to help out those less fortunate. A bit like - and correct me if I'm wrong - someone who has been to war and can now advise on joining which unit is least likely to lead to death on the front line.

'Ravel, my good, good friend', I said softly the other morning as he wept slowly into his cornflakes. 'I know this is not a good time for you, and I want you to know that we are all here to help.' The young man looked at me with bloodshot eyes and nodded.

'Yesh bosh. I know', came the slurred reply.

'Ravel!', said my wife more loudly than necessary. 'Are you drunk?'

'Yesh bosh. I come home later than later lash night.'

Dolores bent down to look at Ravel's eyes. 'He's very dilated, Joseph. I reckon he's been on the weed again.'

Twin X entered the room at this point. 'Phew!', he exclaimed, and proceeded to wipe an imaginary smell away from his nose. 'Can you not, like, smell 'im, like?'

Truth was, we couldn't - on account of us both having colds (number 7 this year, caught from No.3 as usual). I bent closer to have a sniff and just caught a mild whiff of sweat, smoke, alchohol and a generic unwashed-ness. 'Oh dear', I sighed. 'I think this might have gone too far. Ravel's started on the path to self destruction.'

'It's not that bad, Joseph', countered Dolores. 'He's just going through a rough patch. That's all this is, isn't it Ravel?'

'Yesh bosh', came the lacklustre reply. 'I go now, yesh?'

'Sure, go clean yourself up and sleep it off. If anyone comes calling, I'll deal with them', I said, patting Ravel on the shoulder. He rose and shuffled off in the direction of his hut, head low, gait unsure.

'He iz like well wasted, innit, you know waht I'm sayin', said Twin X emphatically in a south-London accent (he is currently into some kind of gangster rap music and insists on talking like he never left the streets).

'Leave him alone the pair of you', said Dolores firmly. 'I don't want you (pointing at me) giving him any of your 'life is box of chocolates' speeches, and both you (pointing at Twin X) and your brother...'

'He's me blud, yeah?'

'OK, your blood and you - neither of you are to start taunting him, asking him for cannabis or alcohol. Clear?'

'Dont be raggin uz orrite? We got nuff respect, you know what I'm saying?', said the young gangster, his hands chopping the air to visually emphasise the syllables (at least, I assume that's what he was doing it for).

I held both hands up in surrender. Yet again I was being told to keep my distance by Dolores. Now, I'm not a man to surrender easily to feelings of emasculation, but being told who and who I cannot converse with under my own (admittedly unpaid for) roof was taking it a bit far. 'Dolores', I said as she was clearing the dishes, 'Now, I know I've perhaps given out some bad advice in the past, but you know how I've changed. I know my limits. I won't say anything to upset him, I promise.'

My submissive approach somehow worked. Dolores put down the dishes and tried to give me a hug. I was so surprised by her action that I instinctively pushed her away - assuming, incorrectly, that she was about to swat me with the tea towel or something. 'Come here, I'm trying to be supportive', she said.

We were still hugging two minutes later when there was a knock at the barn door. 'I'll get it', I said, ' it might be the lawyers.' With that, I unclenched and proceeded to the other side of our dwelling (for those of you unfamiliar with our situation, see blogs passim for an explanation). There were several other knocks in quick succession as I unlocked the door. 'Just a moment', I shouted.

On the other side of the door were about six or seven Chinese gentlemen. All but one of them were wearing suits. 'Hello, are you Dr Macrooble?' asked the one who had been knocking. His accent was neither Chinese nor English, but more like something from eastern Europe.

'Er, yes, that is I, though actually my name is McCrumble', I replied, hesitantly.

'Sure, sure', came the quick reply. I wasn't sure at this point, but I thought I caught a whiff of alcohol on the man's breath. 'We are here for your man Ravel. He is around?'

I glanced around the men. Though at first glance the majority had appeared neatly attired, I now saw what had all the hallmarks of a group of young men who'd spent the night outdoors whilst dressed for work. A couple of them even had twigs in their hair. They must have got lost finding this place, I immediately surmised. That made them even more dedicated than I thought. I had to think quick to throw them off the scent. 'Er no, he's not here. He, er, went away. Far away. Left last, er, month. He couldn't take what had happened to him. Just left us without leaving a forwarding address. You won't probably ever find him. And I don't have any money either. I, er, have a gambling addiction and spent the whole lot on a horse race at, er, Newmarket, last week. So I think you can go now.'

The same man at the front spoke again. 'Sure sure, we know he is here Dr Macrooble. He live here, we know this. We know he came here last night, and we know he is here now. Please, you bring him to us. We have plan.'

I was not going to back down. Ravel had done many things for me, and I felt utterly obliged to defend him from these sharks. If it came down to it, I was prepared to actually launch myself at them (I did judo at school, and reckoned I could throw two of them at least). 'Look', I said, folding my arms, 'I told you, I have no idea where he is. Now please leave my premises or I will call the police.'

'Show him the SMS from Inspector Davis', said the leader to a man on his left. A phone was lifted and put in front of my face after the text had been retrieved. It said

'You take Ravel with you. He deserves it. Don't let me stand in the way! - Davis.

I read the text a couple of times whilst thinking of what to say next. It might not have been from Inspector Davis, but I did in fact recognise the number (we, er, co-operate on the pub quiz). If that message was real, then it meant Davis was in cahoots with the men in front of me, and wouldn't stop them from taking my loyal companion!

'Don't come any closer, or I'll exercise my right to use reasonable force in defence of my property. You have been warned!', I shouted, my knees bent and my arms held out karate style (why I chose karate I have no idea).

'Dr Macrooble. We are seven and you are just one. We do not want a fight. We come for our man and we go in peace. We are sorry to disturb you but we must insist you hand him over, yes?'

I took another step closer. 'This is for Ravel, you hound!' I shouted, and brought my left hand down towards his shoulder. Thinking about it now, I couldn't actually say why I chose this precise moment to attack. In my head I knew it was a futile gesture. They would make mincemeat of me within seconds. I knew this, and yet still I launched a pre-emptive strike. I felt so indebted to Ravel that I was prepared to sacrifice myself to a bunch of tatty looking Chinese lawyers with European accents, in his name.

Of course, the hand never reached the man's shoulder. I was hauled off my feet and dumped on the ground before I knew what had happened. Looking up I saw the whole bunch of them standing with their arms still folded. It was as if they hadn't even moved whilst throwing my challenge away like they might have blown away a leaf. Was this some kind of souped up martial art, some telekenetic power not seen before in the West? Was I about to be thrown a hundred metres into the wood whilst they skipped amongst the trees throwing bamboo spears at me?

'Sorry bosh. I hope you not hurt.', said Ravel, still slurring his words.

'Huh?', I cried, looking upwards. Ravel's face was near mine as he extended a hand to help me up.'

'You don't need to attack these people. I go now. I look after myself', said Ravel, a thin smile on his face.

'But...'

The leader of the Chinese gang took hold of Ravel's arm, saying 'OK, we must hurry or we will miss the transport. Goodbye Dr Macrooble...and...thanks for your cooperation. Don't get up, we will see ourselves out.'

They set off at a quick jog. For a moment I was minded to run after them, but then Ravel shouted at me not to follow them. He too was jogging, unfettered and apparently un-bothered by his kidnap. Sitting there, I watched them run along the track and turn left towards the hamlet. My confusion was intensified just as they disappeared, as a gust of wind brought their voices in my direction. Now, I'm no expert in linguistics, but I have heard Ravel talk many times with his Bulgarian family on the phone, and I quite clearly heard both his voice and those of at least two other of the gang. They were all speaking Bulgarian......

************TO BE CONTINUED ***********

happy birthday to me, is it?

2008-05-18T11:18:00.002+01:00

Hello all

So I just checked and found that my i-friend Kim Ayres has degraded my blog down to his 'sporadic and AWOL' list. Ho hum. Deserved I suppose, given that I appear to have given up blogging. This is not entirely true of course. It is simply that my audience began to dwindle to such a low figure that I began to question why I was blogging at all. Now I am fully aware that one must blog in order to be blogged, so to speak so yes, it is partly my own fault. But when I look at the output of my i-friend Mr Gorilla Bananas, who regularly gets 50 comments per blog post, I think I'm maybe just shouting into cyberspace, and no-one can hear me type.

Dolores reminded me yesterday - on my 34th Birthday - that I hadn't mentioned the blogosphere for some time. Whether this was intended to press my blogging button, or simply to indicate she was aware of the situation I'm not sure. I smiled, and said that I had more important things to worry about. For example, at the moment, I am desperately trying to raise the spirits of my loyal companion Ravel, whose ambitious scheme of selling wooden football trophies to the Chinese became a victim of its own success just last week.

It was all going well. Despite my reservations, Ravel did manage to negotiate a contract with a firm in China that specialised in shipping football memorabilia to fans in the far east. His perfect facsimilie of the Jules Rimet trophy was sold through their website, and within a week of signing the contract he received an order for ten trophies. The capable young man shut himself away in his workshop (a shed he constructed from some scaffolding planks off an "abandoned" building site, apparently) and set to work. One week later he was packing the trophies into their box, just as the next order arrived. This time it was an order for twenty trophies. He again entered his shed, and asked only that we push food and water under the door (he had constructed the shed in a hurry and had mistakenly sawn the planks for the door somewhat short). Dolores took charge of the catering, and I was told to occupy myself away from proceedings. This, I was told, was 'to prevent too many chefs ruining the food'. I did try to point out that any business enterprise requires a team with complementary skills to proceed. My wife asked 'have you ever watched The Apprentice, Joseph?' before turning her attention to the banana and chickpea mush she was making for both No.3 and Ravel.

Left to my own devices on the first day of this new contract, I took a walk around the hamlet. It was a beautiful, sunny day and many people were out in their front gardens. We are well established here now, and several people said hello as I passed. A few more shut their doors as I approached for reasons I couldn't initially fathom. It was only when I reached the local pub that it dawned on me that that these were the people who benefited from the presence of the cult up at the Manor house (see blogs passim). Still, I figured, if 50% of the hamlet like me, that must make me 375% more popular than I was in the village up in Scotland, where my only friends out of a population of 1500 people were a butcher and a vet. Ratios are good, sometimes.

Anyways, it only took me half an hour to walk around, including a half pint at the pub, and I was back in time for lunch. 'Anything I can do to help?', I asked as Dolores washed up Ravel's bowl.

'How about walking the route backwards whilst wearing a blindfold - that should keep you occupied', she said pithily. I mulled over the idea for a few seconds before rejecting it on the grounds that I was likely to cause myself an injury. 'Nothing that a walk to the nearest hospital and a couple of nights under observation wouldn't fix, I'm sure', she retorted.

Sensing that perhaps my wife wanted me out of the way for a prolonged period, I resolved to go and visit my friend (and former marketing manager) Dr Booth over in Cambridge. I phoned and invited myself for a few days. Mark was worried for a short while that things were bad again between myself and Dolores. 'Oh no', I reassured him, 'she just gets like this whenever something important is happening. She seems to think I might, er, upset the applecart or something. Better if I just stay away really. At least until the whole thing with Ravel settles down into a routine.'

Mark was very busy at work with writing a grant application. I wondered if I might help, but he said he had it all under control and suggested I play the tourist around Cambridge. This wasn't a bad idea - I've visited a few times but not spent much time in this scholarly capital. Looking at the various options I had the choice of visiting 31 colleges, punting on the Cam, taking an open top bus tour, listening to dozens of talks at various venues, watching the university cricket team get smacked by various county sides on warm-up matches (the students start and end their season somewhat early due to the structure of the teaching terms). There were a few concerts etc but none really appealed. So I decided to tour the colleges. I figured if I managed 5 colleges a day that would keep me going for the week, when I would return home to find everything under control.

After about the tenth college on the first day, I was getting a little, well, bored. Now, I'm not taking anything away from the colleges with that statement. They are all superb examples of scholarly architecture, with a multitude of attractive courtyards and gardens and olde-worlde covered bridges to admire. But at the end of the day, they are places of study, not entertainment, and once I'd seen ten of them, I figured I'd pretty much seen them all. I asked Mark again if I could help on the grant application. Perhaps, I suggested, he might need a research assistant?

'This really isn't your thing, Joseph', he said over dinner. 'Its not about parasites I'm afraid. I'm moving into diabetes. Sorry.'

'I can learn...', I said, but there was no real hope of getting any work. I've been out of the academia for a few years now, and as Mark explained, times have changed. There isn't much room for old school people like me. The effort required to put a grant together has quadrupled in recent years. There is no room for taking on a risky prospect - and that's exactly what I would be.

Somewhat despondently I left Cambridge and went home. Ravel was still in the shed, chiselling away day and night. Dolores was less than pleased to see me, I have to say. 'Just stay away from Ravel', she told me in no uncertain terms.

Now, three weeks later, I wish I had interfered. Perhaps I could have stepped in to negotiate better terms with the Chinese firm. Maybe I could have taken on the role of understudy, carving the basic shapes whilst Ravel added the finishing touches. Maybe I would have checked the website to see the back-orders piling up and phoned the firm to reassure that Ravel could deliver. Who knows. What I do know is that we are now being sued for breach of contract, Ravel's trophy has been copied and is now on sale again but is being sourced elsewhere, and Ravel is blaming himself for once again plunging us towards ruin. I keep telling him to not take things so hard. We still haven't recovered from our last ruination - this one won't make much difference. He smile weakly when I tell him this and pats me on the shoulder. I smile back, but behind the smile I'm more than slightly worried. You see, I finally got some insurance money from the fire at the Institute. This means I have an asset. Lawyers love assests, I know that for certain.

J McC

World Cup Glory?

2008-02-11T06:00:00.009Z

Hello all

It's been a while since I last put fingers to keyboard to recount the daily challenges that comprise my attempts to get through this life I've been given / shaped / accidentally run into etc. It's not that I've given up writing or blogging, but rather that my life is no longer such an interesting journey. The last couple of months have seen us adjust more firmly to living a life of poverty, and we are now all very adept at scraping a living. Ravel sells his wooden carvings out of a layby on a trunk road about 2 miles from the barn. Dolores has become the hamlet's leading house-compantion, and now visits over ten elderly people on a regular basis. I have set myself up as a home tutor teaching biology to struggling students. The twins have started attending a secondary school after some protracted negotiations (and a few white lies). Number 3 is now 10 months old and is doing well - he's already walking and charming visitors with a ready smile.

It's so quiet round here that I've had plenty of time to reflect on my own shortcomings. Perhaps more than anything, I've come to realise that I can't simply blunder through life in the belief that my instincts will always bring a satisfactory conclusion. Looking back over my mis-adventures of recent years I was astonished to find just how many times I was the architect of my own down-fall. What was even more disturbing was the fact that I could never see things coming. This latter observation caused me some consternation, and so I approached Ravel one morning for counselling.

'Yes boss?', he asked as I approached. My trusted assistant was carving a piece of ash into what looked like a scale replica of the World Cup trophy.

'Ravel - I, er, need your advice'.

'Huh? Are you sure boss? Sure, fire away at me.'

'Yes, well, I know this might sound unusual, but I want to find something out about myself, and I think you might just be able to help.'

Ravel put down his chisel and blew gently over the top of the wooden trophy. He cleared a chair (a fine piece of furniture made from birch twigs, an old baking tray and old milk cartons) and motioned for me to sit down. The chair sagged under my weight, and made a sound like a whoopee cushion, but held firm - the milk cartons acting as some kind of cushion.

'Comfortable, boss?' asked Ravel as he sat cross legged on the ground.

'Comfortable enough. Right, so, you see - it's like this. I've been thinking about things, and I've sort of come to the conclusion that I need to undergo some kind of re-evaluation of who I am and where I'm going with my life. As part of that process I want you to be totally honset.'

'You know I am honest always. I am proud of my honesty. I hide nothing from you, boss', said Ravel, his voice raised as if indignant.

'I'm not questioning your honesty Ravel. I'm just asking you to be totally honest when I ask you some potentially difficult questions. You see, I am also very aware of your loyalty, and I'm slightly worried that I might force you into a conflict of interest situation by placing your loyalty up against your honesty.'

Ravel looked at the ground, and then at his trophy. There was a slightly awkward pause before he finally spoke again, his voice flat. 'What is it you want to tell me, boss?'

'Right, so long as we are clear, I'm just trying to find out where I've been going wrong. We've been through a lot together and I thought you would be the best person to ask. So don't hold back, Ravel. Just be completely open and honest.' I sat back on the chair and held out my hands as the milk cartons expelled the remainder of their flatulent air. Ravel looked at me with narrowed eyes for a moment before turning back to his trophy, chisel in hand.

'Like you say, boss, you have put me in a conflicting interest. Dolores say I must not massage your ego, but you are the boss, so I cannot not massage your ego, but you say I must be honest, so I cannot be not honest at same time as not massage your ego at same time as not making you upset because you are the boss.'

'I see', I said, not really seeing anything at all. Ravel had almost turned his back on me. I was momentarily minded to admonish him, but of course he was right. I had put him in a difficult position. 'Sorry', I muttered as I rose from the chair. The milk cartons made a sucking noise as they expanded. Temporarily unsure as how to respond, I watched Ravel as he carefully chiseled away at the base of his carving. It then struck me that I should engage in a little polite conversation, to signal that there were no hard feelings. 'So, that's a nice carving', I said slowly.

'Yes boss. I have been thinking that the world cup is coming, and I can move into the market for what you call nick nacks. This will be a best seller. I carve it from memory but I know for sure the measurements are correct.'

'Er, OK, Ravel. So, er, the World Cup is in 2010, yes?'

'I know boss. I take great care so need to start early. I need to build up stock to make sure no-one is disappointed. Simple business rules.'

I sat down again. One of the milk cartons collapsed and I ended up sitting at a slight angle. On the one hand I was keen to promote Ravel's artistic talents, but at the same time I was wary of the need to meet supply and demand criteria whenever one was undertaking any kind of business venture. 'It could be a best seller indeed', I ventured, trying to be diplomatic. 'So, er, who are your customers Ravel?' I looked around the room as if trying to locate them.

'China, boss.'

'Huh?' I exclaimed loudly, as the realisation of his mistake dawned on me. 'Only one problem with that, my good man. I think you've got the World Cup and Olympics mixed up. The World Cup is in South Africa. It's the Olympics that are in China - and they're on this year!' With that, I stood up and patted Ravel on the shoulder.

'I know boss,' replied Ravel. 'I keep up with the news on my winding up radio. I send to China then China send them to football fans all over world. I have contract. They come next week to take photograph. They...'

'Huh?', I exclaimed again. 'Hold on. You're telling me you have a business venture in China? You didn't tell me about it? Who is coming? Have you signed something? We can't afford to lose anything Ravel!'

My faithful companion could sense I was getting a little anxious. Now it was his turn to pat me on the shoulder and inject a dribble of patronising tone into his words. 'Boss, I know what I am doing, yes? They bring money or there is no deal. Sit down and let me explain, ok?'

I sat down on the milk-bottle chair once again, drew breath in an attempt to stop the palpitations that had suddenly gripped me, and listened to what Ravel had to say. He told the story in a rather long format, so I'll give you the abridged version. Essentially, he'd been out one day selling his carvings of mushrooms, woodland animals etc in the usual layby just outside the village. A man had stopped and was perusing the nick-nacks whilst humming the famous England football anthem 'Vindaloo' by the popular band 'Fat Les'. Ravel had never heard the song before, but was intrigued by its melody, and offered the man a mushroom in return for him teaching the song. The two of them started chatting about football and wooden nick-nacks and all manner of things, including the Olymics. Now, it turned out that the man who bought the mushroom was travelling to China the following week to sign some business deal related to the Olympics, and the little wooden object was to be a present for his business-partner. Ravel asked if such things were popular in China, to which the answer was 'probably not'. However, it then turned out that the man's business partner was a great football fan, and had always dreamed of holding the World Cup trophy aloft. Something like a wooden lightbulb lit above Ravel's head at this point, and he offered on the spot to make a (carbon?) copy of the trophy in whatever wood the man desired. Three days later, he'd carved a perfect replica in ash, using only his memory of pictures of the trophy for measurements.

To cut a long story even shorter, the man took the trophy to China and came back two weeks later with an abundance of praise for Ravel and his talent. He also came back with an order for 30 more trophies and a promise of 'handsome payment'. The deadline was next week.

'Are you sure this isn't a scam?', I asked after Ravel had finished his story, still not sure whether to believe what I had heard.

'I am sure not.', he replied, holding up his latest replica to inspect the finish. 'You wait, boss. Soon our money worry are finish. I teach your boys how to carve - we sweep up in China, no problem.'

I left at that point, not wishing to dampen his enthusiasm by any logic devaluation of his dream. If it is a scam, I guess it hasn't cost us anything except several hours of Ravels time when he could have been carving wooden mushrooms instead. Dolores was pleased when I told her, saying that my attitude towards Ravel had much improved of late. She was so happy, in fact, that we had an, er, early night - the first in over 6 months. That made me so happy that I decided to blog again.

World Cup glory here we come!

J McC

Mcrumble's Christmas message

2007-12-24T07:44:00.000Z

Hello all

This year we shall be having a somewhat muted Christmas. With no income to speak of, we have called a moratorium on presents - although Ravel has volunteered to make us all something 'traditional' from bits of wood he's scavenged. He claims he spent many a happy day in the Bulgarian forest near his childhood home, whittling and carving logs into animal shapes that he would sell to tourists. I wait to see what he manages to do with the local timber.

In other news, Dolores has invited the elderly lady she works for in the village over for Christmas dinner. This charitable gesture was not popular with the twins, who told me they didn't want 'some farting old biddy' ruining their Christmas. I was minded to chastise them for referring to the lady in such a way, but then remembered how she managed to force us out of her house some weeks ago by using her downstairs toilet and leaving the door open after a particularly noisy evacuation. It remains to be seen whether she can exercise self-restraint as we tuck into the Christmas bird (a pheasant, scavenged by Ravel, cause of death unknown but most likely a blow to the head as judged by it's rather squashed beak and the splatter of blood found nearby).

Dolores has told me that I should make a new-year's resolution to get us out of the barn and into proper accomodation. She pointed at the blog and asked why, if I'm still a 'celebrity', can't I use my status to get a decent job? I did point out to her that I use the word 'celebrity' somewhat sardonically, and that any celebrity status I enjoyed has long since passed, and that she knew full well that if I could do something about our situation, I would. She reminded me at this point that I am still on probation, and told me I should think long and hard about improving our lifestyle. No 3, she said, is not going to be brought up in a barn.

My situation brings me to introspection at this time of year, and on more than one occasion I've been brought to tears with emotions of shame, self-pity, hopelessness and helplessness. As I look round my family I see people I love dearly, but my sense of failure brings any attempts at reconciliation to a short stop. Dolores is remarkably patient, but I sense that I might be on a time limit here.

Oh well, enought about me. Merry Christmas everyone!

J McC

lab lit

2007-12-16T21:33:00.000Z

Hello all

Lablit.com is a site devoted to the improving the portrayal of scientists and science in fact and fiction. As a scientist interested in self-improvement through the medium of blogging, I felt it appropriate to respond affirmatively when asked if I would contribute an article. It just so happened I had something to say after trying to teach the twins something about parasitology (my former scientific discipline of choice).

You can read my efforts by clicking on the link below:

McCrumble's lab-lit article

regards

J McC

Calendars galore

2007-11-16T13:59:00.000Z

My marketing manager, Dr Mark Booth, has just informed me that 2008 versions of his popular calendar are now available. 'Show them the pictures!' he urged, by way of encouraging people to buy one. 'And don't forget to tell them that the profits are going to charity.' He also wanted it be know that anyone buying a calendar will get £2 off the price of my book.

So there you have it. Calendars and books. Two ideal gifts, and all for a worthy cause.

www.matangini.org.uk

regards

J McC

Taking a break

2007-11-07T16:08:00.000Z

Hello all

I'm taking a short break from blogging in order to spend as much time as possible building bridges with my family, and perhaps putting together my next volume of memoirs (if demand is high enough). Those of you familiar with this blog may recall Denise, my one-time receptionist who gave up her position at the former Cumbernauld Institute to save me from being sent down for an act of self defence against my childhood nemesis, one Toby Hancock-Jones. She has been in touch to ask if I have done what I promised some months ago, namely to bring her altruistic tale to the public's attention by way of enlightening others to the value of loyalty. I had to admit that I have been lacking on that front, and must therefore devote blogging time to her story.

Stay tuned, and don't forget that I can be contacted on joseph.mccrumble@yahoo.co.uk You can also find me on facebook from time to time. Don't forget that volume 1 of my memoirs is always available to buy - and despite my pennilessness I am determined to continue offering all royalties to charity.

J McC

Leida and the Swan

2007-10-28T09:50:00.000Z

The phone rang. It was my sometimes Marketing Manager. He sounded cheerful. 'Hi Joseph - did you see the review?'

'Yes I did, Mark', I said, flatly.

'Not bad, eh? Should boost sales a bit'

'I doubt it - that reviewer described my writing as "car-crash literature". Who wants to buy into that?'

'She also said it would make an "excellent" gift. Christmas is sown up, my friend. So, what have you been up to? Haven't heard from you for ages. Was your phone off or something? I was trying to get hold of you last week.'

'It's a long story. Have you seen the blog recently?'

'Aah, not as such Joseph. I've been rather busy trying to keep things going here. Very hectic at the moment. So, anything interesting?'

'If you really want to know I suggest you read the last few entries and phone me back.'

'OK. Will do. Stand by'

Thirty minutes later the phone rang again.

'Wowser!'

'Hello Mark.'

'You got yourself into some deep doo doo there mate, for sure for sure. But here we are talking on the phone, so I guess it all worked out in the end, yeah?'

'yes and no. Do you want to hear what happened?'

'Yeah!'

OK. Well, the next day was a Monday. I went down to have breakfast as usual with Mrs T, but she wasn't there. All I found was a note which told me that she would be back in the afternoon. I assumed that she must have been called away, so I had breakfast and went outdoors. I was tidying up one of the rose beds about an hour later when it started raining, and I popped indoors to get a waterproof. It was then that I heard a a muffled scream coming from upstairs. This struck me as odd in a number of ways, not least because the house should have been empty...'

'It was the housekeeper!' exclaimed my quick witted Marketing Manager

'Not as such. I walked inside to hear another scream, and quickly ascertained that the noises were coming from the first floor landing. Ascending the stairs, I heard what sounded like a moan coming from the gallery.'

'Oh yeah, let me guess they were all...'

'As you can imagine, my curiosity was piqued. So anyways, I walked down the landing and put my ear to the door. I'd never been inside myself, but Dolores had told me how it was full of erotic artefacts. Of course, she'd never been inside herself, being a bit of prude...

'Too much information my friend!'

'Sorry. I just...anyway - I tried the door and to my complete suprise it opened. The first thing I hear - before I can even get my head round the door to see what's going on - is someone swearing very loudly. Next thing - loud footsteps of someone running towards the door. I barely get my head out of the way before - bang - the door's slammed shut.'

'Ooh, could have been nasty...'

'Messy, for sure. My first instinct is to call the police. But then I think about my previous encounters with them and suggest to myself that might not be the best idea. Also, I didn't have my phone, and I'd never seen a landline in the house. So then I think about running from the place, but have no idea whether that security guard would be watching.'

'Let me guess, you tried the door again?'

'How did you guess?'

'You have a knack of launching yourself into unsustainable situations on the pretext of acting rationally, but really as a result of your intrinsic inability to correctly understand the warning signs.'

'Er, do I? Anyways, I had to really, to find out what was going on. So I turned the handle and opened the door. This time, no swearing. I peek inside and see the contents of the gallery. You ever been to a museum of erotic artefacts, Mark?'

'No, not many of them in Cambridge, as it happens.'

'Well anyways, it was full of what you might expect. Statues, phallic symbols, paintings, etcerea. Moderately interesting if you are into that kind of thing, I guess. Now, like you I expected something to be going on in that very room. But no. Whatever was taking place was happening beyond the gallery. You see, Mark, there was a door at the other end that closed as I stepped into the gallery. I just had to find out...'

'You are either braver or more foolish than me, Joseph.'

'I jogged through the gallery - stopping I must admit, but only once, to admire an original painting of Leida and the Swan - you know the one where..'

'I am aware of the story.'

'Of course. It was a very fine painting - very graphic but very well painted. Anyways, not what I was there for, so I moved on, and finally reached the second door. It was unlocked!'

'No shit - it's like they wanted you to follow them...'

'Well - let's see. So I try the door, and it opens into a completely dark room. I can't see anything for a moment, but then a candle is lit and the whole scene is laid out in front of me...'

'Huh? What scene?'

'OK - how do I describe it - you've seen those old horror films, yes, where the hapless maiden is laid out on a sacrificial altar whilst the high priest is poised with his dagger to make the sacrifice?
'Good grief...it wasn't...was it?'

'No. Not quite. But Mrs T was there, lying on a bed, and Stonemason was standing over her, carrying a knife. He was also holding what appeared to be a watermelon. Without even acknowledging my presence, he stabs the watermelon three times and let's the juices dribble onto Mrs T - who, by the way, is fully clothed and in no way restrained.'

'Er, right...'

'He then points directly at me and says - and this is exactly what he says - "Approach, stranger, and make the sign of the order in remedy of the original sin". Do you mean me? I say to him, assuming he must have mistaken me for someone else. At which point he looks over at me and shouts "What the f**k are you doing here?". The door was open, I say. At which point he throws the melon in my direction and tells me to f-off. His aim was so good that the melon caught me right on the forehead, and I fall backwards out of the door. To my complete and utter suprise the back of my head doesn't strike the actual floor, but the knees of someone standing immediately behind me.'

'Good grief...'

'As I fall on the ground I hear the word 'arseschlok' and realise I've just hit the knees of the chef. He bends over and hauls me up to my feet. By this time both Mrs T and Stonemason have left their positions in the room and are standing in front of me. They don't look happy. Stonemason then says to the chef 'You are late, you German idiot. To which the chef says " ja, sorry master - I had food from village Indian last night and today got some bad diarrohea and could not leave the toilet". Mrs T then points at me and says 'he's ruined it. He's seen it, and ruined it. We cannot continue. Under rule 27c, if any employee witnesses the remedy of the original sin, we are tainted once again and must scatter to the four corners of the Founder's Field.'

'A cult!' exclaimed my excited marketing manager.

'Exactly that, Mark. I knew something was up all the time I was living there, but just couldn't put my finger on it. Now, there I was, the central figure in the dissolution of their order.'

'So what happened next?'

They started talking amongs themselves about what to do. This clearly hadn't happened before, and none of them knew what it meant to scatter to the founder's field. Or where the field was. They started getting annoyed and pointed at me a lot. Stonemason suggested they take me with them, wherever they went. I told them that would count as kidnap, to which Mrs T said - "how do you think the rest of us got into this?". Finally, the chef says "This is a complete arseschlok. I'm leaving. Anyone going to stop me?". To which Stonemason says "Under rule 19a, no employee is allowed...". But he doesn't get any futher because the chef punches him to the ground and runs off. Stonemason gets up and thinks about running after the chef, but then Mrs T says "I've had enough aswell. Let's just leave. The owner won't bother to look for us". So then Stonemason holds up his hands and says "OK, that's it. We can't break the rules, so we must disband. Well done, McCrumble. You were destined to join us, but by some unfortunate twist of fate originating from a dodgy curry, you have destroyed us. Leave, before I change my mind. Your belongings are in my room. Tell no-one what you have seen here, or we'll be back.'

'But you're telling me!'

'I'm telling the whole world, Mark. I mean, it was hardly normal up there. They were going to actually kidnap me! I also know they won't be coming back in a hurry.'

'How come?'

'Well, I didn't hang around. I went upstairs for my things, then went to the security hut for my phone. It was on Stonemason's desk, alongside copy of the house rules. I picked both up. Rule 28b clearly states that once the ritual has been tainted, the fellows of the order may never visit the site again.'

'Phew, that was a lucky escape then!'

'Yep. Fortunately Dolores believed my story - I met her on my way out as she was on her way in to start cleaning, and explained everything. She didn't go into work, not surprisingly.'

'So you are back with your family?'

'For now, at least. Penniless again. Dolores remarked at one point that we'd still have an income if I'd let them kidnap me. Well, must go. The twins want me to watch their archery practice. Bye.'

So yes, dear reader. As you may have deduced, I have finally returned to the barn, after uncovering a cult within the manor. I am going to endeavour to put my marriage back onto the right tracks. Dolores has put me on probation, but really I think she might be just a little glad to see me home again. How do I know? Because when I got to telling her what was inside the museum of erotica, I didn't manage to finish my description of Leida and the Swan...

J McC

The TCS review

2007-10-26T12:20:00.000+01:00

Hello all

Before I continue with the previous story, I bring notice that The Cambridge Student has posted a favourable review of the book. You can read their review here:

TCS review of McCrumble

If you have arrived here after reading the review, welcome. Do not be alarmed if you don't quite understand what is going on. I have trouble working things out most of the time, so we already have something in common. The best thing I can suggest is that you buy the book, then start reading the archives from Sept 06 onwards to find out what happened next.

best wishes

Joseph

Tea for two

2007-10-18T06:35:00.000+01:00

Hello all

Sorry for the rather abrupt end to the last post. I was in my room at the time, and heard footsteps in the corridor. It was all I could do to scroll down and press publish (remember, I am using a mobile phone with a small screen) before the door opened. Moments later, the phone was confiscated.

In case this soounds a little confusing, let me tell the story in chronological terms, picking up at the point where I was contemplating how long it would take me to sprint for the border. I was just about to set off when a rather large man grabbed the collar of my shirt and hauled me off my feet. I had no idea there was even a security guard on the premises, let alone that I had been stalked by cctv from the moment I left the second floor landing. This was explained to me as I was marched back at speed towards the house. But rather than entering, I was taken round the back and into one of the stable buildings. On the other side of a door I had never noticed was a security post, complete with a bank of monitors, a bed and kitchenette. I was told to sit down by the security guard, who then, somewhat unexepectedly, offered me a cup of tea.

'Dr Joseph McCrumble, I presume?', he said, handing me the mug. 'Sorry, no milk or sugar.'

The fact that the man knew my name was an additional surprise. 'Er, yes, and, er, no problem. And, er, you are?', I said, hestitantly.

'Stonemason.' said the guard, checking the monitors as he spoke. 'As in, that is my name, not what I do. I am the security guard here, in case you were wondering.'

'It did cross my mind', I said dryly. 'So what am I doing in here?'

'It is my job to interrogate trespassers. The owner is very fond of his privacy.'

'But I wasn't trespassing. I'm staying here as a gardener whilst I sort out my...'

'I am aware of your position, Dr McCrumble. Dolores told us what was happening between the two of you, so we agreed to let you in under the rules of the house. You are quite a good gardener, by the way.'

'She did? I mean, thanks.'

'Rule 19a states that no employee shall venture onto the grounds at the weekends without the permission of the owner. You were therefore trespassing.'

'OK...', I said, wondering where this was leading.

'Under rule 19a, employees observed trespassing are to be confined to quarters and rendered unable to communicate with the outside world until such time as the owner is convinced that there has been no breach of privacy.' As the security guard spoke, he began to roll his shirt-sleeves upwards.

Upon hearing and seeing this, my mind immediately focused on keeping calm and not revealing that I had a mobile phone about my person. It was located in my jeans' pocket, and I knew that Stonemason would only need to exercise a light frisking to bring about its confiscation. Somehow, I had to offload the mobile to somewhere I could retrieve it unnoticed after the search. Looking briefly around me, I could not see many obvious hiding places. To my left was the kitchenette, and I figured that if I could make a distraction, I could perhaps deposit the phone in the sink. It was a slightly risky venture, but the only viable option from where I was sitting.

It would have to be a fairly major distraction, or else I would not have sufficient time to wrestle the phone from my (slightly tight) jeans pockets and place it quietly amongst the pots and pans. Stonemason's attention had been caught by something on the screens. I was holding a cup of tea. Now, I'm no electrician, but I do know that tea and television monitors don't mix very well. Especially when a cup is thrown at the screens.

'What the...', cried the security guard as the lukewarm brown liquid spilled over the monitors. He looked round at me with a mixture of confusion and menace. I shrugged my shoulders.

'Sorry, it was a spasm. I get them under stressful conditions. Wait I'll get a cloth.' With that, I stopped waving my right arm around, stood up and turned towards the kitchenette, my left hand on my pocket containing the phone.

'Sit down Dr McCrumble', said Stonemason firmly. 'I'll get it.'

My heart skipped a beat, and momentarily I thought my opportunity lost. But fortunately the security guard had to search amongst the pots and pans to find his cloth, during which time I could retrieve the phone from my jeans' pocket. Stonemason then moved over to the monitors to wipe the screens. I stood up again and placed the phone carefully in the pans.

'What are you doing?' said the security guard, wiping a screen.

'I'm, er, getting another cloth. That's not doing the job properly.'

'Yes it is. It's worked fine. Sit down', said Stonemason impatiently, clearly upset by the incident. Momentarily I was pleased to see him agitated, but an image of him taking out his irration during the forthcoming search popped into my head, and I felt suddenly uneasy once again. 'Right, now no more spasms, or I'll have to tie you to the chair', he said.

'Sure, I won't move at all.'

'Yes you will. Stand up. I need to frisk you for communication devices. Do you have any you want to hand over before I search you?'

'No.'

'It will look better if I report to the owner that you voluntarily submitted any devices.'

'None to submit, Mr Stonemason', I said confidently. 'Search away.'

The (slightly too rough in my opinion) frisking lasted only a couple of minutes and of course revealed nothing. Retrieving the phone was straightforward, as it was within easy reach of where I was standing, and I just had to wait for the security guard to turn away for a moment, which he did to pick up his coat. Victory is mine, I thought as I was taken back to house and up to my room. Stonemason told me not to leave the room until further notice.

The first thing I did was send a text message to Dolores, explaining what had happened. She sent a one-word response, suggesting by her choice of word that she might have considered my excuse to be slightly, or perhaps completely 'pathetic'.

I spent last Sunday confined to quarters, and wrote that last blog entry before Stonemason entered, confiscated the phone on the spot and left me totally cut-off from civilisation. Why I wasn't fired, and ejected from the manor on the spot, I couldn't work out. I asked Stonemason that very question as he was leaving the room, but he didn't answer. I was left without any answer until a couple of days later when the whole sordid picture of what was going on in the manor house was finally revealed....

*******TO BE CONTINUED!!******

Freedom?

2007-10-14T07:29:00.000+01:00

Hello all

The weeks rumble by, and I am still here at the Manor house. Fortunately I have discovered how to blog from my mobile phone, so at least I can keep in touch with the outside world - albeit slowly as I have never learnt how to use my opposable thumbs to any great effect when it comes to texting.

This week I receieved a message from Dolores that she was going to allow me a home visit. I was initially overwhelmed with positive emotion at the prospect, but then it dawned on me that I was probably just going to see how things had changed for the better in my absence. Each time I talk with my wife she tells me how much better behaved the twins are, how she has adapted to not having me around. She says she misses me, but I'm beginning to think that is just the natural grief that comes with any separation. So it was with some trepidation that I prepared for my first encounter with my family in over a month.

Dolores said she would see me yesterday (Saturday). My heart sank a little, for normally I would be penned in my small room at the top of the house under rule 18b - no unauthorised staff movements in the house at the weekend. To escape from my room would mean passing through the living quarters of the owner (who visits evey weekend with his wife and two teenage boys). Unlike the housekeeper, they have no particular schedule, and I hear the boys running around the house at all hours of the day. Luckily, they never bother entering the attic, as there is nothing up here of interest except the stash of surfboards in my room. As we are at least twenty miles from the nearest wave, and I know from the housekeeper that they never visit the seaside, it is unlikely the surfboards are going to be used any day soon.

Anyways, I decided after careful analysis of the situation that I would attempt an escape at 1300 hrs - the time when the family usually begin their lunch in the dining room. I knew I could, by treading very lightly on all fours, exit through a back door at the opposite end of the hallway without being seen. Normally I don't crawl anywhere, but in this case I knew there was no choice, as a large mirror hung in the hall would reflect my image into the eyes of the owner, sitting at the top of the table, if I was upright.

At 1pm I descended from the attic onto the second floor landing. The emotive aroma of a roast-beef dinner caught me unawares, and I was immediately transported in my mind back to the last time I had enjoyed a proper lunch with my own family, many weeks ago. The effect was so strong that I was unable to supress a tear, which I wiped away with my shirt sleeve before declaring to myself that nothing was going to stop me being re-united with the people I love.

Oh so quietly I descended the stairs onto the first floor landing, leant over the banister. and watched as the weekend chef carried a tureen into the dining room. Over the babble of conversation I heard a deep foreign voice (indeterminate origin) thank the chef by his first name (Anton). I then heard the chef reply in a crisp german accent, in terms which surprised me. Now, I'm not well up on how the other half live, nor do I have much insight into how the nouveau riche treat their staff, but is it generally true that a chef (complete with mushroom hat) would, having served up the first course, thank his boss with the words 'You are most welcome, Sir', barking out the last word as if on parade in front of a sargeant major, before clicking his heels and exiting the room?

As if this wasn't surprising enough, I then heard, quite distinctly, the chef say the word 'arschelok' in an angry whisper as he entered the kitchen (for those of you who are unaware of the vulgar words available in the German language, I will provide a literal translation - the word 'arschelok' is equivalent to our moderate term of insult 'areshole'). This short outburst was quickly followed by the sound of metal striking metal - a sound loud enough to reach both the dining room and the first floor landing.

The owner must have heard the chef, but the babble of conversation continued without interruption. Curious, I thought to myself as I slowly descended the stairs. This was the second hint that relations between the owner and his staff were somewhat unusual. Making a mental note to find out more, I stepped off the last step and onto the floor. Down one end of the hall I could see the entrance to the kitchen. Inside the kitchen was the chef, lighting up a cigarette before leaning out of a window to smoke it. Immediately to my right was the entrance to the dining room. From my position at the bottom of the stair I could neither see nor be seen by the occupants. Opposite and to the left was the mirror.

Taking a deep breath, I adopted a crouching stance and moved into the hall, turning left. My exit was about ten metres away, on my left. On approaching the mirror I went down onto my belly and crawled, commando style, until I was sure I was clear. A quick glance behind me confirmed that the chef was still smoking his cigarette, so I once again adopted a crouching position until I reached the door. Standing up, I tried the handle. It moved silently downwards, and I was able to push the door open without making a sound. On the other side was a small vestibule, with a key in the door. Holding my breath, I turned the key and opened the door.

Freedom! I said to myself as I strode from the house, gulping down the fresh autumnal air. Just half a kilometre away was my beloved wife, my children and my research assistant, all eagerly waiting for my triumphant return. There was to be no more separation. I was going to re-unite the family, re-ignite my marriage. Just half a kilometre. Three hundred metres to the end of the drive, then another 200 metres to the barn. I reckoned I could cover the distance in less than 3 minutes if I sprinted.

Notice I said 'was'. There is a good reason for this, but you'll have to wait until next time I get the chance to blog before I can tell you. I am about to have my room searched, and it is likely they will find my phone. Actually, I can hear

Me and Mrs T

2007-10-07T07:18:00.000+01:00

Hello all

Still living in my small room at the manor house, spending my working days in the garden for a pittance (the minimum wage does not apply here, apparently). True to human nature, I have adapted to my new situation, and begun to find solutions to my problems. The strain of the abulution issue has now been, er, eased, by the provision of a bed-pan which I keep in the second-floor landing. This happened after I was forced to confront the housekeeper with the ridiculousness of my situation. She was reasonably sympathetic, but adamant that the rules of the owner were non-negotiable.

'Does he not allow you any latitude?', I asked one morning over breakfast.

'No he does not', she replied, swirling her weak tea with the handle of a bread-knife.

'And that is OK by you?', I asked, determined to soften her attitude with a display of empathy.

'The owner was very kind in allowing me to stay here on a permanent basis', she said queietly after a short pause. 'For my part I agreed to follow the house rules to the letter. If that were not the case, the whole house would fall into rack and ruin very quickly, on account of the owner not actually being here most of the time. There are those in the village who would see themselves sitting at the dining table, you know. One small slip, and it could happen, just like that.'

Each time she spoke in her soft Suffolk accent, her bony fingers would clench as if she were in pain. She would not look me in the eye, but instead focused on the action of her swirling tea. I did sense, at that point, that perhaps all was not well at the manor, but my attempts to probe deeper were immediately frustated by the chiming of the kitchen clock. 'Time for work', said the housekeeper quickly, rising from the table, leaving her full cup of tea behind.

'Your tea, Mrs T...', I said, smiling and holding the cup out to her.

'Too much milk', she said sternly. 'I was talking too long and it went cold because there was too much milk. Now, you get to the garden.'

I left the kitchen in a good mood. Despite having taken breafast with Mrs T every morning for the past few weeks, this was the first time we had managed to break the ice. You see, the house rule about fraternisation bewtween staff extends to casual conversation at the dinner table. This is, apparently, to reduce the risk of factions emerging within the staff that could undermine the authority of the owner in his absence.

Dolores was distinctly unenthused about my theory. 'Frankly, Joseph, I don't care if they are at war with each other. I'm more interested in saving our marriage, aren't you?'

'Yes darling of course. I just, er, so - how are the twins?'

'They are behaving remarkably well. I'm beginning to think that sending them to boarding school was perhaps at the root of many of their problems.'

'Er, right. Good. But, I would remind you, darling, that they volunteered to go to boarding school, on account of our inadequate parenting.'

'Ravel is teaching them survival skills. Next week they want to go and spend a night with him in the wood.'

'Good good. I'm sure it's all good for their development. What about the baby?'

'He's fine. Doesn't seem to miss you I'm afraid. Come to think of it, neither...'

I was forced to interject at this point, lest I found out that I was completely superfluous to requirements. Later, whilst removing some weeds from the main drive, I reflected on recent conversations with my wife, and came to the conclusion that all the evidence pointed to the conclusion that I have, indeed, been replaced by Ravel. Not in the strictest marital sense, but in terms of support for Dolores. Should I allow this to continue, I summised, I might find it harder to justify returning home...

J Mcc

Dumped

2007-09-29T07:13:00.000+01:00

Hello all

I have been banished to a small room in the local manor house for the foreseeable future by my wife, Dolores. She saw red a couple of weeks ago after a genuine misunderstanding involving a Belgian cake. It emerged that she had been planning a trial separation for some time, and that the issue of the cake merely provided the leverage she needed to force me out of the marital bed and onto a lumpy single mattress in a room that would find better use as a walk-in wardrobe. This blog is temporarily focused on my attempts to live a dignified life in exile.

My severely restricted view of the extensive grounds reflects my hypothesis that this room was never intended for habitation. Instead of gazing over a Capability-Brown inspired vista, complete with crumbling folly and a herd of rare-breed cattle munching contentedly, I see the gable of the rear East Wing extension jutting out over the courtyard. My room, you see, is in the attic, and the tiny dorma window was clearly installed to provide some natural light in the days when electricity was not available.

My other clue as to the original purpose of the room is the plethora of surfboards stacked up against the walls and furniture. To reach the single-door wardrobe I have to move five surboards onto my bed, and keep them balanced there by bracing one leg against the stack whilst I retrieve my shirt.

There is no sink, and indeed no tap anywhere in the attic. To use the facilities I must venture onto the 2nd floor landing, where there is a small bathroom. Outside the bathroom is a notice that says 'NO SOLIDS', which means I have to descend the stairs to the first floor landing whenever I need a number two. Unfortunately, this bathroom lies in the private quarters of the owner of the manor house, and as such is distinctly 'OFF LIMITS' to staff (except the housekeeper). I have been told that if I use the toilet at all I risk being ejected from the house, and I have therefore had to take advantage of movements of the staff during certain periods of the day. I won't bore you with too many details, but just to give you a flavour of how controlled I must be in my ablutions, here is the plan for the week:

2130 - 0730 - Not possible (flushing sound wakens housekeeper)
0730 - 0800 - Housekeeper takes shower - room unavailable
0800 - 0830 - Housekeeper has breakfast in room directly below bathroom
0830 - 0900 - Staff meeting (which I must attend)
0900 - 1230 - work in the garden (no access to house allowed)
1230 - 1300 - Housekeeper has lunch in room directly below bathroom
1300 - 1305 - Housekeeper walks round garden (Monday, Weds and Friday only)
1300 - 1700 - work in garden - no access to house
1700 - 1730 - Housekeeper eats her tea in the room below the bathroom
1730 - 2130 - Movement within house prohibited (housekeeper scares easily)

You can see from the above scheme that I am restricted to use of the bathroom during 3 x 5 minute slots a week. The weekends are no-go by default, as the owner of the house and his family turn up every Friday evening and stay until Sunday evening. During the weekend I am confined to quarters as the owner insists on total privacy. This means staff must vacate the premises. As I have nowhere else to go, I just sit in my room and read. Blogging is almost impossible - to write this entry I have had to feign illness and fool the housekeeper into allowing me a two-hour window to visit a doctor in the nearest town (about ten miles away).

I would like to say that I am able to exercise self discipline under such a regime, but sadly that is not the case. You see, those 5 minute slots on Monday and Friday are the times when I am allowed to talk to my wife. Dolores works as a cleaner on these days, preparing for, and cleaning after, the owner's visits. Fraternisation between staff is normally forbidden, but the housekeer has told Dolores she will turn a blind eye for 5 minutes on these two days. Our meeting takes place in the dining room, with each of us sitting at one end of the long mahogany table. Dolores asks questions related to my health and state of mind, and reports on the activities of the children - Ravel, apparently, has taken over many of the duties expected of myself, and is excelling at looking after No.3 whilst Dolores home-schools the twins. Each time we meet I tell my wife that I love her, but that I can't talk for very long as I desperately need to use the toilet. She, however, insists that we take all the time available to work through our issues, and that my ablutions cannot possibly be more important than our marriage.

This leaves Wednesday. Last week, the housekeeper did not take her walk around the rose garden, but instead decided to change the flowers in the bathroom as they had wilted prematurely. I was on my way to the room and only managed to avoid being caught by hearing the housekeeer singing something from the Sound of Music as she emptied the flower water down the pan.

You can imagine that I was absolutely busting at this point, and there was no way I could put off my visit to the toilet any longer. If the housekeeper was in the house, it meant the garden was empty. I had no choice but to run upstairs to the toilet on the 2nd floor, retrieve some toilet paper, run down the stairs and hide behind a hefty bush. I don't think I have ever experienced such a rush of relief in my entire life.

No comments about fertiliser, thanks.

J McC

Belgian delicacy (part II)

2007-09-19T19:40:00.000+01:00

Hello all

Sorry for the long absence. Not that many people have noticed. Blogging is a very fickle way of life -you need to keep up a constant presence or else people will drift away and your name is quickly forgotten.

Some analogies there with my actual life. Since being forced out of my former Institute by an act of arson, I have been largely unnoticed by society, and the steady flow of requests by the media for stories about parasites have all dried up. I'm thinking I might have to drop the 'celebrity parasitologist' moniker, and replace it with something like 'McCrumble down and out in rural Suffolk'.

My marketing manager, the occasionally intelligent Dr Mark Booth, called me the other day and demanded to know when I was going to get back on my feet. 'My feet have turned to mud', I lamented - not a metaphor, in fact, but something close to the truth as I was standing in a very soggy patch of soil when he called my mobile.
'Come on Joseph. I know you well enough by know. You can't resist the lure of science. Sooner or later you'll want to get things going again, find a lab, start some experiments. We need you to get going Joseph. The scientific community needs you.'

I understood what he meant, of course. Parasitology is a discipline from which it is impossible to escape by means of simply burning down your laboratory. Even now, with my life at perhaps its lowest ebb for many years - even now I can't but help think that one day I'll be dissecting rats once more, making new discoveries about the parasitic worms that lurk within. It is this single shred of optimism that keeps me going.

In other news...

The thorny problem of my Belgian delicacy was finally resolved this week. It turned out to be a misunderstanding of epic proportions. The belgian delicacy in question was not, as everyone suspected, a person with whom I had an adulterous liason, but a chocolate cake with a personalised message, inscribed by one of Belgium's finest cake decorators, for my wife. I had been drunk when I made the order, and had asked Clara to use 'Belgian delicacy' as a code against Dolores knowing what I had ordered. It was my own way of trying to show her how much I care.

The cake arrived a few days after I finally plucked up the courage to phone Clara and find out what had happened. This time there was no ambiguity, and the misunderstanding was rapidly resolved. I gave her my address, and she said that she would have the cake sent by courier. It was her uncle who would decorate the cake with the message that I had specified. Five days later and the package arrived, addressed to myself. I was busy painting the coffee table that Ravel had made from an old pine door when Dolores delivered the package. My wife was not smiling, and spoke with a flat voice. 'It says here, on the package that it is from someone called Clara. Clara lives in Belgium, according to the address on the back. Coincidence?'

'No darling!' I exclaimed cheerfully, thankful that the issue was about to be resolved. 'It's something for you!'

'What are you on about? Are you taking the piss Joseph? I've just about had enough of this. '

'No really, darling. It's a surprise. Please just open it. You'll see.'

'It's not addressed to me. You open it', hissed my wife, throwing the box at me. I was holding a can of paint at the time and caught the box awkwardly. It slipped from my grasp and fell onto the door, which was lying horizontally between two wooden crates. In a reflex-driven attempt to to stop the parcel from bouncing off the door I dropped the can of gloss paint and leant over the door. The paint can landed on the floor and discorged its contents over my feet, and I missed the parcel. It bounced off the other side of the door and landed in a deep puddle. Dolores, seeing my anguish at the possibility of losing the parcel, made the immediate, and not unwarranted, conclusion that the contents were somehow valuable to me. Her reaction was nonetheless somewhat extreme. Instead of striding off in protest, she walked round to the other side of the table and deliberately stamped on the parcel. She was wearing wellingtons at the time, and the large surface area of her footprint made a substantial indent in the parcel itself - I estimated that she managed to compact the box by approximately 50%.

Satisfied that she had destroyed the contents, she walked away. I was shocked by her behaviour, but determined that this misunderstanding should go no further. 'Stop there!' I shouted, my voice full of emotion. 'It's just a cake Dolores! Please believe me. It was meant to be a surprise. It's for you. Please come back!'

My outburst managed to stop Dolores in her tracks. She turned round and paused for a moment as if thinking how to respond. When she did finally speak, it broke my heart. 'Screw your cake Joseph. Screw you, screw this place. You want to keep up this charade then do it alone. I've had enough.'#

'But it was all a misunderstanding..', I shouted. 'Please - just look inside the parcel. It was for you. It was a cake, for you. The whole thing was about a cake. The Belgian delicacy was a cake all along. Clara was the person who arranged the cake. It was just a misunderstanding Dolores. Please check the box.'

My wife did not check the parcel as requested. Instead she took several deep breaths before taking a few steps closer. What she said next broke my heart for the second time in as many minutes. 'OK, Joseph. So it was a misunderstanding. If you say there is a cake for me in the box then I believe you, and I'm sorry I stamped on it. But...just how many more misunderstandings do we need? How many times are you going to put me through the emotional grinder then tell me it was all a misunderstanding? Am I supposed to forgive and forget every time, just pretend it doesn't matter?'

'What do you mean...?'

Dolores was more than ready to tell me what she meant. For the next fifteen minutes she talked non-stop about what it all meant. By the end of her monologue I was left in no doubt that our marriage was not the rock-solid edifice I always imagined. Somewhere along the line, and I'm not sure where that happened, I had started to take my wife for granted. At the end of her outpouring she made that quite clear, before finally telling me that she needed some time alone. I had no option at that point to agree to move out of the barn for some unspecified period. That afternoon I packed my bags and moved into a spare room in the manor house. This was made possible only by the fact that Dolores works there as a cleaner two days a week, and told the housekeeper that I was going to do some gardening. We agreed that I would not pester her during her working hours, and that we will talk again in a few days.

I am now sitting in my small room, contemplating where I have gone wrong.

The message on the cake, by the way, said 'To Dolores, my everlasting love. For you, I will do anything.'

J McC

Belgian delicacy

2007-09-08T11:30:00.000+01:00

A couple of weeks ago, I recieved a phone call from someone in Belgium, called Clara. You can read a transcript of the conversation in the last post. I did receive a second phone call from Clara that was unfortunately overheard by my wife. More of what transpired in the aftermath of that phone call will be revealed at the end of this post.

So what else can I report? Should I tell you all how my world has diminished since being forced to leave the Institute I loved? Should I become nostalgic for a life I once was proud to live, replaced now by a a daily, almost prescribed, routine of looking after children and helping my former research assistant to continue converting the partially converted barn in which we are all sequestered? I doubt you come here to listen to such sounds of melancholy after the joys of previous posts, so I won't bore you with the depressing details. Suffice to say that I am not quite the man I would like to be at the moment. Something has changed within - I can't quite put my finger on it, but it feels as if some of my joi de vivre has been extinguished.

When I look around me of an evening, I am forced to admonish myself for being so down. Here is my beautiful wife, mending the socks of our twins by candle light (they are currently being home schooled, as the local schools were full and we are awaiting news of an application elsewhere). Over in the corner of the barn are the boys themselves, climbing over bales of hay whilst playing a game of 'fox and hounds' (the exact rules escape me, but the winner gets to bite the loser until they start crying, apparently). Outside is Ravel, the most faithful person I have ever had the pleasure to meet. He is putting the finishing touches to a coffee table made from an old pine door that someone in the village gave us last week. Despite having no paint-stripper, sandpaper nor plane, he has still managed to remove 3 layers of gloss and bring up the original grain. When I ask him how he does it, he points to a thick layer of paint under his nails and tells me that he 'scrape away the paint like removing frozen ice off windscreen.'

No3 is now 5 months old, and is becoming a handful. He can't quite sit up, but tries at every opportunity. He can't crawl, but put him down on any surface and he'll roll over onto his stomach, raise his head, let out a grunt and kick his legs manically until he gets too tired. On the one hand, I am looking forward to the day he can actually move under his own steam, as I won't have to carry him around all the time on educational tours ('look, here's some grass, here's some hay' etc etc), but then I suppose when he can walk I'll spend all my time holding his hand and still doing the tours. The twins are keeping their distance, and for that I am truly grateful.

Ravel was initially keen to help with the child rearing. He told us that he had helped raise his younger brother, and was therefore an experienced baby sitter. Taking him at his word, we left he baby with him one afternoon whilst we hitched into the nearest town to visit the job centre (there wasn't one). On our return we found the baby in the field outside the barn with a piece of rope round one ankle. The other end of the rope was tied to a stake. In the hands of our infant was some sheep dung from a pile next to the spot where he had been deposited. Dolores managed to extricate the unsavoury excrement, and summoned our assistant. She immediately banned him from any more child care activities until he had read at least 5 books on the subject.

The result of her injunction on Ravel has simply put more pressure on me to provide care for the baby. I have not shirked my responsibility, you will be glad to hear, and in fact I have taken it upon myself to provide as much of a stimulating but comfortable environment as possible. To this end, I instructed Ravel to make a sling from an old shirt and I now carry the infant wherever I go, singing nursery rhymes and engaging No 3 with gurning and baby noise whenever possible. My efforts seem to be paying off, as Dolores has become noticeably less stressed in recent weeks.

Except, that is, for one occasion last week, when the edifice that is our marriage took an almost fatal blow to its foundations. And all because of a Belgian delicacy....

'Hello, is that Joseph. It is Clara here. Can we talk?' said the flemish voice. My phone had rung just as we were eating dinner.

'Er not really. I'll call you back later if that's ok?', I said tentatively. Dolores was busy feeding No.3 and was talking to Twin X, and didn't seem to notice I was on the phone. I hung up and carried on eating. The dinner finished, I made my excuses and walked to the back of the barn. Clara's number was in the recent calls list. It was an international number, so I made a mental note not to talk for long. 'Hello, it is me, Joseph', I said when she answered.

'Oh Joseph. Good. I have been waiting to talk with you for a week now. I thought maybe you were not so keen any more.'

'I er, no that's, er not it', I stammered. I still could not remember who Clara was, or where we had met, but I was somewhat worried that something had happened between us that she wished to follow up on.

'Good, so you wish to go ahead with it then.'

'I'm not sure Clara. You see I...'

'But you have already paid Joseph!' exclaimed the lady, laughing.

'I have?'

'In cash. You said it was best that way so your wife would not find out by looking at your bank statement.'

'I did?', I hissed. I was becoming increasingly confused by where this conversation was heading. Awful thoughts were beginning to form in my mind.

'Ok, you were quite drunk at the time. I think maybe our beer was too strong for you, eh?'

'Sorry, Clara, but I have to admit, I don't actually remember paying for anything. Could you just, er, run me through what happened?'

'What, the whole evening?'

'Er, yes, actually. You see, I, er, suffer from a, er, a spontaneous amnesia disorder', I said. It was a lie, but I wanted the conversation to move forward and not admit to having been too drunk to remember. Clara laughed, and I sensed immediately that she was not convinced.

'OK, Joseph, whatever you say. We had a very nice evening together you know. We talked for a long time and then you told me that you and your wife do not get along so good and I said what you need is a Belgian delicay and that I could provide you with that. You said yes, please help me. Dear Joseph, you then said I should refer to it always as a belgian delicacy, in case your wife should hear something. You seemed so unhappy Joseph, how could I refuse? Now all we need is to confirm your address and your delicay will be with you very shortly.'

'I, er, yes, of course. So, just so I fully remember, what is the, er, delicacy exactly?' I asked, my fertile mind wandering from the sublime to the ridiculous. I may have received the answer there and then, but my attention was drawn away from the phone by the unmistakable sound of Dolores coughing.

Now, keen readers of this blog will be aware that sometimes I get into situations that take me by surprise. I don't know why it keeps happening, despite my best efforts to prevent such circumstances, but I do know that my initial response is nearly always the same. It is marked by a feeling of panic, that hits my mind and spreads throughout my limbs at an astonishing rate. I can progress from presenting myself as a lucid, intelligent man to a discombobulated, un-coordinated idiot within seconds.

I'm not proud of this reaction, but feel compelled to record it for posterity, and to hopefully bring about a more complete understanding of who I am, each time it happens. I won't go into details here, and I will leave it up to you to imagine exactly what happened next, but suffice to say, within a few seconds I was weeping like a schoolboy who has just been caned and Dolores was shouting the dreaded D-word.

It took me six hours to calm her down. I had to first confess that I didn't really know what had happened between me and Clara. I swore to her on Number 3's life, that I would never be knowingly unfaithful. She quite rightly told me that that wouldn't count if I was too drunk to remember anything. Dolores then made me promise to go to the GUI Clinic, and declared she would be withdrawing herself from any physical activities for six months (the length of time required for antibodies to a certain well-known viral infection to develop).

We are one week into the six month period. I've kept my phone switched off the whole time in case Clara rings again. I have a feeling this story is going to be one those where, unfortunately, I have to say....

******TO BE CONTINUED******

Meeting report

2007-08-26T06:56:00.000+01:00

Hello all

Back from Belgium after one of the longest, beeriest, lack-of-sleepiest weeks of my life. For those of you unfamiliar with the low-lying country and its foibles, let me tell you that apart from eating tray-fulls of chips and mayonnaise, the other favourite past time of the Belgians is drinking beer of strength approaching or exceeding 8% (the strongest one I tasted whilst there was a whopping 11.3%, and boy was it good).

Ordinarily, you might expect such challenges to one's physiology would be sequestered outside normal working hours. But as I have already alluded, this was no ordinary conference. For a start, the beer was flowing for the whole week, as the organisers had set up a bar in the conference centre, and the barmen refused to take any money. One could down a glass of either dark or light beer (both 8%), from the first coffee-break at 10:30am, up until the end of the last session at 6:30pm.

Had this arrangement been made in Engand, I'm sure I would not have been alone in taking more than my fair share of the malted yeast solutions on offer. Perhaps I was glad to be temporarily free of the stresses of recent months, de-mob happy as I returnd to the scientific community I consider my home. Certainly I was happy to make several acquaintances, old and new, whilst I supped at the Belgian bar, and at no point did anyone suggest I should actually put down my beer glass and listen to some science.

Were my drinking restricted to conference hours, then I am sure I would not have had to take the hair of the dog most mornings with a blood mary from the contents of the mini-bar at the hotel. This was so effective that I managed to maintain a low-level of hangover then entire trip (except on the last day, when I didn't actually go to bed, and left the hotel still feeling innebriated). The reason for this, and other, late nights was the preposterous amount of hospitality laid on by the conference organisers. Normally, the kind of conference I attend is strapped for cash when it comes to sponsorship, but here there was no shortage of corporate money, and the drug companies supplying the veterinary industry were more than happy to show their generosity when it came to food and drink.

Dolores was less than enthused when I delivered my report on the week. 'I thought you said you were going to do some networking, start a collaboration, bring in some money!', she shouted when I reached the details of the final night's hospitality (a mediaeval spectacular in a 13th century castle complete with fire-eating jesters and roast wild boar).

'Well, I did network, actually...', I countered, 'I just can't quite remember what I networked about. But I'm sure, love, that it will all come back to me. I just need a couple of days to recover.'

'You what? I've been stuck here all week looking after the twins and the baby, and you say you need some time off?'

'That's not exactly what I said, I just...'. My attempts at correcting Dolores's interpretation of my needs fell on stony ears. She turned and strode off towards the kitchen. I was momentarily tempted to follow, but then my phone started ringing. I pulled it from my jeans pocket and looked at the number. It was from a Belgian mobile, but there was no name attached. 'Hello?', I said tentatively.

'Is that Joseph?', said a female voice with a flemish accent.

'Speaking.'

'Is it alright for us to talk now?'

'Er, yes. Sorry, but can I just ask who is calling?'

'You don't remember me Joseph?' said the lady, chuckling as she spoke.

'Er, no, it's not that. I just don't recognise your voice on the phone.' At this point I glanced over to the kitchen window. Dolores was doing something at the sink. Coincidentally, I presume, she looked out of the window at the same time, and must have caught the look of slight concern on my face as she frowned.

What would you have done in this situation? I had nothing to fear or to feel guilty about, yet I turned away as if to seek privacy, and then walked to an area out of sight of the kitchen. The lady on the other end of the phone was asking me whether I was still there. 'Sorry, you're going to have to tell me your name I'm afraid', I said once I was out of sight of my wife.

'OK Joseph. It's me, Clara. I did not think I would sound so different on the phone. Do you like my phone voice. My accent is not too strong for you is it?'

'I, er, no, sure. How are you?'

'I'm good Joseph. How is England?'

'Yes, the weather is getting better, thanks.'

'OK, good. You said I should call when you get back, so I called.'

'Yes, good. Well, it was nice to hear from you.'

'OK, so I guess now is not a good time to talk. Is your wife there?'

'No, I mean, er, yes. I'd better go. Bye.'

I have no idea who Clara is, or why she rang. Honest. I only mention the conversation here to prove that I am completely above board and not hiding anything. I hope.

J McC