Daniel Kemp

Aunt Alice and Spot by Renee Bernard, Vonda Norwood and Danny Kemp.

Friends, I wish I could say that my calm and metered advice is having some great effect on Spot.  I also wish I could say that I’ve come into a vast inheritance and can cease receiving mail under the guise of wealthy eccentricity.  Alas.  I have begged Renee Bernard to pack me off to Venice for a holiday, but she has refused and alluded to a current deadline for her new wicked projects…something about a “Black Rose”.

Even as my treatments continue and my physicians warn against any excitement of my frayed nerves, I share the following with you.  Spot’s letters are growing more erratic with every turn.  I am on the verge of writing to a dear friend of mine, a Mr. Wells, and urging him to bring his time machine by the gardens, transport forward to smack some sense into the boy and then return home before tea time (which is only sensible) If anyone has a better idea, I am open to any and all suggestions. Read the attached if you have the constitution for it.  Smelling salts are enclosed.

Yours in sherry, Aunt Alice

******

Dearest Auntie Alice,

If you thought my past troubles were bad then I’m sorry, they pale into insignificance compared to Spot’s current woes. Do you remember when Myrtle took me to her house, just after I escaped from the Police peelers and that potato shed? Well Auntie, that was not her home at all, but the home of her father’s…Wait for it….It’s coming…LOVER! Her mother, Brenda, knows nothing of this. She thinks he spends his time playing rugby, when, in fact, he’s playing mummies and daddies with another woman; Phyllis The Younger. They share a love of racing pigeons apparently as well as whatever else they share in Phyllis’s nest!

He, that’s the ugly, rather large person who Myrtle calls dad, has booted the two English pilots in a rather painful place and has suspended all three of us from the rafters. I’m directly over the dart board, with my delicate bits at Double Top.  All’s not lost though. I do have my trousers held tight around my waist with an elastic band.

Fear not Auntie, I have a plan. Back to you as soon as I can.

Spot

******

Auntie, Auntie, Auntie,

‘Tis your dearest Spot again. The plan worked, and I kept my trousers on!

The pilots have been freed, but Thomas, that’s Myrtle’s dad’s name, has kept the jet aeroplanes. He says he’ll chase after the birds with them. I’m not sure what he meant by that, are you? Anyway, the thing is, I have effectively greymailed him into releasing me and allowing Myrtle and I to continue our blossoming relationship. I’m becoming a bit like Wordsworth aren’t I? Or was it Constable who liked blossoming daffodils? Immaterial. Blossoming Relationship, good what!

Did you approve of…greymailed? I’m trying to be what’s called, politically correct. You can’t say black and you can’t say white, so I thought; how about grey. After all, it was recently advertised in fifty shades. I’m drifting, dearest one. I think it was dangling from that height for so long that it has made my mind wander. (Wander, daffodils, Constable. Get it? Ha ha)  Incidentally, I’ve grown. Myrtle measured me Auntie!

I’m now six foot tall with only a thirty-two inch waist. It was a good job that I had an elastic band around my trousers, eh? Now, even though it’s only me that thinks it; I’m passable. We must hope that people do pass, and not stop, as in the past, passing comments that caused trouble for Spot. Clever play on words there. I shall become a writer, same as Huckleberry Finn.

Back to business. I told Tom, Thomas reminded me of a tank engine so I shortened his name. He doesn’t like it, but, scoff, scoff, Spot calls the shots now; Tom! I actually said that, you know. He looked somewhat constipated when I said it. All puffed-up with nothing coming out. Where was I? Yes, I told him that I would tell Brenda about him and Phyllis The Younger if he harmed me. He said that he didn’t intend to harm me. He said he wanted to murder me! He accused me of doing all manner of unmentionable things with Myrtle, while she looked on in utter amazement.

Myrtle then declared that she would sacrifice herself for me. It happened, Auntie, true love was born.

Her exact words were: “If anything happens to Spot I will die…….” Unfortunately a jet engine started up at that precise moment, so none of us caught the end of what she said.

She now has black hair. She said she changed the colour in case her father had not heeded my words, and had done what he threatened to do, then it would have been fitting for any funeral. I have found a treasure in her. She is so forward thinking that I have agreed to sign some insurance forms. As she is paying the premiums I thought it only fair that she is the sole beneficiary. What do you think, oh wise one?

I haven’t seen Myrtle’s mum for three weeks, and I’m not sorry. All that balderdash about becoming Queen, when it’s Myrtle who should be crowned.

Hang on a minute. There’s a pigeon flying over my head, towards the dovecote at the back of the pub? Why is it pulling a bloody great pillowcase with red writing on it? What can it mean?

Help, Auntie, Spot is feeling a bit queer!

Spot

******

DEAR SPOT,

It’s a wicked thing to admit, but I’ve begun to skim your letters in the hopes of lessening their impact on my poor nerves. But here is what has stood out amidst your eternally wretched handwriting and has spurred me toward a quick reply: Myrtle’s father disapproves, your death is much-anticipated by your blossoming girlfriend, and she wrongly has the impression that one must dye one’s hair to convey mourning.  (Ridiculous!  IF such a thing were the custom, I would know of it!  I’ve been in formal mourning more than once in my life and no one ever waved a bottle of black ink over my head!)

It is a father’s right to threaten murder to any young man taking liberties with his daughter.  And you have snogged her excessively, by your own admission!  Naturally, he’s not to go beyond threats, but it’s common knowledge that men depart all reason where their female offspring are involved.  Stop goading the gentleman on, apologize for overstepping, declare your honorable intentions if you have any and then run.

You heard me.  RUN!  Because if your “bride to be” is already practicing your eulogy, taking out insurance policies and dodging pigeons, you need to leave.  Quickly.  Before any more pillowcases arrive.  God only knows what serial killer is scrawling messages in blood and sending them via poultry to her door!

And since you cannot allow me to speak in terms of black and white, I will be as direct as I can.  Take a ginger tonic to settle your stomach and your nerves and RUN for it.

And of course, I meant to add, congratulations on keeping your pants on.

Yours truly,

Aunt Alice

******

Dearest, dearest all forgiving Aunt Alice, please, please, please and one more just for luck; please, forgive Spot.

I have no time Auntie dearest for a full explanation, that will come in time. Here are the opening lines of that message that was on the pillowcase tied to that weary pigeon:

The Dirty Dozen and your dear sweet mum are in Newgate Prison, Myrtle. There is talk of taking us to Tyburn Tree and stretching our necks! We need your help. All our phones were confiscated but luckily, Phyllis The Pigeon, your grandmother’s best friend, had this bird hidden about her person. Never ask me where, dear child; NEVER! I have used my cell’s pillowcase to write this note with my favorite ruby-red, gloss lipstick. 

I pray on all the daffodil heads in Wales that someone sees this arrive in Phyllis’s dovecote and….quickly. The straw from the pillow is getting tangled in my hair.

IT IS FROM BRENDA. 

There is more, much more and I shall, when I have mastered this Shire horse, copy it all down in my beautiful handwriting and send it to you.

Yes, I have become a horseman of sorts. Myrtle and I are setting out to rescue her mother and friends.There are no drivable cars in Wales, all of them have LEEKS! We were left with little choice but to drive a Shire horse, coupled to a very large cart, to London, but first I had to catch it. You would be amazed at Spot’s physique now Auntie. I am fit, with muscles bulging in places that previously I had no knowledge of. We must begin our journey. My flag will accompany me just in case there is a chance to plant it. Farewell, bon voyage, first footing and all that. Wish us well Auntie, and hold yourself in readiness for all of Brenda’s message. It will take three days at least to copy!

Spot

 

What fate awaits Spot? What are Myrtle’s intentions? Can Brenda survive?

Who the hell is Mack? Most importantly of all though, how will Aunt Alice react?

 

Tune in next week to Female First, and their long suffering editor, Lucy Walton, for the eleventh edition of……Aunt Alice and the silliness that surrounds her.

Written by Renee Bernard, Danny Kemp and Vonda Norwood as……Brenda!

Last week’s instalment left us hanging by our fingertips as Brenda, believing herself to be the rightful claimant to the throne of Wales and preparing to storm England, was assembling her ‘army’ of stripping Grannies! Spot as usual was useless, being besotted by face sucking Myrtle, and poor Aunt Alice was hanging on to her sanity by the merest of threads.

We open this week with Spot discovering Brenda speaking to her daughter Myrtle, and forwarding the message to the raven of mavens; Aunt Alice who resides, temporarily, in a care home.

Read on dear friends but be WARNED. Have a telephone directory nearby, in case you have need of urgent medical attention at the end!

******

Auntie, oh Auntie,

It’s a good job that I fitted that recording device to this iPad owned by that swine Danny Kemp, just look what Spot has found……

******

Myrtle? Don’t talk. I can’t hear anything, because the grannies are listening to that old song – You Can Leave Your Hat On, by the Welsh wizard Tom Jones. Tell that glutton for rugby, I think you believe to know him as your father, to stop calling me, and asking what happened to his friend’s sheep. And if our neighbours on the south-side are missing a few head too, I know nothing about them! Rustling is a crime that a Queen would not stoop to!  

While I was trying to figure out how I could raise money to buy a vehicle large enough to comfortably transport my army of elderly strippers, and not waste their terrifying talent against my soon to be loyal subjects, I did happen upon a herd of sheep who were wandering the halls inside your grandmother’s apartment building. 

Unfortunately we could find no one who would accept my stray wool as trade! But luckily, we found an abandoned UPS truck in the street. Looks like a package hoarder used to live in it. It took us a long time to toss out all the mess, but well worth the hard work. It’s a sturdy vehicle and will provide some comfort.

I did have one problem with that brown rectangle on wheels… The door beside the driver’s seat is very small, it must have been designed for show and not use, which explains why the truck was abandoned. Not to worry though, the interrogation time I spent with the English military pilots showed me that a dab of oil was all I needed to squeeze through that driver’s crack of an entrance, and I did, just like a well oiled Englishman invading a back door. You’d have been proud!

Holy daffodils…..Your grandmother used a screwdriver, and just kicked the engine over! We have a full tank of petrol, and to even the weight, the grannies are sitting in the back, lined up against the passenger side wall. Yes, my dear Myrtle, we’re finally ready to drive to England! 

I JUST HOPE WE DON’T SPRING A…..LEEK!

That was a joke from your mum. I have my smug expression totally ready to take over my beautiful face as I watch the unsuspecting Englishmen pay for the military might I shall use to whoop ’em into submitting Wales to me! Soon, I will reign as Queen of the Isle of the Mighty!

Let’s hope no one LEEKS our secret……I’m off on one again, aren’t I! Whatever you do, don’t repeat these jokes to Spot. They are probably far too intelligent for him to understand.

Well dear… I’m sure you DO have something you’d like to say to me, but you know how dangerous it is to talk on a cell phone while driving. We’re…..OFF. England here we come! Talk later, bye.

******

Auntie Alice,

Spot’s at a loss. The Welsh want to plant their flag in England and I haven’t planted mine in Wales yet. Not fair!

This usurper Brenda, posing as the Queen of Wales which I thought Myrtle was, could be dangerous, and I don’t mean just by telling jokes. Spot needs your wisdom, Auntie.

Spot

******

Auntie Alice, all-knowing, all-seeing. 

Here is another! She’s on a mission and not even ‘drop scones’ can stop her!

Read on, but beware; it’s not nice. Oh, and what’s a ‘Chiclet’ when it’s at home?

******

Myrtle darling, 

Stop slurping and sucking on that English Spot’s Chiclet. Listen to your mum! No. No, we haven’t made it to England yet. The authorities have stopped us at this very moment. I’m telling you, Myrtle girl, after all I have suffered for my precious Wales, once I am crowned, the God’s should grant me reign of the Isle of the Mighty, plus full control over those English fighter pilot’s physical aggressions for thousands of years!

Who knew women over ninety in age would have so much energy to waste on constant bathroom breaks? 

“Pull over, Brenda. It’s potty time again.” I heard those words a million times before twenty miles were behind us! 

Loading and unloading this group of elderly strippers requires the strength of four women, which I am designed for of course, but after the tenth stop your mum’s oil bottle ran dry. The man at the petrol station was correct. The oil he sold is a good lubricant, but my arms and hips are now stained reddish-brown and I pray my eyes will stop watering from the scent!

That’s not the worst of it! Whilst the grannies were in line for the ladies room at the petrol station, which was in the middle of nothing but hills and pasture, your mum oiled her luscious body up and down so as to be ready to squeeze through that truck’s crack of an entrance. As I was about to, I turned and saw your grandmother, and the one’s I now call The Dirty Dozen, sitting in a nearby field. It was dark by then. They sat eerily in a circle. From that circle I could see steam rising… I made my way gingerly towards them. They had encircled a giant black cauldron with a mighty blaze beneath it. I was informed mutton stew was on the menu.

I was too hungry to enquire how, or where, they received a cauldron, wood and the lamb, plus bowls and spoons, napkins, silverware, the cups, soft drinks and dropped scones… My dear, it was FOOD! I was served a large bowl of stew, then I was handed a plate piled high with somehow; steamed and buttered Leeks. I ate and I ate… Yes, I had to apply more lubricant and yes, I look quite tanned! Never mind that! 

As I ate, I heard a voice, a man’s voice among the circle of women… I looked to my left, and there between your grandmother and her friend, who then was sporting a new metre in height wool hat, was a man. I asked the strange man who he was. Well, dear Myrtle, he doesn’t speak much English. The only words that have yet to come out of his constantly grinning mouth are, “Greet, my name Mack of 89 years. Older women be good for me. Big one’s too!”

I didn’t like the way he looked at my breasts when he said, “Big one’s too.” No, I wouldn’t call them obscenely large! Say what you will Myrtle, but your mother’s bosom is quite useful! Especially during long road trips, where my arms tire. These enormous breasts, the things you call outlandish, have come to my aid by holding the steering wheel steady while I eat.

I prepared to chase that Mack away, but your grandmother hit me over the head with a long dried leek. I gave in when The Dirty Dozen came at me with the longest dang leeks I’d ever seen! He’s now coming along with the group. I have to admit though, it is a relief of mine. Mack’s presence has cut down on the need for potty breaks. But I can’t explain why that is.

Once we were off again, I glanced toward the passenger seat, and your grandmother had around her neck, a white, fox fur stole! ‘Where did that come from?’ I screamed! And then that wrap of hers reared its head and growled at me! At this very moment, I tell you dear child of mine, I swear I can hear it snoring.

It’s time, Myrtle… 

The officers are now opening the back of the truck… Don’t worry, The Dirty Dozen are clutching their skirts and okay, the doors have slammed shut and yep, the two men in police uniforms are rubbing their eyes and shaking their heads…

The officers are on the run! … I’m starting the truck… I can’t talk now, love. I’ll call you when we park at the nearest bed and breakfast in England! What a joy it’s going to be for me when we finally conquer England! Soon I shall be Queen of the Isle of the Mighty!!! Yes, I said me! Tell Spot, I said to grow a metre taller and to stop chewing gum. No mobile phone chatting while on the road. Safety first. Bye.

******

Auntie,

Is she a megalomaniac, a nymphomaniac or just a plain maniac? What can Spot do?

Spot

******

Dear Spot,

In between the enforced quiet, prescribed naps and lavender baths, I nearly recovered my wits with one exception.  Your letters.  Just when a woman of a certain age thinks to have regained her balance—yet another one of your notes would arrive!  The staffs are enjoying your adventures tremendously and have even taken to stalking the postman in hopes of more.

I, on the other hand, am not amused!  All this unseemly talk of Welsh juices and incorrigible elderly women in trucks!  It’s ridiculous!  No matter what your insane friends think, there isn’t an Englishman worth his salt who will so much as raise an eyebrow if a sheep-riding nudist of any age enters a pub!  A gentleman never reacts to the ridiculous to fend off any chance of being mistaken for a clown himself!  Decency dictates that they are to be ignored, and your Brenda is in for a stiff lesson in English etiquette.  Conquest?  I scoff at the notion!

All your Brenda will achieve is an uplift in tankards sold in British pubs and a boon to our economy…and when the hangovers set in, she can cart her grannies off, stew in her juices and leave well alone!

Spot.  I am very disappointed.  This adventure is beyond disastrous.  Except of course, in that you are finally wearing pants.  (Please, dear God in Heaven, tell me you have managed to locate your pants, at least!)

Stop flying about like a dragonfly.  Stop keeping company with women who plot treason and steal vehicles that do not belong to them.   And Most of All: STOP KEEPING COMPANY WITH PEOPLE MAKING TERRIBLE PUNS.  The pun is the last bastion of the ignorant and I am mortified to think you have stooped that low.

Ah, it is time for my foot massage and the delights of warmed brandy.

My wisdom dictates that you escape with your flags folded and make a run for it.

Good luck, dear boy.

Aunt Alice

PS Forget about maniacs, most are unhealthy and of no use to you dear boy.

PPS I am FIRM in my belief that no English gentleman would bother himself to be bothered by naked old ladies…and fire cannot mete it out of me.

PPPS I have not the SLIGHTEST idea what a ‘Chiclet’ is, and neither would I want to know!

Will Aunt Alice recover from all this shock? Will The Dirty Dozen shock all red-blooded Englishmen and will Spot be shocked? Tune in to Female First for more shocking revelations……next week. Remember, never stand in a puddle during a lightning storm; you could be shocked.

By Renee Bernard and Danny Kemp, now featuring Vonda Norwood.

 

Hello, friends.  (And yes, if the handwriting is substandard it is because I am dictating this one to my nurse who while a very sweet girl, seems to have the penmanship of a boxer.) I am in care after suffering nightmares of monumental proportions. You’ve guessed it, Spot has damaged me.  What can an upright maven, living in 1872, do for this wayward child that hasn’t already been done?

I need to renew my energy if I’m to help him further and God knows; he needs help!

Listed below are his recent communications with me. I haven’t answered any. I just don’t know where to begin.

Read on if you dare, but have a plentiful supply of your favorite tipple nearby.

I warn you, beware the Welsh, as you know not what you have amongst your midst.

******

Aunt Alice, breathing deeply! 

Dearest, dearest Auntie, 

Wherefore art thou? I am in desperate need of you. I took your advice and booted Pill out-of-the-way, then knocked Lily to the ground with a left hook that our old ‘Enry would have been proud of. The sad, stooping lady with the crown, who does resemble the face on our currency, offered no resistance. In fact, she gave me a glistening Orb and an ornate Sceptre. Myrtle recognized both immediately!

They are Welsh, Auntie, part of treasure stolen from that country centuries ago. Long before even you were born…..Oh, that doesn’t sound so good, does it, but I’m afraid I cannot delete it, as that swine Kemp still has control of my functions…I mean on this iPad of course.

Myrtle became quite ferocious when I untied her and set her free. I have never seen such wild behaviour in a female before, perhaps she is a Female First…Oh, that’s funny, don’t you think?

Seriously though, Myrtle is wilder than WILD!

I’m liable to drift again, but I’ll try to stay focused. That’s apt actually, as now I’m piloting Lily’s old helicopter, and not entirely sure what I’m doing. Myrtle has hold of the stick and I’m fiddling around. It’s great fun!

“Oh those daring young men in those flying machines, they go humpity hump, they go humpity hump.”

Did you like that song, Auntie? I’ve been singing it ever since we went airborne. We are going up and then down a bit, Myrtle and I.

See, I drifted there, I meant to tell you what Myrtle did.  Well, she grabbed the old lady’s mobile phone from that oversized handbag of hers, it had a crest on it, looked rather important, and rang her MOTHER! Yes, that’s right, Myrtle has a mum.

They spoke about a war, but it could have been a whore, not completely sure on that one.

Now here comes the crunch Auntie. Myrtle really is the reincarnated Queen of the Welsh, or so she says. Apparently, the Welsh are not only famous for leeks, daffodils, rugby and singing they are also good at cutting off people’s heads. They did a lot of it before the English invaded them.

We are setting off for a place called Harlech, on the Welsh coast where there was once a castle. Nowadays it’s a pub called the Harlech Castle, and mum of Myrtle owns it!

See what I mean, just like buses, you wait all your life for one castle to come along and then all of a sudden two appear.

Her name is Brenda, Myrtle’s mum that is, after some ancient Welsh Queen who used to order everyone’s head off. Seems to be a craze of those who live in castles. Do you think I should stop off somewhere and buy bandages, just in case I need them?

Anyway, toodle-pip, angels one-five, tally-ho and all that. (That’s flying talk by the way)

Speak soon dearest one, when we’re in Wales! Oh gosh, here we goooooooooooooo!

Spot.

PS.  Perhaps I’ll finally be able to plant my flag when I arrive.

PPS. We are being ‘buzzed’ by two grey colored jets with red, white and blue roundels on the fuselage and wings. The pilots are looking at us and have their thumbs pointing to the ground. I’m smiling back with mine pointing upwards. Myrtle is just smiling!

******

Auntie, Auntie, Auntie,

Spot is in deep trouble, unless of course you decide that maybe I’m cut out to be the King of Wales.

This helicopter has somehow transcribed all the conversation that Myrtle had with her mother word for word. Only her mother’s words I’m afraid, but it seems she chats enough to win an Olympic medal for talking! Poor Myrtle could not get a word in edgewise, or on its  head for that matter.

Look I have copied them here for you……

******

He was at it again your father! Lifting weights and running all over the place… soaking his suit with the Welshman’s finest juices! What he gains in speed and energy, I, Brenda, who should be Queen of Wales, lose out on. I could use him all day… in and around me; but nooooooo, due to his love of sport, and that stupid game of rugby…..…Two jets you say?

Pilots haven’t a need to save energy for rugby have they?……. Useful then, hmm……. 

Which makes them good men for what I have in mind!

And since your dear father, the man who gives your mother a whole lot of bother, is off to take England’s trophy, your poor mum, the widow of sport, whose frustration is absorbed by whoring for war, finds herself more than crazed to have her sanity saved by offering the good heads of a couple Englishman…………..Guide them to the Isle of the Mighty, to my Castle Harlech, it’s not much now I know, but it will be one day. They shall sacrifice themselves to me……….and I shall once and for all, show the world I am the rightful Queen of The Assembly of the Noble Heads!

First though, I will interrogate the good English pilots in my own inimitable way. Oh yes Myrtle………slowly……Until I have had my wicked assortment of goodies from them both……….Over and over again. Talk later, your mum’s got to run and make comfortable a room suitable for ‘offing’ the heads of good Englishmen. The axes need sharpening!

******

I will talk to Myrtle and try to get to the bottom of things Auntie.

Spot

******

Dearest lost one Auntie,

Myrtle will not be moved Auntie, she is rigid. She wants her mother to raise an army and invade England. They have spoken about it for eons. (I told you that dictionary would come in handy) The ‘it’ there is the war, or whore (is that Welsh for war, do you think) not ‘it’ as in it! I’ll move on I think.

We are about to land in the car park at the Castle Harlech pub and the two unsuspecting pilots of the jets, are already waiting there for us. Brenda has her ample arms around both, and is alternating her kisses between them. I have a tape recorder device attached to this iPad. I downloaded all the available software. Kemp should be pleased about that, but I doubt it.

He is one ungrateful swine you know, all this could make him famous! Or, despised the world over. I know what I would prefer.

Anyway, I shall record the happenings and report back ASAP. (Oh, I wonder if you use abbreviations in 1872. ASAP means; Appropriately As Short As A Poodle; I think)

Spot

******

Auntie, 

I overheard this, as Myrtle met her mum!

It’s good that you called me, M. What was that buzzing on the line though? If I were a suspicious person, and not simply used to sheep wandering all over the place, I would suspect someone was listening in! 

Whatever you do, keep that Spot of yours away from these useful men, I love the uniforms they are wearing! I wouldn’t want him to interfere with them before I do! He’s English as well, remember.

******

All a bit mysterious Auntie, don’t you think? What did she mean by saying that I might interfere with them? Strange people the Welsh, and none stranger than this Brenda. Oops, they are back. I have been here, inside this pub, all night surrounded by sheep and shepherds. I was singing that hymn……‘As shepherds watched their sheep by night,’ but none of them joined in. They gave me a funny stare, the sheep that is. The men fell asleep!

I will record Brenda’s conversation for you. Here goes:

I must say those English pilots were delectable, such gentlemen they were, but not all the all time if you catch my drift. After a bit of whiskey to loosen up, they sang their song and they sang it to me all night long… 

“You take the front door and I’ll take the back door…And I’ll be invading before ye.” 

Such magnificent competitors, pilots are, and the stamina they had. I can still feel their method in song, filling my senses into reality of what must be done. And that, my dear daughter, is raising money to pay the Welshman to wander from sport and join the army against England. Soon they will free Wales for me, and I shall rule as Queen!  Hold, please…We can discuss who sits on the throne later. Is it important who’s on top?

Let me tell you a little story first.

Your grandmother popped in the other day, she’s such a whore for attention! Always lifting her skirt and showing everything. A patron of my beloved Harlech Castle Pub, and I don’t mean a sheep, paid her good money to lower her skirt and cover up! 

Well, my dear daughter, your mum’s got an idea… I will collect your grandmother, and all of her over-90 in years lady pals… We’ll hit the tavern’s, bars and pubs all across England………..THAT’S RIGHT!!! 

Your mum’s gonna use the elderly of our town to force those English gents into unsuspectedly supporting our ultimate cause! They’ll pay and pay big, or get an eyeful of what is surely scarier than Hell!!!

******

Auntie, 

Spot is helpless to stop Brenda and the stripping nineties. I beg you, can you help?

Will Aunt Alice arrive in time? How far south will the Welsh elderly ladies have to pull down their tops to reveal their assets? Can the steadfast men of England combat the despicable naked Welsh? Will Spot and Myrtle die?…What, who said that……Kemp, get off this iPad.

Tune into Female First (where all previous episodes can be found) next week to find the answers.

As some of you have been pestering me about Ms. Bernard and how in the world she figures in all of this mess, let me just say, I think all authors are a bit mad and that she may improve herself by drinking more sherry. In any case, please go out and purchase Renee Bernard’s latest novel, “DESIRE WEARS DIAMONDS” or even better, start at the beginning of that wickedly sexy series with “REVENGE WEARS RUBIES” and divert the woman from pestering a dear old soul who is trying to put her feet up in 1872. Modern pest! But now I must with regret tell you, friends, that Spot’s troubles continue and since no one else seems to either wish to bother with the boy, or belong to a universe that makes sense, I have leapt into the fray with my sage advice yet again. Brace yourselves, friends.

It is NEVER pretty.

With great trepidation,

 

Aunt Alice

Dearest all understanding, far-seeing Aunt Alice, Myrtle said that I have a big one Auntie, she is very knowledgeable in such matters. Her father knows a computer expert and, so she says, Danny Kemp has nobbled this iPad. I think that’s a technical term for the big thing I referred to in my opening; the problem.

You see I never meant to say that I had ‘met’ a psycho the last time we spoke. I meant to say that Myrtle and I were going to see the film by that name! The swine Kemp tampered with me and his iPad, that thankfully is still in my possession. Anyway on to better things.

Lovely Lily arrived in the nick of time at the cinema, quite unexpected but nevertheless she saved the day. We escaped, that’s Myrtle, Lily and I, in her helicopter after I screamed so much when the shower curtain was pulled back, that my trousers fell down and I emptied the whole picture house. The Police were called but we got away. We are now hiding out at Lovely Lily’s mum and dad’s house.

It’s a BLOODY GREAT BIG BRICK CASTLE Auntie and I’m sure I have seen it somewhere before. I haven’t seen Myrtle since arriving here, but Lovely Lily doesn’t seem at all concerned about her absence, she appears very warming to that fact. It’s as if she prefers to be on her own with me.

They didn’t get on very well when Lily arrived at Psycho. At one stage I thought that Lovely was going to kill Myrtle. She had her hands around Myrtle’s throat but I guess that’s the way people in castles act on seeing peasants, especially Welsh ones.

It is quite noisy here at night with creaks and groans coming from the walls, ceilings and floors so Lovely put me into this huge room next to hers, but I can’t sleep. I’m absolutely sure that there is a man inside the suit of armour beside the widow. His pike keeps trembling!

There are painful, pleading cries for help from somewhere, but it’s impossible to pinpoint as everything echoes. I can hear Lovely Lily snoring as well. Oh yes, before I leave you for sherry, there are dogs barking somewhere.

Yours affectionately,

Spot

Dear Spot,

Is it me or would anyone of reasonable intelligence have trouble following all of your adventures and not concluding that you are a boy of vast imagination that has long ago outpaced the tiniest traces of his desire for self-preservation? Americans do NOT as a rule, own castles—at least, not in MY day, they did not!

What kind of topsy-turvy universe do you inhabit, you poor thing!?  You are delusional and if you are not, then it seems you have landed in what can only be described as a very bad penny novel involving haunted armor and ghostly manors. My advice, dear Spot, is to stop flirting with women who pilot flying machines.

As if such a thing were possible!

I naturally am referring to the flying machines…since you ceasing to do anything I tell you to seems more and more ridiculous, doesn’t it? If someone is yelling as if there is a murder being committed then you should do what any God-fearing Englishman in a castle would do—you should find the bell pull and ring for a servant for assistance, demand that things settle down or that the authorities are contacted and inform your hostess that you and the unfortunate gum-stealing Myrtle will be departing in the morning for less ghost-infested shelter. And for goodness sakes, make sure you are wearing pants!

You have marched over enough of the United Kingdom wearing loincloths and burlap sacks for three lifetimes.   Don’t step one foot out into public without the necessary wardrobe as I’m beginning to believe that a lack of pants may in fact be in the root of a great many of your troubles.

Yours with firm affection,

Aunt Alice P.S.

If Lovely Lily has indeed murdered Myrtle, then forget the pants and just run.

******

Dearest mischievous, no….. malcontent…..no, no, no! It’s that Kemp thingy, he’s tampering with me again Auntie. I have no spell check nor can I delete.

One moment, I will boot his iPad and restart it.

Dearest benevolent Aunt Alice, (Phew, huge sigh of relief)

What with Lily and Kemp this is turning into a nightmare, which brings me to the beginning, as it were. I had a terribly frightening one during the night Auntie dear. I saw a headless man dressed only in a short, yellow frilly skirt with orange knee-length socks carrying his head under his arm!

He was very hairy indeed.

I hope I don’t have as many hairs as him when I grow up. I digress, sorry. This man’s decapitated head spoke to me. Over and over again it said; “Alas poor Eric, I knew him well.” I naturally asked who Eric was but he made no sense. Anyway, it woke me up and I had to use the bathroom.

When I was returning to my bedroom, I saw Lily emerge from hers, but it was not the Lovely Lily I knew. Lily is not a Lily, Auntie, nor a Lilac.

Lily is a …Lionel.

Yes, she is a he. The wig was gone, as was all the make-up. Do you think that those transvestite tendencies that my father accused me of having, attracted her, I mean him? I followed her/him.

He led me to Myrtle. We passed through corridor after hallway after corridor, passing a room called, ‘The Beefeaters Rest Room.’ Is it necessary to rest after eating beef do you think? Another room had a sign saying, ‘Corgis Only.’ I haven’t a clue what that meant!

Eventually we arrived in this dimly lit area smelling of sweat and worse. Myrtle was stretched out on a table being pulled in all directions by two people who Lionel knew. He called them; Mater and Pater. The one he called Mater was a short stubby person with a supercilious (oh, I like that word) grin, carrying a handbag and wearing a rather ornate jewelled crown. Pater, Mater referred to him as Pill, was a tall stooping man with a very gruff voice. Apparently, so I overheard, they all believe Myrtle to be a reincarnated Queen of the Welsh.

Mater asked Pater “what would mumsy do Pill, if she were still with us?” To which Pill replied, “off with her head, that should do it!”

I’m currently hiding inside this smelly wooden thing, that if someone was to lean against it I’m sure I would be impregnated with prickly spikes. I dare not move. Do you think that Pater Pill meant; off with Myrtle’s head, or off with Mumsy’s head, Auntie? It’s all so confusing.

It is true about flying machines dearest one, as there are loads flying overhead as I speak. I think there must be an airport nearby. Is America far? Perhaps, if we manage to escape, Myrtle and I will come over there and find that nice lady you met Auntie. Renee Bernard, I believe her name was.

Wish me luck dear one.

Spot.

******

Dear Spot,

Let us address the most important issues one at a time, shall we?

First, decapitated men do not make for good conversations and should never be followed as they lack the ability to see where they are going. (I realize you’ve already made this mistake, but for future reference, do keep it in mind)

Secondly, I knew an Earl once who admitted after a few too many brandies that he enjoyed wearing his wife’s petticoats and corsets when left unattended. I’m sure he meant it to be shocking. I don’t remember being shocked except to learn that he was afraid of toast points, and would run from the breakfast table if any deadly triangles of bread emerged.

Unbelievable… I digress.

Thirdly, you’ve cowered enough in boxes, haystacks, attics and thick underbrush! Get up, man! Shove the inhabitants of bedlam aside, hit the short one with her own handbag, kick the pill in the shins, free Myrtle and jog out of there with your head held high. Be a man!

Take courage and save the day! And if you cannot save the day, then save my sanity and stop dinkling about with people who are clearly not well bred! (Terrible manners to mince about and threaten to cut off people’s heads!)

Stand up! (Obviously, after making sure that you can do so without puncturing anything vital…) Insane people respect the voice of authority!

Take Command! Good Luck, young man.

Aunt Alice

P.S. If you continue to go on about flying, I’m not sure what to do with you. Unless it’s balloons. I do believe in dirigibles.

******

Can Spot save Myrtle? Can the two escape Mater and Pater (aka Pill)

Are there any airships to be found? Tune into Female First next week to find the answers.

If you are in London, or live nearby, I would highly recommend this forthcoming conference on Self Publishing to be held in King’s College, The Strand, on 9th November. One of the organisers is my own Publisher and I have nothing but praise for him. (If he can put up with me, then he might do wonders for you)

http://bookmachine.org/2013/10/07/attend-the-self-publishing-summit/

This link lists the panels that are available and gives an overall summary of the day.

http://www.newgeneration-publishing.com/home/self-publishing-summit

Since I posted notice of this on Face Book, Friday 11th October, I have already read criticism of the panel selected to offer advice to aspiring writers, from those who have never been to such a thing. I attended this conference last year, and it was not the professionalism of the experts that amazed me, but the antagonism and stupidity of some of the audience. One ‘writer’ asked this question.

“I paid to have my book published, but it’s not become a best seller. Why is that?”

Publishers, printers, agents, publicists, editors and all the others that spoke from the podium, are business people, they earn money from books and writers. Writers provide the material. Writers can go their own way, without the assistance of these experts, and this point was heavily stressed however, it can be easier working alongside each other.
This I personally have found out.
I now have a traditional agreement with one of the organisers of this summit, and I’m delighted that I paid for The Desolate Garden to be published.
Once again, I can wholeheartedly recommend your attendance of this meeting. You may find it changes how you think.

The following has been one of the highlights of my writing career so far. I posted this three-line romantic poem on the internet one week.

To rise from a barren earth.

To soar above, to wing away.

To escape from all that’s lacking, and live to love another day.

From it, I met another author who liked it so much that she commissioned me to do the prophecy at the heart of her enticing tenth century novel. The book is titled VIKING HEARTS and written by Robynn Gabel of Wyoming, America. Robynn explained that the Prophecy tells the story of a boy, with a sister as his twin, left to die by his Viking parents because of the birth stain on his face. He is suckled by wolves until discovered by the Druids who believe he is their answer to this ancient prophecy. The boy becomes…..and there I will stop. Allowing you to wonder, and Robynn to benefit from your inquisitiveness. My commissioned brief was to condense her story into a rhyme. The story is hidden in this prophecy and follows the chronological order of the tale.

THE PROPHECY.

There be cometh a boy that a wolf did raise, with a blotch and stain on his face. He hath a twin who will rule this land, that only he hath the right to replace.

‘Tis a leader of men he will become, with much victory and treasure at his feet. But that is not all that will trouble him. T’is much danger he will meet.

His image will be seen at an altar, where a marriage will be made. T’will be a terrible time of vengeance, when plans will be laid.

Come one score year and seven, a mask of death will fall. The boy will stand alone as a man, with ner’e a fear of its call.

All is not pure that lives inside, as greed is hidden away. With no pleasure the Gods will watch, with much pain and dismay.

Ner’e wielding axe, ner’e slashing blade will spill nor cease his breath. T’will be only a mirror of disguise that can bring upon him death.

Ner’e human hand can take his life, though many will want to try. He is blessed from the heart of the forest, and to water one day he’ll fly.

T’will be a reflection of his own face he will see that coming day, But all but the eyes will be hidden from view, secured far away!

 

This, and eighty plus poems, can be found here:

Anything But Hackneyed. Amazon.com

Anything But Hackneyed. Amazon.co.uk

To feast my eyes on beauty is all that I would ask,

If God was to give me that blessed second chance.

To walk amongst the worthy and hear their calming speech,

With my outstretched hand pressed forward in hope that they might reach,

And pull my aching heart inside beyond the wasteful grim,

Of those that waste this precious life,

So quickly over and passed in such precious little time.

Anything But Hackneyed.  Amazon UK

Anything But Hackneyed.  Amazon.com

You cannot live a life without having a regret.

Perhaps you have hidden them, trying to forget,

All of the times when you made a mistake

And left all that you cared for, behind in your wake.

Seconds turned into minutes,

Soon an hour ticked past.

The day came to an end,

Nothing lasts.

Years rolled by, leaving you in a trance.

Did you ever give life; a real chance?

The Desolate Garden

 

 

 

 

Hello everyone, Aunt Alice here.

It has not been a good week. Everyone who has written to me has seemed jaded and dejected. Ah well, what can an agony Aunt do but smile and attempt to enliven their spirits? I have had cause to restocked my supply of sherry, having recently visited my wine cellar more frequently than normal. The reason being is the predilection that a certain young wayward boy has for me.

I am here in the year 1872 and he is sometime in the future, precisely when I’m not sure but his life is in turmoil and I am, it seems, the only one who can help.

I’m sure the boy is delusional and writes letters to himself. We now have a Lovely Lily in the love equation.

What am I to do with Spot?

On a lighter matter, I had the great fortune to meet a charming Lady by the name of Renee Bernard this week at a book launch. Her new novel; Desire Wears Diamonds, is becoming the talk of the nation, and rightly so. The fact that I own half of De Beers has nothing to do with my endorsement, nothing at all.

 

    Pull up a chair, sit back, breathe normally and read on.

 

 

Dearest Spot, 

Don’t be so sensitive! I omitted endearments because I was sure they were about to drown you! I’ve never been so terrified in my life–and on behalf of you, my boy! Thank goodness you’ve escaped the wild Welshmen and are…

In a parade you say? Dressed as a potato? Well, that’s a unique accomplishment! I’m glad you can see where you’re going. Do try to find a friend who can help you get word to your family! Perhaps if you let someone nearby know that you are a lost spud.

Someone in the parade must have a bit of compassion! Use your best manners, and see if you can find familiar ground.

All the best from your favorite,

Aunt Alice

 

Dearest Auntie Alice,

There were no good Welsh cakes there, no one with compassion for poor Spot. They were all too interested in leeks and rugby to even consider me. I did, however, find a farmers barn in which to hide. It is full of potatoes and would you believe; no peelers in sight. I will be safe here with plenty to eat, so worry not. I was so tired Auntie, after all that terrifying experience, that I fell asleep and had an awful dream.

In the dream I had shrunk to the size of a thruppenny bit and fallen through a rabbit hole. (Not sure if you would know what a thruppenny bit is, but it was a twelve sided, brass coin worth three pence, old money) I was in a warren of tunnels with a bloody great big white furry thing, with buck teeth, standing in front of me.

He said that his name was Doc. What sort of name is that?

In the dream I was briefly visited by Lovely Lily. Do you know that she wanted to get inside my sack and itch my bum Auntie. Is that a symptom of something?

She had such a lovely perfume. It reminded me of; raspberries ripening on autumn canes, mixed with jojoba oil and honey. I read that line somewhere on that obnoxious Danny Kemp’s computer. He was smirking when he wrote that. The conceited man!

She said that she may come and find me again, so escape from Wales maybe possible.

I hope you are managing with your friend Sherry and she is not getting too much for you. If it is within your powers please guide Lily back. She was very attractive and sweet, perhaps I could pledge my trove with her.

Spot.

PS. I have made a vow never to eat prunes again. I am surrounded by potatoes, so they will do fine.

PPS double PPPPPPPSSSSSSS. Lovely Lily has a computer and is in correspondence with me! I have copied you in. I hope you asked her if she likes rummaging Auntie!

 

 

Hello Spot! 

Your raspberry smelling, helicopter pilot here.

I hope you are doing well. I’m so pleased that you have been dreaming of me, I have dreamt of you! 

My name is not really Lily but I do so like that name, I think I will keep it. Lilies smell lovely and they are a beautiful flower, just like me. Mr. Kemp sure has a way with words. Do you think he is as clever as you and uses a dictionary? I bet he does!

No, Aunt Alice did not ask if I enjoy a rummage. To be honest, Spot, I am not sure what a rummage is. Maybe because I’m not English, nor Welsh for that matter, but American, and we are not familiar with rummage in my part of the world. However, I will tell you that in my part of the United States we are very aware of potatoes. I live next to the state that is knows as the potato state.

I am a bit worried about Aunt Alice. She usually responds quickly to you Spot, and here we are still waiting. I hope she is not ill. I wonder if Sherry has taken her away to the country? I do hope she is okay and Sherry is being a nice friend. We all need nice friends, and I hope Sherry is a good friend to Aunt Alice. 

Maybe you need to find your own Sherry, Spot, but not Aunt Alice’s Sherry, but a friend like Sherry. How about a cat? 

Warm Regards, 

Lovely Lily

 

(She does speak a lot of rubbish Auntie, doesn’t she?)

 

Dearest absent Auntie Alice,

Both Lovely Lily and I are worried. Have you and Sherry gone to an Alcoholics Anonymous meeting in a far distant land. Is that what your initials really stand for?

Concerned Spot.

 

Spot, 

Do you think perhaps Sherry has taken away Aunt Alice’s computer? Maybe she cannot get to one. Oh, Spot! Maybe Sherry has locked Aunt Alice away in a closet. 

Very Worried, Lovely Lily

 

Dear one Lily, oh so Lovely, 

If I knew what a closet was, then I might be able to think about that.

On the other hand, is there a plot to deceive poor Spot?…Oh dear, just noticed that remark rhymes. Maybe I’ll become a poet after being a potato.

I have noticed that your name, Lovely Lily, and Auntie Alice end in an ‘e,’ well you know what I mean, ‘e’ ‘y’ all the same thing really.

Is Spot being led up The Desolate Garden path? 

By the way, I had another nightmare with that bloody great white rabbit. I am, however, eating well, although these spuds are a bit on the hard side.

Spot.

 

Friendly Spot, 

A closet is like a big cabinet you put your clothes in. You are becoming clever with your words. Yes, I’d say you should become a poet! 

I have never been down a desolate garden path. Perhaps I should find one and give it a try. 

Aunt Alice, I hope you are not ill.

Concerned,

Lovely Lily

 

Oh Lily ever so Lovely, 

I am ill. Ill I say, and I say it again. I am worried beyond worry with worry about dear Auntie in a room with Sherry and perhaps….WHO KNOWS! What can they be doing?

Could they be redecorating do you think? Painting perhaps in…….Grey?

But worse worry lies within me, or rather it was, but not so much now.

Poor Spot has a tummy ache of such magnitude that it hurts something awful. I need urgent medical attention and some nursing during the night when I am at my lowest ebb.

Please Lily ever so Lovely, send help or failing that, send ice-cream.

Where is the maven of ravens Auntie Alice?

Desperately seeking Alice. 

Spot.

 

Poor Spot,

I am so sorry you have a tummy ache. Can you find a peppermint candy to eat? I hear that peppermint makes a tummy ache better. 

I do not know where Aunt Alice is hiding. Perhaps she and Sherry have found themselves in trouble with people she calls the Jaded. 

Aunt Alice come back to us soon. 

Feel better Spot! 

Lovely Lily

 

Jaded, Lily, ever so, Lovely, 

What is Jaded when it’s at home? I have no dictionary.

Signed: writhing in agony, with no peppermint, wallowing in ignorance and self-pity Spot.

PS. Who is Auntie Alice? I vaguely recall that name.

 

Cheeky Boy! I’ve been watching you Spot

First it was fag poles and now it’s troves. Stop it at once! And stop sending me your conversation in italics. My eyes ache trying to read them all!

Aunt Alice.

 

Dear Spot and, ahem, friend,

I’m back. I turned away for what seemed like just a day or two…family obligations, I’m afraid I cannot give any details without scandalizing the public at large…and apparently things have unraveled in my absence.

I AM NOT deep in my cups and sherry, as a rule, is vital to a woman’s sanity and existence. I take one small glass each night to soothe my nerves usually, but lately, well… I’ll admit I may have had more than one glass on occasion as my Dear Spot’s adventures are more than taxing on a person’s senses.

So. All agonies aside. How are you at the moment, dear Spot? And have you worn poor Lovely Lily’s patience into vapors? Is she also well?

I am back. I am here for you, dearest. Let us see if we can worry less and begin to make some forward progress. I simply skimmed some of the previous posts but after seeing mention of the bum-itching, I decided to skip a bit…and pray that you’re over the mess by now.

Can you not become attached to a nice, normal girl who won’t seek to end your existence?

Waiting for your reply, dear boy.

Yours.

Aunt Alice

 

Hallelujah, God save the Queen.

Give thanksgiving for the safe, glorious, return of Auntie Alice.

Spot is saved, but, I must add here Auntie dear one, not just by you.

Myrtle is Welsh Auntie. Yes, I know that must be some coincidence plus the fact that she found and rescued poor Spot, but it’s true. She was passing on her penny-farthing bicycle and saw me. I was not a pretty sight I must say.

My sack was in shreds, my feet were dirty beyond dirty and the rest of me, well; ‘hummed’ somewhat. The raw potato diet of the last two days did not help at all, but I have lost weight. Myrtle took me home Auntie, and I have had a bath. She offered to scrub my back and guess what, I let her!

It was tingling…all OVER. I will not go into details but just leave it to say that Myrtle and I ‘have knowledge of each other.’ It was exciting to learn.

Her parents, the Jones’s, are not home yet but I’m sure they will like me. What do you think?

I’m pleased that you and Sherry are getting along together, and all is well in the closet.

Must go, as Myrtle is anxious. Her Mum has come home and I will have to find some clothes to present myself before she sees me and has a shock.

I will have to get over my love for Lovely Lily, she will understand but I think I will live here in the arms of my Myrtle in her ample valleys of happiness for the rest of my life.

Must go, as I’ve seen Mr Jones get out of his car, he is a huge man Auntie and seemed surprised to see me waving at him from the bedroom window.

Spot.

 

Spot, my dearest,

Have I been abandoned?

Lovely Lily, bemused and perplexed.

 

 

Dear Spot,

Oh my God, what have I got myself involved in!

If I say “proceed with caution”….I wonder if it would help at this point. My goodness, you do make progress! I am glad that you are safe, sorry about the chafing effects of burlap on your person and happy to hear that you are at least going to be one bath ahead of the game (just in case they toss you out for being a bit forward with their daughter, Myrtle)

I beg you, be a gentleman. Less tingling and more restraint.

If Mr. Jones is less than happy, please remind him that you’ve suffered a great deal in the last few days and that delirium may have played a part in your current situation. And then, by all means, ask if you can call home and assure your family that you are alive.

I’m sure your father and stepmother are very worried.

All my prayers,

Aunt Alice

PS Be kind to Lovely Lily, she deserves better.

 

Dearest one and only Auntie Alice,

Sorry for the delay in replying, I was somewhat indisposed. Mr Jones was not a happy, Welsh bunny Auntie.

I do hope I can get the image of that saber-toothed, fluffy rabbit out of my mind soon, I am becoming quite traumatised by it all. No matter, where was I?

Ah, of course, Mr Jones. He, like you I suspect, got the wrong end of the stick over seeing me naked in the bedroom. He thought that Myrtle and I had…well you know….done things….naughty things….we hadn’t.

Reading back on what I had written, I can see how you misunderstood as well. When I said…’we had knowledge of each other,’ what I meant was that we swapped antecedents. Nice word that, don’t you think? `

As to her scrubbing my back, I was trying to say that all past memories were erased and I tingled over the thought of that. I had better take a class in grammar whenever I get home and perhaps change this iPad!

Now, as to the burlap. I’m pleased to say that I have no injuries there, but that’s not to say anywhere else.

I am a black and blue Spot now Auntie. Mr Jones was not the sort of person to reason with, he preferred using Spot as a punchbag. I had no chance to explain the misadventures I had suffered.

One good thing came from the boxing lesson, I have clothing now and some money. Well, to be absolutely honest it’s Myrtle who has the money. She is with me and we are on our way to my home. There is however, some confusion there and, I dare say, we will encounter more on the way.

Mr Jones slung his Rugby shirt at me ‘to cover myself up in’ he said. It does. It comes down to my ankles. The only trouble is that it’s a number Two shirt and apparently, so Myrtle tells me, number Two is referred to as ‘The Hooker’ in that game of Rugby. I am getting funny looks and being asked ‘how much I charge?’ Auntie.

The confusing thing about home, is that when I phoned, and I’m positive that it was Dad who answered, I was told that Braithwaite’s, (that’s my surname by the way, posh isn’t?) had moved.

Strange.

Trying to stay out of trouble,

Spot.

PS. My new nashers are to be fitted tomorrow but Myrtle seems a little put out by that. You were right, it was her who was sucking the peppermint chewing gum sticks out of my mouth, and now she is a bit miffed at the thought of not being able to do so. I hope she doesn’t stop kissing me.

 

Auntie dearest, dearest, dearest, where forever art thou? 

I need you! Myrtle and I are at number eleven and a half Three Point Turning, that’s where I live by the way in the town of Cockfosters, otherwise I wouldn’t be outside of course, and no one is here. Worse, the place is bereft of everything……. Did you like that..’where forever art thou’…and the…’bereft?’ Good aren’t they. Spot is going up in the world.

My tin soldiers are gone, as are all by comic books….and….the fridge is empty. Myrtle is looking decidedly gloom. Oh dear, I might lose her.

What shall I do?

Signed, less than a happy, 

Spot.

 

Dear Spot,

A friend invited me out for a country drive but I didn’t enjoy a minute of it as I was sure that while I was away, you’d be in some dreadful danger. AND I WAS RIGHT! I’m so sorry!

I’ll admit that when you use a phrase like “having knowledge of a person,” and you are prone to move quickly when it comes to asking girls for kisses and MORE, I can see how Mr. Jones may have gotten the wrong idea.

Naked men should never attempt to speak. Pants first. Then you can talk. (Remember that rule, Spot. It will serve you well throughout your life.)

Now, as to the present worries…let us be practical! You must contact the authorities and let them know that you have been abandoned and terribly abused.

Describe without too much about the desire for snogging and with all the discretion you can muster, as in leaving out as much of the Opals that you can, tell them what has happened. Or better yet, point them to our letters and all will become clear.

You must get help! There must be some adult at hand who is willing to step in and take you under their wing, and Myrtle as well!

I will not rest until I receive your reply!

Yours,

Aunt Alice

 

Dear Auntie all seeing all wise Alice, 

I must be BREIF……..Good that, eh? Brief…Pants…Get it, oh great one?

I have met a psycho something, he maybe about to help Spot and Myrtle. Be back later with news.

Spot

 

Dear Spot,

Where are my smelling salts? I swear you’re going to give a poor old woman the vapors with these brief (yes, dear, very funny….you’re very clever) and horrifying notes!

Psycho somethings, are NOT to be trusted. If he invites you to take showers, decline his offer and run away.

I will be standing by for word of your survival.

Yours in distress,

Aunt Alice

WILL WE EVER SEE SPOT AGAIN?

 

Keep your eyes and ears open for the returning saga. Female First.