Tuesday again and so once more it's the Tilda report.
Bill Oddie found the vast and sugar-spotted pelt of a polar bear hung above his tent yesterday. He should take it as a warning, which is more than Ray Mears got – and with only seven Ray Mears left in the wild at the last count that makes it now six. We’re living inbetween the raindrops here in Tolly Maw and everyone is in wellies in case that changes. Where we look we see only where they’ve been or where they’ve already left, still there or not.
The bears and Tilda Swinton feign a childish innocence. They’re denying what they’re doing, blatant and straight-faced lies like those of children. But it’s not jam on hand and muzzle and one of the common Tilda Swintons is sat on our birdbath trying to dab away the evidence of her murder. But the rainwater alternately freezes or boils to her touch and intrigued she won’t stop picking at it - just as I saw two more not an hour gone and with Mervyn Peake’s puppy.
The polar bears are worse perhaps. The Tilda Swintons are only acting according to their nature. They flock and more appear daily, hatched or spawned or according to Bill Oddie pulled from their own stolen reflections in the eyes of old men and unmarried mothers. He’s enthusiastic (his camera team less so). The sound technician told Paul The Interweb that he’d seen something similar in Croydon, but I don’t see it. Crisp packets blown about the town centre the Kate Moss is only a carnivore by fashion. The soundman told Paul that they’ve had to employ people to sweep up Kate Moss as too many are cluttering up the underpasses in puddles of exhaust-filtered oil bled by the walls of Croydon.
I lived in Croydon for a while and saw a clutter of Kate Moss perk up like fearful meercats when Hermione Norris was scented passing through on the Brighton Train. Literally on the Brighton Train. Picnicking on Christmas cake and brandy snaps. Laughing like your Granny.
And the bears are worse then because they do not act according to their nature, for their nature lies well to the north (and barely can they be any the more so) there where penguins are only biscuits. The bears are here because they want to be here, there is a war behind our passing and when backs are turned because the bears want it. Philip Pullman is like Andy McNab to polar bears and the bears here have all read too much.
It’s going to be bloody, and soon. I see the Albino Tilda Swinton only when I look away. She was there at the window not three minutes gone, her breath left on the glass a frosty mask with eyes. Cats are miscarrying and she’s hung the Badger Brothers by their toes from a tree, all bound in place with ropes of their own sticky intent. They are very strong ropes. Every day we notice more, the results of symptoms of a fight we might hear but never see, and then only fragments, burned feathers and red-spotted fur. Out the same window now and three Tilda Swinton are eating Curlywurlies, chocolate first with precise and tiny teeth. I keep finding abandoned toffee in the roses.
Tonight and in the village hall I hear that Bill Oddie has a plan.
The bears all wear sunglasses now and have discovered the Dave channel.