The Case Of The Missing Alka Seltzer (Part_B).

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Dearest Pitkin,

Please do forgive the shameful delay in offering a response to your correspondence of April 2nd. I should like to say that there had been some pressing and unavoidable engagement that had kept me from sending word to you sooner, but, as it is, the last fortnight has been one of almost unalloyed leisure - reading, smoking, snoozing and experimenting with new recipes. I trust you take it as testimony to the high esteem in which I continue to hold you that I can be honest about this. I had thought about contriving some fable, but discussing the matter with Iain Laws last Thursday he advised me against it, citing the recriminations you directed towards Mordecai Szamuely when you discovered that he hadn't actually been a Blue Coat at all.

In the same spirit of candour, I feel I must inform you that I write this aboard a small passenger ferry en route to the Isle of Mann. The purpose of the trip must, alas, remain mysterious - at least for now. Let's just say that there may be one or two surprises at next month's BAFBA meet. Talking of which, I think we need to come up with some kind of "arrangement" in relation to the reemergence of J.P. Wildeboare. You must excuse my bluster, but I'm afraid I cannot feel quite the same surge of enthusiasm when I consider inviting him so fulsomely back into the fold. You and other members may feel that it's perfectly acceptable to resubmit oneself (after twelve years of shady obscurity) no questions asked - but I happen to believe in a little thing called the BAFBA regulations. Indeed, if anyone should feel sensitive to this it's JP himself, who, if memory serves me correctly, has no qualms about hiding behind legal jargon - particularly when backed into a corner. 

I must say I'm surprised to hear that he's so keen to reestablish personal contact with me, though he's always been eccentric (surely I'm not alone in remembering his jingoistic posturing at the Cheadle Dog Rally in 1986?) The last time I saw him was during a recess from the tribunal at the Somerset Assizes Court in July 1998. Before we parted, he vigorously attempted to coerce me into a declaration of secrecy, though, as far as I was concerned, nothing that could be construed as even remotely clandestine had passed between us. I had resolved to write-off the said dues between us, so it will be interesting to see if he volunteers anything.

I am told we are nearing port, so shall have to cut this short. Before I do though, I must just share this with you. I came across it while looking through my father's papers the other day. It's from The Goncourt Journal, dated 18 July 1868, and seems to me to expound almost exactly the same sentiment as that which you expressed during our visit to Longleat last October:

There is a fundamental antagonism between tobacco and women. One diminishes the other. This is so true that sooner or later men in love with women stop smoking because they feel or imagine that tobacco has a deadening effect on sexual desire and the sexual act. The fact is that love is gross and material compared with the spirituality of a pipe.

As ever,

Joseph Ouseph.


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The Case Of The Missing Alka Seltzer (Part_A).

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My dear Ouseph,

I write this in some pain.

Much to my surprise, yesterday morning, as I strolled around the practice greens, I bumped into one of our former colleagues from the St Antholin Undershaft Retirement Scheme project.

No, not Denis Zadosi (fortunately), but one Jean-Patois Wildeboare! 

What are the chances, eh...? 

Turns out old J-P is now knocking heads together and slapping backs at the Oathnell Distillery. He was in town for the weekend, and had apparently just popped in for a pot of peppermint tea.

Well, obviously, intrigued, I insisted on luncheon, so we sauntered down to the Benet Fink brasserie by the Exchange for ham and eggs. 

The poor lamb has undergone a small degree of facial reconstruction since the incident at the bakery (which you may remember hearing about from Niamh's wedding), so he wasn't his usual ebullient self, but fortunately he's managed to retain his dry wit, to accompany his dry skin, and was in perky form. 

I'm not entirely sure how, but we managed 3 bottles of rioja over the course of the following few hours, nattering about everything... from the bonus he still owes you, to his faked death, to his brief relationship with that girl who presents the weather forecast, and more. Oh, and he still has your engraved pen, too.

It was an entertaining jaunt down memory lane, but I really don't remember much else about the rest of the day. We ended up in the Club, that much I do know, because I woke up on the floor behind the bar. Maurice made me a cafetiere, and explained that J-P had hot-footed it to some important meeting in Flutwick that he had completely forgotten about. 

He's going to be around again in May, so I thought I might act as peacemaker for the two of you, and encourage a meeting. 

That's if you're game?

He really is most dreadfully sorry, and wants to explain his actions to you over a jar, or several, and some hot broth.

Be careful though, he still drinks like a rotter!

Your thoughts, as ever, are welcome. 

I trust you are well, and have hopefully now found your missing gardening gloves.

Right, now where's that Alka Seltzer? Urrggh, it must be here somewhere...

Very best,

Pitkin

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The Case Of The Missing Ouseph (Part_B).

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Dearest Pitkin,

No apology necessary - though, as I have learned through bitter experience, you must try to ensure that "dinner" does not become anything other than a singular juncture in your working(?) day. Having said that, I admit I also find these seasonal transitions rather onerous (you'll remember, March has never been my favourite month) and, what with the impending tribunal, I've been feeling quite out of sorts this last week. On top of this, I have discovered that my so-called "miracle" blood pressure prescription I told you about also comes equipped with a host of minor, though still undesirable, side-effects, including bloating, wheezing, hot-flushes, flatulence and nausea. When I challenged Lionel to explain why he hadn't informed me of this earlier, he said he didn't think I'd notice the difference. Either way, he assures me that those dry patches on my elbows are not related.

It's really too much for Maurice to have adopted the part of a jilted-Jemima. As you know, I wrote several letters to him at the time explaining my position and that, as far as I was concerned, the matter should now be put-to-bed (no pun intended). No doubt, he also neglected to tell you about the "back-fees" he attempted to extract from me during our last encounter at dear Alistair Cockswain's cremation. Indeed, M's behaviour (and appearance) that day was so incongruous, not to mention unfitting to the occasion that I had wondered if he might have had another relapse. I don't think he's really been himself since the raid, and the less said about that guttersnipe Choi the better. 

I have to say, I'm rather taken aback by the continuing brouhaha at BAFBA, though I'm sorry if you feel put upon in my absence. Surely it's only the board that need get a whiff of the real story (most of them probably have already), and the minnows can just be placated with a few raids on the hospitality kitty.

Finally, re: the new member. Caution, Pitkin, I advise caution. It sounds to me like he ticks a lot of the right boxes for our purposes (perhaps too many?), but we don't want another "Timmy Kranky" on our consciences. Enough said, I think.

As ever, 

Joseph.


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The Case Of The Missing Ouseph (Part_A).

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My dear Ouseph,

Apologies for my tardiness, I have become rather reliant on a drop or three of Claret with (and after, truth be told) dinner.

Therefore, combined with my general lethargy, and forgetfulness, and tendency for procrastination, I have become a tour de force of scat; a maelstrom of inefficiency.

So, anyway...

I was in the club talking to Chris Choi, about his unnecessarily crass laugh and fortified footwear, when we were approached by Maurice, who started wiping his own mouth with a cold flannel.

He asked me how I was (forgetting my name in the process), before asking whether I'd seen you recently.

I told him you were busy preparing for a life with an extra mouth to feed, and he started coughing up blood. Chris Choi promptly threw up on Russell Grant, who was sat to his right, alone.

Visibly shaken, Maurice then left the scene. He was very subdued, and it was clear to all that he still holds you in high regard. It is understood that he misses your regular attendance. Perhaps you could give him a call.

Your sudden departure, and absence, from the boules training sessions and the club nights, not to mention the BAFBA Annual General Meeting, has led to more questions than answers.

Questions, it would appear, that I am having to field. 

I do sometimes wish that you had straightened things out before your hasty exit.

Anyway, it must be nice to be missed. 

I trust you are managing to dot the i's, and cross the f's.

Right, now, I really must tell you about an entriguing new club member that I met after helping a stricken Choi into a tuk-tuk. 

His name is Derek, and he looks like the projected offspring of Alvin Stardust and The Milky Bar Kid.

He asked me if I'd ever been to Amarillo.

I said 'yes', for I had.

He then asked me if I stayed at the 'Camelot Inn'.

I said 'yes', for I had.

He then asked me if my name was 'Reuben'.

I said 'no', for it isn't, and he walked away.

I wondered what he would have done/said if my name was Reuben, or at least if I told him that my name was Reuben.

Your thoughts on 'The Alvin Kid', as I will now refer to him, are, as ever, welcome.

Does he have a sinister agenda? Should I befriend him? Am I to avoid him? Should I tell him that Maurice's name is 'Reuben'?

Must dash - I've yet to finish my strudel.

Very best,

Pitkin




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The Case Of The Missing Brain Cells (Part_B).

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Dearest Pitkin,

Terribly sorry for my late response - I'm afraid your last message arrived smack in the middle of another family debacle at our end. Needless to say, I'll spare you the grim details, though you should perhaps note, it appears as if your estranged Godson, Stephen, will remain that way a good while longer.

Fancy you running into Laszlo like that - I was under the impression that he was now bed-bound? Re: my encounter with him at Glenna's stag, as I said at the time, it's not so much reticence, on my part, as it is insouciance. As far as I was concerned, the evening had passed amiably and without incident. It was only after Neil Sinclair sanctioned me at the Gantry that I became aware of any perceived indiscretion. Indeed, though I hate to sound prickly about it, between ourselves, I still think the whole thing smacked of Russki hysteria - though it isn't only for this reason that I retain a degree skepticism regarding some of L's more outlandish claims.

Life at the Academy continues apace, though I continue to have difficulty distinguishing students from staff. Just last week, I found myself chastising what I took to be as a lasciviously precocious undergraduate, only to be told later that she was in fact a visiting Professor of Modern English Literature from the University of East Anglia. I suppose I should consider myself lucky that my tenured position has somehow survived the financier's scythe for another twelve months; but I do I feel increasingly exposed.

You forget that now we have moved, we no longer have any neighbours - unless you count the several thousand sheep I can see from my attic window. You also forget that nobody ever actually heard Edward make that claim for himself - it was merely attributed to him in parenthesis. Regardless, we have not remained in contact - in fact, given that cough, I should be very surprise if he made it through the winter.

As ever,

Joseph

p.s. It's really business and pleasure, or, at least, pleasurable business (I trust you understand my meaning). As such, I see no reason why we should not meet at our usual spot.




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The Case Of The Missing Brain Cells (Part_A).

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My Dear Ouseph,

"Fortune dwells on tales of yay and woe - woe is me, therefore my fortune remains untold, and, yay, woeful." - Unknown.

I met with Laszlo last night. 

He sends his regards, but, interestingly, only after I said "Shall I send Ouseph your regards?"

You still haven't told me what happened between the two of you at Glenna's stag. I presume he behaved poorly. When drunk he is a man of few words and even fewer brain cells. Thank god he works in the government sector.

Prior to the drink (not) talking, he told me he was visited by a UFO that landed in his corn field, and, thinking that no one would believe him, he had set fire to the craft immediately.

I suspect he is actually telling the truth. After all, why would he lie?

Out of interest, does your neighbour, Edward, still insist that the 'e' in 'e-mail' was named after him?

It's just that I was talking to an ombudsman yesterday, whilst Laszlo was being sick in the ocean, and he reckons it stands for 'electronic'.

Your thoughts, as ever, are welcome.

Oh, and do tell whether you're coming to town for business or pleasure - if you've a spare yard for a yarn, perhaps we could meet at the club?

Very best,

Pitkin

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The Case Of The Missing Mudguards.

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My Dear old Ouseph,

I took a stroll this afternoon, down to the edge, just as you had suggested. 

I bumped into Aubrey, who seemed skittish with worry. It transpired that he had missed his appointment at the orthodentist. 

When quizzed as to why, he became very defensive, and insisted that 'Ouseph wouldn't be so forward in his inquisition'.

This annoyed me.

"Take my advice... I don't use it anyway", I said, pointing at his face.

"A closed mouth gathers no foot", I continued, now pointing at his foot.

He nodded in a sort of revised acknowledgement, and shuffled away, humming to himself.

There were lots of cyclists on the footpaths. 

I encountered one poor soul who was an advert for the existence of mudguards, such was the filthy spray and mess on his pantaloons and lower back.

Yawning and stretching blindly, I knocked one poor pedaller off his saddle, and stood aghast as he pirouetted ungainly into the Thames. 

You would have been proud. 

Are you still rehearsing for The Tempest? 

And do you mind if I eat the soda bread leftover from your last visit?

Very best,

Pitkin

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Dear Pitkin,

Many apologies for my tardy response - I've been staying with my sister in Shatterick and have been unable to respond until now. 

I'm sorry to hear about your encounter with Aubrey. He hasn't really been himself since Stephanie's operation, and now, what with all the caterwauling about benefit cheats he's more paranoiac than ever. The last time I saw him he started on some conspiracy guff about Jews and international shipping, which, as you can imagine, left me really rather upset. Still, I shouldn't pay him too much mind - according to Lorn, he hasn't been seen at the club for several weeks.

Rehearsals, this time around, have been a disaster. What do they teach nine year olds in school these days? The one saving grace has been our Caliban - of which I shall say more when I see you. As for the rest, one might as well be doing H.M.S. Pinafore... again. 

I trust this finds you well. I know how these seasonal transitions can leave you blue. Do let me know if you'd like me to stop sending the parcels.

As ever, 

Ouseph

p.s. That wasn't soda bread.

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The Case Of The Missing Dominoes.

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My Dear Ouseph,

I am greatly interested by your intricate description of the 'giant anthill in the tundra', but can shed no light as to why you might be having this recurring vision. Does it only appear in dreams, or at intervals throughout the day as well? 

If so, in pursuit of a rational explanation, perhaps you should seek psychological assistance?

It was splendid to see you over the weekend, although I apologise once again for not bringing the dominoes along with me to the pub. 

I'd forgotten how much you loved playing. 

Alas, I returned to find them on the table by the front porch, and, unfortunately, a squirrel had mistaken them for garribaldi biscuits, proceeding to aggressively gnaw away at the exterior of the box. 

I will have to get a new box.


Possibly made of lead, as balsa is apparently not rodent-proof.

Perhaps my absent mindedness was a result of our Boules match, 24 hours prior to us meeting at the Jumping Jack Tavern. I'm still in shock at your incredible accuracy, calmness under pressure, thirst for victory and vulgar language. 

I will obviously have to be at my best for the tournament next month.

That's all for now.

Very best,

Pitkin

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Dearest Pitkin,

Of course, the "giant anthill in the tundra" is better understood via its metaphorical properties; the tundra presumably representing a Mother figure, whilst the anthill, obviously, speaks for itself. The size is of no consequence.

I second your assessment of the weekend, and you must promise me not to give yourself too hard a time about the dominoes. It's funny, I don't know why I enjoy them so much - I suppose because it reminds me of Morwenna. She would have laughed to have seen us. She always held you in very high esteem - despite that awful evening in Halifax - and I know she was genuinely dismayed by your dismissal.

Apologies for my outburst on the green. You know as well as any, how often the steadiness of my wrist seems to run parallel with the blueness of my tongue. With that said, however, I did rather find my form, didn't I? Not to suggest that you didn't also pull out a few belters. Perhaps, in this form, it won't be so very long before one of us attains the elusive Royal Pigeon - though, that, would be achievement indeed. 

As ever, 

Joseph Ouseph

p.s. M always insisted on keeping her dominoes in a biscuit barrel?

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