Oh brilliant, all over the bloody carpet. That's just great, no really.
We’ve got a new village constable and he’s obviously not happy about it. I know a couple of rozzers, one’s in traffic and the other’s about to start up as the new sergeant at Bromley after a stint in Special Branch - but laughing-boy here wouldn’t be very interested in that. Bromley probably sounds like the setting of the new trans-Atlantic setting for CSI compared to Tolly Maw. Tolly Maw doesn’t have much in the way of crime. Apart from the many sheltering from previous fame and fortune everyone is, frankly, a ghoul. You’ll doubtless have noticed this what with the boxes bringing food and musty clothes. Monster Club was a documentary, although they’re very nice. I like it that everyone nods and says hello when you pass them by. Something I did in London a wee while back out of habit. In Euston. Leading me to being questioned by a community-support-officer about why I was in a train station and me asking him in turn if he realised he wasn’t a real policeman. I digress. As ever.
No this local bitter bookend has been posted here after the last one, well, was eaten. I mean it was mostly voluntary and everything. I’m told. Anyway, he wants to know about the bodies.
It’s Andy’s fault.
After a packed week of half-term occupation I’ve had a weekend of friends coming up. Lurch, Andy and Maurice and it’s pretty sure that the bodies are because of Andy. I mean, sure, Lurch is a basket-case after years of being called ‘Lofty’ and now waking up screaming about some war or other in his house near Hereford. And Maurice still has a big part of him back in Cambridge what with the whole invisible-member-of-a-massive-stadium-prog-rock-band thing. And whilst Lurch does admittedly still pooh in a plastic bag (not because he has to worry about leaving evidence behind on some covert-op anymore, but because he just sort of likes it). And to be fair Maurice did drive his Polo into my swimming pool (and I don’t have a swimming pool) then for bodies it’s Andy. Because Andy is an archaeologist, even if he can’t spell ‘archaeologist’.
It started with the Mummy and vengeance, and that would have been easy only the yearling Tilda Swintons have eaten all the cats. So we had to run around, briefly, because we’re a bit huffy nowadays, and there was sand and a De Havilland Moth (which I had to fly because – and bloody hell – ‘you’ve done a bit in helicopters’- ta, Lurch)) which crashed and...
...Well we had to fight off the dead. Who rose, and not happily, and drank coffee from the tea cups, and tried to use the cardboard from the loo roll when the loo roll ran out of paper. And bought, and left, a big punnet of plums they bought and ate only two of. And I’ve had to have the windows open because of that bloody zombie smell. And only buying ten fags because they’ve basically given up and what is with the peach schnapps? And the brains, let’s not forget the wanting to eat our brains.
It’s not like I’m equipped for a zombie apocalypse. I’m not some survivalist, even if I find townies funny in the country what with them walking into trees and wanting to know why the little shop doesn’t sell fire. But there’re axes and Lurch enjoyed the air pistol, and there was Maurice, pissed, with the Nerf gun. We had to use Andy’s notes to send them back, his transcript of the Book Of The Dead. And Andy’s really dyslexic so that took some time. It looked backwards to begin with, frankly.
So now I’ve got to clear up the zombies and the local constable is out there digging up the garden in case there are more. Which is fine as I should get the broad beans and early peas in really.
My missus is going to go spare when she sees the carpet though.