Aunt Alice and Spot.

Golitha Falls, River Fowey, Cornwall, England, UK

 

Aunt Alice and Spot. By Renee Bernard, Vonda Norwood and Danny Kemp. All mention to Tracey Edges and The Arts and Craft Society are top-secret.

Ah, Readers!

Ridiculous.  For the record, if anyone is seeking a sane person in the midst of all of this, you can just stop after this.  Well, certainly after reading any account I make of my own orderly life.  Not that Spot ever asks—or any of you, for that matter—but I am in the midst of a very lively time of my own.  Not that it involves anything as robust as bouncing about in time and space and bothering penguins.

Mrs. James Ellis Carter has invited me to her country party which flattered me terribly.  Naturally I had to decline because she also invited Sir Anthony Fordham who has been in sordid pursuit of me since I was a young girl.  And no, it’s not romantic!  He has the face of a very concerned draft horse and the manners of one to match.  I don’t care how old a woman is, she is never so old that she’s willing to be pawed by a man whose nickname is “Tony Toppers”.

Though I have decided that since I am a woman of a certain age, I shall now acquire a small dog.

There!  See?  Isn’t that more delightful news than whatever chaotic nonsense Spot and his arch nemesis are up to?  Oh, well.  I can see that you don’t agree and are now comparing my life to the thrilling excitements of watching socks dry.  Very well.  I have dutifully provided the latest below.

Hmm…. Perhaps a Pekinese?

Aunt Alice

***

Dearest Auntie Alice,

What must you think of Spot? Did you really imagine that I wore a jar of Branson Pickles on my finger! I fear that my confusing behaviour may have temporarily played havoc with your ball bearings, and mixed them up with your marbles. Please seek out Sherry, and rest more. It is of course the opal that Dickie gave me that’s attached to my left index finger and that’s what I rub, not a sticky jar of pickles.

Speaking of rings, well, I wasn’t but I am now, I messaged Tracey the other day and her reply was somewhat baffling. Perhaps I should explain what a message is, Auntie, as mobile telephones are unheard of in your day. One simply types the message one wishes to send, then selects the recipient of said message and sends it, by pressing a button. There, now you know. Easy really, even I can do it.

Anyway, I was messaging about our ….HONEYMOON….I was getting rather excited but I controlled it well; I think, as when I suggested camping on Bodmin Moor (a lovely spot when it doesn’t rain) her returned message said that she would run a million miles before…..then it cut off. I don’t know from what my dear Tracey would run a million miles from. I must surmise that canvas and radio executives don’t mix well. I shall think of somewhere more becoming before messaging again.

Dearest, you mentioned that perhaps I should find a school and return to educational ways, well I think that problem may have been overcome. Tracey’s position within the radio broadcasting industry is, I believe, strengthening. If I’m right, then shortly she will be head of all the British wavebands emanating from this great island of ours. She is just so clever, Auntie, that I know my education will be enhanced in her hands. Did you know, well, of course you didn’t but will now, that on her Sunday morning radio show she asks these impossible questions, that almost no one gets right. However, she knows the answers. Just how clever is that!

The other week the puzzle set was a real tease: what once was measured as 2.97 miles thick? It had my mind buzzing all over the place I can tell you.

The answer was a block of ice. Never floated across my brain at all.

Speaking of ice, which we are now, (joke there) I hope Antarctica can withstand Brenda’s considerable weight if she ever arrives. It’s those poor penguins I feel sorry for.

Bye for now, Auntie. Tuning in to the international, celestial ether to intercept any Naval updates on that obnoxious person’s whereabouts. Let’s hope that ship of the line, the Prince Of Wales, sank her tugboat.

Spot

***

Intercepted message from Her Majesty’s Submarine HMS Resolute. For Senior Members of The Arts and Crafts Society ONLY. TOP TOP SECRET!

***

Myrtle, might you have been a wee-bit intoxicated when you saw Mack use mind powers to bend his cell bars and escape that prison? Admit it; you helped yourself to my precious stash of fermented Leek juice. Inebriated, means the same thing!Don’t talk to me about unicorns and colours! Explain what you meant by a Chinook helicopter, that was used in the Falklands War. How could I know if it’ll work? That conflict was around 32-years-ago. Tell Mack, to find a newer helicopter! Oh my dear daughter, if Mack, has parked the Chinook, outside a petrol station, and you can see the tandem rotors twirling, then yes! Yes, that does mean the engine is on. You need to put down my gallon jug of fermented Leek ju— Better yet; hand it to your father, and tell him he must finish it off before he does his rock climbing event. Because, it will give him super human strength. Well, you know I do care deeply about my husband’s abilities to succeed in all of what he desires in life.

Back to business, Myrtle: Why did Mack leave the Chinook’s engine running while parked outside a petrol station? Okay, yes… He’s right; I have gained a few-feet around the belly area, and I will require a rubbing of motor oil and a push in order to board the Chinook. I’m concerned about the fact you can understand what Mack, says. You are wise to snag phones from random Virgins. The one’s they got at the airport are vicious! Never mind what they did to Mack’s, man-bits. No, I’m not going to believe you can understand him when he speaks to you while using the Virgin’s, phone. Because there’s no such thing as Virgin magic, Myrtle. You gotta stop talking like that. I’m not going to argue with you. Just tell Mack to hurry!

Being in Afghanistan isn’t making me grumpy… You are! Yes, I’m sure of my whereabouts. Because, it’s the one of two words I can understand when these men talk. I believe ’em Myrtle. Because I think they would know the name of their own country. If you ask me, the name of this place should be: No-Women-Aroundland. I’ve been here for two days and have yet to see one woman. I know I had said three days, but the first 24-hours I spent relieving myself of that-which I had contained for all those weeks, doesn’t count! Stop your worrying… The years I spent as a psycho in the ward due to the vacation gift-package that the thoughtful people of Harlech, gave me for Christmas, has trained me to handle-well events like these.

The men here are very accommodating. You should have seen how happy they became when I told ’em my phone belonged to a Virgin. They cleaned it and charged it for me. Virgin, is the second of the two words that I can understand. And, it’s the only English, word they understand. That’s right, Myrtle… When I’m hungry, I say, Virgin is hungry, and I point to my mouth. Yes, it works… So far, I’ve been served 15 buckets of food. Now, now Myrtle, a lady who is about to become Queen of Wales, does not insist on knowing what’s in the bucket before she eats from it. You need to learn royal etiquette! Haven’t you heard the saying – When in Rome? I just crouch and slurp as far down as my head will fit, and then I pick it up and I guz—You gotta not talk when I’m sayin’ stuff! What about Spot and Tracey Edges?

Alright… Calm down. We can use this news of Spot’s, impending wedding against him. How? Myrtle, to have a wedding you need a place and a time. Don’t you see? Both Spot and Tracey, in the same place and at the same time. Exactly. Two for one, baby! And all their money will be mine! Yes, Myrtle, I shall build a dungeon where you can keep your, Spot. You are welcome.

Was there any news on the whereabouts of that royal ship the English call – the Prince of Wales? Okay, good. I didn’t think it was sunk. What do you mean, they blame me for its tipping? They’re the ones who caused all the panic by setting off the fire alarm! I would never do anything to cause harm to the Prince of Wales! It’s a fine vessel, and one I shall proudly take into custody when I have conquered England. Once I am crowned Queen of Wales, the Prince of Wales, will belong to me just like as if I had given birth to it. It does make sense Myrtle, if you pay attention!

The news is wrong, Myrtle! I did not jump out of the sea and land on the deck of that ship. I was busy paddling my way passed Africa when they harpooned me and then pulled me aboard! I wouldn’t call it a scar. Because it’s too little and hides neatly beneath my folds! Willful destruction of Naval property? Of course I bent it! How else you think a person removes a spear from their backside? So what, Myrtle… Almost sinking a ship isn’t the same as sinking it. The English sailors are to blame for over-reacting! I realize that once I flopped on deck, it was a glorious occasion for them. I understand the needs of the English, fightin’ men. I am very—Yes, Myrtle… They were totally elated by my presence, and I must admit; when I saw their idea of a celebratory-welcoming—What? Honored? Myrtle dear, the moment I pulled my sticky head off that deck and smiled at my would-be Masters of Bondage, the hoards in uniform jumped back and brought out the Hose-of-Appreciation. No, no… Myrtle, this one was thicker than what the London firemen, treated me to. Oh yes… I did get a bit carried away. The anticipation overwhelmed me and all that jumping up and down I did, rocked the ship a bit, and that’s what I’ll admit to, but I gotta assume somebody aboard was smoking, and that’s what caused the alarms to go off!

No, Myrtle… Fire alarms don’t tip giant naval ships. When they sounded, I did what all intelligent people were taught to do: I tucked and then I rolled! No, not one sailor tucked nor rolled, unless you mean the two who rolled off the ship when it tipped. Is that what you meant? Wait, Myrtle… I’m going to have to call you back. Of course I know Afghanistan, is far from the Antarctic! I’ll explain how the English sailor’s, fitted between my legs a—Oh! How wonderful! I see three buckets this time around… Yay! Every hour, like clockwork… Buckets come! I’m so hungry and—Shut up, Myrtle! You listen to the Sunday Girl show, and don’t lose track of Spot’s, whereabouts! I’ll call you back after feeding time. Bye!

***

Auntie,

What can one say about such drivel, except that it’s all a load of smelly balderdash! However, having said that, Tracey was informed of a missile launch from the Atlantic and landing in Afghanistan. In another secret message she was told that apparently one of our Chinooks is missing! The RAF had a stock take the other day and we only have one left!

By way of an aside, dear one, Dickie has told me that his brother is laying plans to run an airline service to the moon. I think it could be a great place for me to visit and check out. What do you think?

PS. At least the penguins are okay.

Spot 

***

Dear Spot,

I had no idea that things could go so wrong.  Brenda is turning into a bovine of some kind which I hardly think possible.  Or a whale?  I’m confused.  In any case, stop eavesdropping on the ranting bluster of mad Welsh women.  From what you’ve conveyed, Myrtle’s punishment is attempting to keep up with her mother’s antics and since neither has any chance of catching you, I’d say you are better off.

Certainly better off than those poor men within reach of that creature!

As for reaching, I should slap your hands for bothering poor Tracy as you do.  You are not honeymooning with anyone.  You are gadding about and saving the world, one pickle at a time, from the looks of it.  She’s sensible to attempt to cool your ardor by maintaining a good distance.

Pay closer attention to what you are doing and less time on that contraption you call a telephone.  You spend a great deal of time on those gadgets and I worry for your mental health.

The servants, who enjoy your letters, took a vote and think you should make a grand tour of better locations while you are out and about.  The maids think you will be far happier in warmer climes.  And I agree.  It will improve your physique and your attitude if you see more of the sun.  But remember, you are English so be sure to wear a hat and protective gear at all times.  Englishmen are notoriously flammable.

All the best,

Aunt Alice

Does Tony Topper wear a top hat? Is there a hat big enough to fit Spot? Has Mack a plan to rescue Brenda from Afghanistan? Can a Pekinese save Aunt Alice from unwanted guests?

 

These, and no doubt more, insane questions may be answered in next weeks thrilling instalment of……Aunt Alice and Spot.  Read it first in Female First. (Oops, that wasn’t meant to rhyme)

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About Danny Kemp

I was at work one sunny November day in 2006, stopped at a red traffic light when a van, driven incompetently, smashed into me. I was taken to St Thomas' Hospital and kept in for a while, but it was not only the physical injuries that I suffered from; it was also mental ones. I had lost confidence in myself let alone those around me. The experts said that I had post-traumatic stress disorder, which I thought only the military or emergency personnel suffered from. On good days, I attempted to go to work, sometimes I even made it through Blackwell Tunnel only to hear, or see, something that made me jump out of my skin and that's when the anxiety attacks would start. I told my wife that I was okay and going regularly, but I wasn't. I could not cope with life and thought about ending it. Somehow or other with the help of my wife and medical professionals, I managed to survive and ever so slowly rebuild my self-esteem. It took almost four years to fully recover, but it was during those dark depressive days that I began to write. My very first story, Look Both Ways, Then Look Behind, found a literary agent but not a publisher. He told me that I had a talent, raw, but nevertheless, it was there. His advice was to write another story and that I'm delighted to say, I did. The success of that debut novel, The Desolate Garden, was down to sheer hard work, luck, and of course, meeting a film producer.
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