Daniel Kemp

A short update on the previous saga of Aunt Alice and Spot. Intended for those that have forgotten, or, for those who would like to forget the cost of their medication….

***

Young Spot began to communicate with the kind, understanding Aunt Alice, who lives in nineteenth century England, because he had problems engaging with the opposite sex. She, in her own inimitable way, attempted to advise him, but sadly he took little notice other than to wear trousers all the time. The consternation this errant child caused has led Aunt Alice to take to the hills, with her friend Sherry, trying to forget all about him. 

Spot met a lopsided, boss-eyed girl whose mother, Brenda, wanted to invade England, declare independence for Wales and elect herself as Queen of that principality. She then wanted to eat an endless supply of…Leeks! 

To cut short a long, insane story, stretching from Greenland to Afghanistan and unmentionable places in between, Spot captured this usurper Brenda, in the Sahara desert, depositing her at the gates of the British embassy in Cairo. From a military prison in England Brenda escaped, then, astride a prototype moon rocket being developed by Virgin Research, crashed and died in the cemetery surrounding Castle Barnard.

Spot, being his usual, dumb self and unaware of Brenda’s fate, bought Castle Barnard, from the reward money he had received from the grateful British Government, as an inducement in his proposal of marriage to yet another unsuspecting young women; Tracey Edges. Siren FM, the leading radio broadcasting station in the British Isles, employ Tracey to host a weekly Sunday morning show, aptly named; Sunday Girl, but secretly she works for the intelligence services, spreading propaganda worldwide about just how truly great Britain is.

WHEW…If you have followed all that nonsense then you are a better man than me, Gunga Din!

Read on, as the new adventures of our precocious star unfold before your reading eyes….BUT…..TAKE HEED…..It may be wise to visit your doctor if you already suffer from a nervous disposition. Even if you don’t…..request sedatives….BY THE BUCKET LOAD.

Part one of……………………………The Haunted Castle

Dearest betrothed, Tracey

Allow me to address your points, as you raised them in your letter.

1) The ladies underwear hanging from the washing line:

This has occurred on a few occasions, and had I known of your surprise visit then of course they would have been removed……I guess that would have taken away the surprise, both for you in the way of shock and me in the way of delight. Such is the way of life.

Your point that being strung on the clothesline, draped between the two towers of Castle Barnard, bringing unnecessary attention, is one I take to heart. I did intend our washing to hang there and thereby signify our togetherness. The size of the ladies brassieres and……(Spot is embarrassed now)…..six pairs of draws, is a worry, and yes, they were blowing around quite a bit, but it was a windy day. I agree with you that she must be a BIG woman to have need of such covering, but disagree with your assumption that I am knowledgeable of her! I have not the slightest idea of where they came from.

I have no idea about your supposition that the colours of the undergarments represented a naval distress signal. Perhaps it was just a coincidence, although I was later told that a Royal Naval Battleship did arrive in the nearby harbour that day.

As I said above, garments similar to those have been hoisted and flown before, but NOT BY ME! I can only surmise that a village person is using my facilities…without my permission!

2) Your concerns over my mention of creaks, bangs and voices in the night:

This is nothing to worry about. It’s just the wind playing games I’m sure. The man in armour, walking away from me, with his head on backwards was simply a dream. The night of the raucous laughter, clattering of cans and screams of excitement, must have a rational explanation. I have a specialist team of draught excluders examine the cellars. I’m sure they will come up with the reason. As for the disappearing HobNobs then maybe cook is taking them. I’ll question her.

3) The front door:

I had not ventured out that day that you almost visited, so I had not seen the white chalk cross on the door. It has happened before and I suspect some errant child must be in the habit of drawing it on there. I shall inform the local police at once.

4) The disturbed ground, with the ‘murder’ of crows on top!

Aren’t I the clever one to know that the collective name for crows is: Murder. Wouldn’t I just love to do that to them! 

Here is something that I, nor anyone else can explain. The ground that you saw from the road is where the official Virgin research team were digging over, then burying something in. It keeps erupting as if giving off a loud burp. There is then that disgusting smell of raw leeks, or onions, in the air that you had the terrible misfortune to inhale. Why this is, is anyone’s guess. The crows then attack it with such force the earth is scattered everywhere and they will not stop until the green slim has disappeared. The MESS they make on the windows is stupendous! It’s costing a small fortune in cleaning costs.

I understand that your Sat-Nav is now playing up, with you not fully aware of your whereabouts. I can only hope that situation improves quickly, as I would welcome your return. Thank you for thanking me for the dog biscuits. I’m only too sorry that my Ginger-Nuts were dropped in a puddle by the postman. I shall write to the Queen and complain, whilst at the same time praising your stirling work for the secret radio network broadcasting messages of hope to our former colonies. One can only pity their demise.

Yours, to the second star on the right and back again.

Spot

An event advertised as: 

The Selling Of The Written Word.

Scene: We are at a lecture and speech given by the self-professed best-selling author NQTTT, also known as Mr Thinks He Knows It All. 

He is here today, allegedly, with two other authors, but all is not what it seems. This ticketed gathering is taking place in a large, high ceilinged reception room; part of King’s College, The Strand, London.

The room has been partitioned into sections, where only twenty people can be assembled at any one-time. Throughout this vast area are strategically placed speakers broadcasting the sound of jostling and muted conversations, giving the impression of crowds coming and going. It is, however, an illusion. All of what can be seen and heard is contrived.

Mr Thinks He Knows It All has, in the past, been a bit-part actor, and today is his biggest role. There is a director in charge of the performance, linked by microphone to our ‘star‘ on the stage. It’s his publisher, Mr. Daniel Cooke, who’s instructions are only heard by NQTTT. However, our speaker is, as you are about to find out, egotistical and not receptive to advice. One more piece of information before we set off. There are ‘plants’ in the audience with prearranged questions! 

You have no time for a welcoming drink as…….The Performance starts….Now!

Lights. Curtain. Action:     Not to be taken too seriously.

“Form an orderly queue please. There will be millions of you here today to hear the likes of me pontificating and giving advice on how to market your work.” 

(good okay, we’re off and running. We have rehearsed well, you’ll be alright. I’ll just give you directions as we go along. Start off by strutting backwards and forward, side to side on the podium. Make out you are important, difficult in your case but we’ll give it a bash. Point at someone…. pause. NOW, stamp your authority from the start)

“You, yes, you at the back with the bald head and elephant ears. Don’t look at me like that old chap, you must have been referred to in that way all your life. Move to your right and line up in the correct fashion. Be a good chap and set an example.” 

(point at him and use a pronounced, condescending tone to the voice) 

“I wouldn’t think too many can see me from behind ears the size of those sticking out the side of your head!” 

(give a loud raucous laugh as you finish that line) 

 HA HA HA!

“Stop pushing back there. I will get round to you all in good time, just give me a while.” 

(smile in a self-satisfied manner) 

“There’s no need to look round.” 

(stare at him disapprovingly) 

“Yes, you at the front. Are you stupid? Pay attention. You’ll only strain your neck. Didn’t you bring your step ladders with you? You are a bit on the short side, aren’t you laddie? In any case, you won’t be able to see them all from where you stand.” 

(pause, hold, go) 

“Trust me, there are thousands waiting to meet me and gain from my experience.” 

(straighten your tie, emphasis your importance)

“Now then, I shall begin with a brief but eloquent introduction, as of course all important writers do. We are after all, custodians of the English language.” 

(take a deep intake of breath and wait for the effect to take hold)

“I write stories and, I’m very good at it. I use the initials NQTTT as a pseudonym. I lead readers on to believe it stands for Nye Quellium Tractum Trieste Tacitum, which no one understands, but certainly makes me sound extremely knowledgable and erudite. What do you think? Impressed, yes?” 

(now one of those supercilious grins, that abound in the writing business would be nice and appropriate)

“What’s that you ask? Yes, you with a thesaurus stuck on your head. Didn’t quite catch you old chap. Speak up, be assertive, confident like me.” 

(it’s going well, repeat the question, eyes rolling)

“What do those letters really mean? Well now, that’s a daft question.”

(give him a severe disapproving glare. Remember you’re a writer and look down on lesser mortals than you. Hmm, there aren’t many I guess. Hang on. Ad lib at bit. Can’t quite find that question of his in the script)

“Never-Quite-Tell-The-Truth of course.” 

(why did you say that you fool) 

“How else can you market your wares on face book and twitter? Do be real old chap! That’s why you’re all here is it not, to maximise your sales?”

(okay, let’s regain the situation, stand back, move your head around as if you really care and the question needs an answer)

“The lady in the floral dressing gown, yes, I will answer you but I must get on.” 

(look more agitated, but in control. Imagine a writer who’s had a one-star review. Should be easy for you. Not well thought of by most honest critics are you?)

“What’s that? It’s a Hermes dress and not a house coat. Well, I must say Madam that on you it looks somewhat odd. I’m not a fashion reporter am I?”

(carry-on with a stupid grin through your teeth. Make the audience feel as tiny and as unimportant as possible. Same sort of approach as you, and those writers on face book and twitter)

“Yes sir. I shall take your question next.”……It’s from one of those ‘plants.’

“That fact that I’m highly popular amongst my peers is quite obvious I think. I’m great, as the reviews show! I have no need to fabricate them. Of course on Goodreads and Amazon that can be done, but not by anyone I know. As I am a best-selling author, I have had thirty-three of my humble offerings classified as such, the need of lies is far from necessary!”  

(strut around again, head back looking upwards, hoping that you do not get struck by lightning!)

“Oh please, not more interruptions. You, yes you who looks like Gandalf. You could have shaved old chap. What is it now?” 

(emphasis..now. We are getting to the good bit. He’s our chap)

“Hmm, you allege that I’m not what I say I am?” 

(this is not in the script. He was supposed to say something complimentary…..stall, play for time. I’m sending for the rep from Amazon, we need legal backup)

“Wonderful weather for the time of year don’t you think? What? Sorry can’t hear you?” 

(you are on your own for a while I’m on the phone. Amazon are checking their files to see if he’s listed with any books or kindles on their site. Doesn’t seem to be. Standby, more coming through from them)

“Well, of course I’m a bestseller, just look at the numbers man. What’s that you say?” Speak up! 

(look interested but STALL man……..I can see where this is going)

“I GAVE MY WORK AWAY and then falsely claimed to be a BESTSELLER?” 

(shut the …..up. He’s leading you into a trap) 

“Well, of course I did.” 

(heaven help us, here we go. Standby for lawsuits)

“How else would I become a bestseller? And what? People state on twitter and face book that they bought my book, when in fact they got it free. So what? I will do the same for them when they do a freebie, give away or ‘I’m the best there ever was, look at me, I’m great,’ kind of thingy. How else do YOU think YOU will be noticed.” 

(I’m gone. Amazon are taking over the mic. Tear the script up or eat it!…Good bloody luck. IDIOT)

“What’s that you say? Amazon are the only ones gaining from my, and the rest of our enlightened ostrich’s marketing strategy. How thick are you? Without our financial support, where would Amazon be? Of course Amazon sell other things, and successfully, I’m not completely stupid. What, no one else in other trades, who advertise on Amazon, give work away free… Hmm, didn’t know that. Builders don’t? What about plumbers? Car dealers? What, I could try selling books in bookshops?….. What are those old chap?…Dinosaurs dear boy, dead and buried, or waiting so to be. Finished dear boy, have I won the point?” 

(hello there. I’m your friendly free advisor from Amazon. Anything you need will be coming….in time….through our customer relations office situated in the central plains of Outer Mongolia. Can I offer some advice here? You really should try to wrap this up. You are going to lose credibility if you’re not careful)

“That’s such a nonsensical point of view. You say that bookshops are closing because of Amazon. Nonsense dear boy, pure and utter.” 

(thank you, liked that, bravo. We bought Goodreads with your help. We haven’t tried Libraries yet, but who knows, eh)

“They’re closing because no one reads any more, that’s why. Well, certainly fewer do since Mission Impossible, Men In Black and Games of Thrones. I blame Gone with the Wind. Downhill from then onwards. Everyone wanted to become a writer. Oh don’t make me laugh. What next? It’s because of my ilk giving valueless work away? I do value my work. Well, yes, I guess that no price does suggest that it’s worthless. But it’s a come-on. They buy the next book.” 

(are you absolutely sure about your facts? We never bother to check thoroughly. I can’t say that our figures substantiate that or not. Don’t elaborate on the point, you could be sued. Speaking on behalf of the Company, we couldn’t give a monkey’s flying fart if you sold something, or gave it all away. We plan to buy Apple, Microsoft, Smashwords and Wattpad next. A complete monopoly of the written word is our ultimate aim. Then of course we will charge astronomical amounts of money for all of you writers)

“Sorry, what was that? No, not you with the questions. Certainly not you Madam with the press badge. How did you get to the front anyway? The microphone in my ear is talking to me. What? There’s not a microphone there, it’s a nest in my ear Madam? Are you sure?……A horse’s nest you say, speak up I can’t hear you clearly?…..A mare’s-nest? What’s……………THAT?”

Mare’s Nest, a definition:

1. A complex or confused situation; a muddle: your desk’s usually a mare’s nest.

2. An illusory discovery: the mare’s nest of perfect safety.

3. Something that appears to be of great interest but is a complete waste of time.

CURTAIN FALL. Play The Final Post and lower the flag on TRUTH.

http://www-thedesolategarden-com.co.uk/

Lilac walls and pink settees

Hexagon tables with cups of tea

Ritzy people righting the wrong

A pianist playing while singing a song.

Glasses clicking under corks that pop

Laughter and kisses in the silent backdrop

A woman in love, it’s in her eyes

A married man telling her lies.

A band strikes up, a guitar plucks away

It’s the beginning of the night, ending of the day

Another chance to become who you are.

If only you can open your eyes and see that far.

Admit the truth, you’ve come to stare

You live their lives, you’re dying in there.

You need to escape and find your own

Even if that means living alone.

Don’t live a life that’s false and untrue

Stand up and admit that you are you.

Be brave, be bold, let Hope lead you on

Then you can sing your own kind of song.

Danny Kemp

The story of a beautiful, mysterious woman, a gambling debt and a grouse shoot. Featuring Harry Paterson, the main character from my debut novel The Desolate Garden.

Amazon.com

Amazon. co

Failure!
What can restrict one’s imagination?
Could it be fear, or the realisation
That before success, comes many a decline
Into the abyss that critics define
As FAILURE.

Failure is a word of which many approve.
It saves them from rising
And trying to prove
What others attempt, when lifting their head
Into that den where critics are fed!

We stride a path lined by few friends,
But maligned by enemies who only lend
An ear to what they miss between a line
That for their ugliness is impossible to find.

Failure, Success! What difference does it make
To those who have never made a mistake?
Become a critic, it’s an easy thing to do.
But please allow me to ridicule YOU!

Hector and Helen were reclining on the bed, the night preceding their fiftieth wedding anniversary.

They were not tired, having had an afternoon nap which was another shared habit. They were set in their ways and comfortable with each other.

The years had been kind to them both, blessing them with three children and now four grandchildren all of whom were well and prospering nicely, never burdening the pair with too many problems. Life was rosy, an onlooker would say, but there was a worry on Hector’s mind, and it needed airing.

Without preamble or warning, he broached the subject with his wife.

“Helen, there has been something on my mind for quite some time, and I would greatly appreciate an honest answer to a question of mine.” He was, by vocation, a poet and a painter and those skills were predominant in all his conversation and mode in life; it had rhythm, depth and colour.

At the beginning of their relationship, these innate subtleties had been what had caught and attracted Helen to his side. Those early days, however, had not been easy financially on either of them, but thankfully his talent had been eventually recognized and her part-time job as a secretary had long disappeared, allowing her plenty of free time.

Where Hector had retained his athletic build over the years by firm application of a strict diet and exercise regime, Helen had drifted from a petite alluring woman into a wholesome hearty soul, voluptuous and comely. Where once, perhaps, was modesty and shyness, now there was assertiveness and confidence. She lay with her eyes closed, slightly unsettled by her husband’s remark.

“What is my dear?’ she asked in a concerned tone raising herself and resting her head on a bent left arm. He remained in a prone position eye fixed on the ceiling.

“I want an honest answer, of that I must insist. I beg you not to try to get out of it, or in any way resist.” He was interrupted before he could finish.

“Oh dear, this does sound important. Please ask away.” He frowned, disapprovingly, which did not go unnoticed by his wife.

“I want to know if you have been unfaithful to me during these years that we have been together Helen. Do not prevaricate, and worry not about any tears that your disclosure may bring to the canvas that is my face. I will be brave and confront the disgrace.”

“Hmm,” she replied thoughtfully, adding quickly, “I’m surprised that you ask, and upset by what you refer to as a disgrace. However, I have been, as you call it; unfaithful.”

A glistening in Hector’s eye could now be seen, but courage and tenacity fought back, quickly regaining his composure. “Tell me my love, and tell it true, nothing else from you will do.” He had lost some of the previous bravado and now a degree of brevity had replaced his poetic prose.

“The first time was shortly after we were married.” She confessed, pausing to reflect on the tear forming in the corner of her husband’s right eye. “We were in trouble with the mortgage if you can remember back to those far distant days. It was before your first exhibition at the Royal Institute. The bank had rung and threaten closure with repossession of our home.” He nodded, adding quietly “go on.” (Sometimes he thought before he spoke)

Helen sighed deeply and swallowed hard. “The next day the bank manager telephoned and spoke to you if you recall.” It was, of course, a rhetorical question and as such no need of a pause. “He gave you an extension, but never offered a reason. You were surprised, and yet so relieved that it was a joy to see. It made what I did; justified, I guess. At least in my own mind. That was my first act of unfaithfulness.”

“There was another time Helen, but why? In a way I’m grateful about the bank but why another?” The tear had disappeared, leaving a deep, disturbing sadness existing in his heart. His poetic phrases had abandoned him. Now only an emptiness in his stomach and soul prevailed. He sat upright, staring into the brown vacant eyes of his wife.

“There was Hector, but must I go on and bring misery into this house?”

“Yes, again I must insist. Tell me the truth and don’t save my blushes, don’t paint the story with colored brushes.” (He couldn’t stop himself. Once a poet always a poet as they say)

“It was a few months after the bank incident. You were ill in 1976, the February, it was so cold. You had that terrible chest infection with heart complications and we had no money for the operation that was so desperately needed. You nearly died Hector. How do you think you got that operation the next day? Did you not notice the smile on the surgeon’s face?”

“Come to think about it, I do. That was your doing then Helen?” he said loudly. “You sacrificed yourself to save my life? What can I say? I was in a false paradise, now I am lost. I should be the one paying the great cost, instead of which I sit here and judge. How could I ever hold against you such a grudge?” (Shame really, wasn’t it?) Full of remorse and almost being sick of his own verbosity, he lent across to take hold of his wife and caress away her guilt. But she halted him.

“Before you fully forgive me, there was another time.” Her eyes never faltered, never averting her gaze. To Hector, his wife’s virtue was solid and still intact and he could accept whatever the reason that had led to her waywardness, after all, he silently mused ‘it must have been done for my benefit.’ He rose to the occasion. (Not literally, he was still sitting. Don’t get too far in front of me please)

“Oh Helen, oh Helen I love you so much, that nothing you’ve done that could ever touch or damage the thread that holds us so dear. Speak on my love, do not fear.” (I should explain at this stage that Hector was never paid for any poem that he wrote, and he did write thousands the poor chap)

“Well, this is a bit delicate Hector. First, you must understand that all I’ve ever done was to put your interests before my own. You do understand that don’t you?” With a grave voice, she asked. He nodded his head in agreement with great enthusiasm sure in the knowledge that it must have been an act of pure unselfishness and self-sacrifice on the altar of love. She breathed deeply before beginning her final revelation.

“It concerns your love of golf Hector. I just knew that once you had started, it would bring you so much happiness and delight that your paintings would radiate with great conviction and power, as they do my love! It has been noted and spoke of. You yourself have remarked just how more refined and colourful they are.” He was like a nodding toy dog on the back shelf of a car.

“Yes, yes, go on I beg you.”

She did!

“You see, I opened your application when it came back from the Golf Club. I just couldn’t wait to break the good news to you. You do so enjoy it there Hector don’t you?” Another nod accompanied by: “Most certainly I do my love, do carry on. What has that returned letter to do with anything?” He was nearing a climatic explosion.

He didn’t have to wait long…..

“It had one hundred and sixty-three signatures added to the rejection column Hector.” 

The Desolate Garden

Aunt Alice and Spot. Usually written by Renee Bernard, Vonda Norwood and Danny Kemp, but this week by me, Dickie Branson.

Hello there readers, are you still silly enough to be following this ridiculous story? If you are, then it seems to have fallen in my lap to update you all. Standby and grab a cup of tea whilst I do, and then check on upcoming Virgin flights to far away destinations. You will understand why at the end.

As you know, I was released from a jar of pickles by Spot, when Tracey Edges, his betrothed, (even though she doesn’t know it) made him a cheese sandwich. I granted him three wishes that day that only he and I know of. He has one remaining, but I cannot divulge what that may be. As the senior genie in the prestigious Branson family I have significant powers so, as one would expect, I am in a unique position to explain the overall situation. However, this is impossible owing to the fact that all, apart from Tracey, are utterly mad. I hesitate to include Aunt Alice in that number as she is simply too kind. If she has now lost her sanity, that situation was brought on by Spot himself. No wonder she is away in the country, taking the waters wherever she lays her hat! Good luck to her, I say!

Here we go then, a summary to end all summaries.

Spot has finally got his hands on Brenda, the usurper to the Crown of Wales. He captured her whilst riding in the Sahara desert, depositing her at the gates to the British embassy in Cairo. From there she was transported to a military prison at Cheltenham in the picturesque County of Gloucestershire, here in England. Spot has subsequently disappeared. This maybe because the stolen iPad he was using has melted in the Egyptian sun, or perhaps needs charging, or the camel he was riding became so feed up with him that he abandoned the demented teenager somewhere. All three possibilities cannot be discounted. Our story does not, unfortunately, end there, how could it with such ludicrous characters running around!

Read on if you dare!

We are about to read from a note left by Brenda for her daughter, Myrtle. If you can understand what follows, then you are a better man than me, Gunga Din.

***

My dearest Myrtle, I’ve awakened here… Wow, much more than six-feet inside the earth’s crust, and with a warm soggy leek clenched between my teeth that I found laying beside my decapitated foot which was stuck to my ear, next to my knee, that the penguin carried in its mouth before I ate him to rid myself of the headache I can only assume was caused by hunger.

I’ve removed the white dress made specially for me by the sweet fighting men of Cairo. Pity, they worked so hard to shackle me, even sent out for bigger and heavier wrist irons and hobblers, but they ended up losing custody of me due to the old – “We Saw Her First,” rule.  Those selfish English fighting men naturally staked their claim, which is how I ended up at Cheltenham.

That reminds me, I was LIED to!  At Cheltenham, those men swore they’d search every square inch of my person… But if they had, how’d they miss finding the penguin?  And this red lipstick I’m using to write this note on my white dress?  Incompetence is ANNOYING!  When I reign as Queen of Wales you can bet Body Searches will mean the whole body…Or heads will roll!  Overlooking a person’s crevices is something that gum chewing Spot would do!  It’s my fault, though…  I should have lifted my back folds and insisted they do a sweep through the cracks, but I got caught up in the way they playfully chanted teasing and urging me, “Let’s see you escape this time.”  You know how I can’t resist the English accent, when I can understand it.

So of course, I got all giddy and giggly and once they attached the anchor to my backside, I showed off by tucking and rolling, cracking the floors and crashing through the walls. And boy did they scream and shout! Their horns and bells sounded like rhythmic sirens.  Electrifying pulses tapped me from head to toe causing my adrenaline to overflow… It was so exciting!  They couldn’t get enough of my bodacious bod’s display of peekaboo as my skirt went up and down during every tuck and roll.

I admit it; I got carried away.  I should have used a little restraint.  But that’s hard to do when you want to please the ones who work hard to enslave you.  All in all, if Lakenheath was less accessible, I’m certain that my anchor wouldn’t have melted and welded to that rocket ship, which got in my way whilst I rolled!  But it did, and yes, it is comforting to know that during take off, I provided a glorious climax to my peekaboo finale!

The officers who ejected from the rocket were grinning and waving as the ship took a nose dive into the Barnard Castle’s garden.  There is a blazing fire about a quarter-mile above my head. Helpful, because I need the use of its light while I finish scraping my brains off the wall of dirt.

This lipstick is about all used up, now.  If your father has survived all my previous advice, please tell him not to worry, because all he has to do is light an inserted stick of dynamite and he’ll be rid of pesky hemorrhoids.

Remember Myrtle dear, no matter what happens to me, I, your mother, shall always love you—if you find and capture Spot, conquer England and crown me—Brenda, Queen of Wales.

***

Dickie here again folks, I hope you all followed that.

It would seem that even in death this weird person, going by the name of Brenda, deludes herself.The rocket she mentions did indeed crash and burn in the grounds of Barnard Castle, some twenty miles away from Lakenheath aerodrome. However, her presence aboard this experimental moon vehicle, developed by my brother, was not recorded. The Virgin authorities were too ashamed. Her body will never be discovered by Myrtle or her pile stricken husband, unless of course I’m wrong, in which case I will resign from the Honourable Society of Genies.

The world is well rid of someone who writes this…. It was so exciting!  They couldn’t get enough of my bodacious bod’s display of peekaboo as my skirt went up and down during every tuck and roll.

Here I must leave you, returning to my sacred jar and, like you, I hope that Spot is well. We can do no more. If you have a continued liking of causing pain to yourself, then keep reading Female First magazine, where any further news will be published immediately it becomes available.