Lady Hester and the glass eyes…

You find me in a flustered state today, my dear friend. I am incandescent with rage. Well, no, not incandescent to be honest…perhaps slightly irked would be more apt. The television machine has been infected with a proliferation of football. I had had a fairly satisfactory morning and had just arranged my spindlesome limbs on the chaise longue, clutching a post lunch glass of sherry in my languid paw to accompany ‘Antiques with Arthur’ with, when to my horror I saw that it had been replaced with an episode of the World Cup football game.  I must admit to you that I am not that well acquainted with the peculiarities of football and I find it all slightly baffling, I am a country hound after all. I always rather fancied myself at Lacrosse to be honest.  Nelson once tried to unravel the mysteries of the offside rule but we gave up after a few bad tempered moments, as it became apparent that I was not in the least bit interested, we hastily returned to our game of combative air hockey. Incidentally, using an air hockey table is not very helpful as a tool in this sort of demonstration as anything you put on it tends to be inconveniently puffed away by the little air vents. *Top tip.

The Tiny Terror is also not a fan of football, preferring to gaze hypnotically at a field of chunksome men hurtling about clutching elongated balls, ears safely taped back, sporting a look of grim, determination and purpose. Apparently they were more…well the word she eventually vocalised was ‘vigorous’. She sighed and went for a medicinal rest in a darkened room to recover from the excesses of her imagination. 

Anyway, the reason that I was so distressed at missing the episode of ‘Antiques with Arthur’ was that Lady Hester was due to make her national debut today, trailing her collection of random shiny implements behind her. The only thing that connected these disparate objects were that they had the potential to cause either great harm, or, to aid recovery from some medical incident. Most of these had been collected from antique shops or extracted from specialist shops for a reasonable sum, on her travels. It was a real labour of love as being a Daschund she found it perilous to carry anything that was longer than the length of her legs, which were obviously very short. The Tiny terror has the same problem being 4 foot 10 inches tall. You should see her trying to pilot my lanky frame about when attached to a lead (me, not her) it’s a sight to behold. 

Back to Lady H. Nelson has discussed with me her collection of implements before, simultaneously troubled and intrigued with them. Apparently there had been a moment of confused inadequacy for him when he continuously failed to take his own blood pressure properly (it kept falling off) until Lady H explained the correct procedure to do so. Relieved, he scuttled off, flushed with embarrassment and relief, while Hester wiped a tear of joyful mirth from the corner of her damp, shining eye. 

Lady H’s collection of curious objects features an antique tongue depressor, an artificial heart pump, ear trumpet and a brass nostril enlarger for that steadfast ‘League of Gentlemen’ look. She decided that for this antique outing she would take her leather case full of glass eyes to wave in front of Arthur, historically ironic in an episode that was filmed in Hastings. Incidentally, there is a sorry specimen not too far away from me (still ensconced in the darkened room of ‘wistful’ thoughts, as it happens) that would give anything for a set of glass eyes. Hector has searched high and low for them to try and win the prize for the strangest and most treasured gift ever, to no avail sadly. Bravely though, he continues his mission, like a mysterious, journeying knight from long ago.

Anyway, due to the vexatious football tournament, this particular episode of Antiques with Arthur had been postponed. This was a great shame as there was a wild rumour circulating deepest, darkest Winchester, that on the day of filming, there had been an incident involving a nearby overexcited clergyman wielding an unexpectedly rare and priceless silver collecting plate. His windmilling arms of rapture ended up clipping the side of Lady H’s table, causing it to be upended, and firing the leather case up in to orbit. Hastings has never been privy to the sight of  – well I am not sure what the collective noun for glass eyes are…perhaps ‘exaltation of eyes’, being catapulted through the air. One landed rather roguishly in a glass of wine that was being held at the end of a  scrawny liver spotted arm, bedecked with turquoise chiffon. The arm was attached to a distinguished looking lady, with a hopeful look in her eye, hugging an undiscovered  potential ‘Rembrant’  to her quivering bosom. A now very bedraggled looking  Arthur was seen to not make eye contact with her and shuffle away to the refreshment tent. The unexpected unleashing of the glass eyeballs generated shrieks that could be heard as far away as Eastbourne. By this time thankfully, the camera had cut away from the debacle but the alternating sounds of glass eyes either boinging off the soft lawn or shattering on concrete could only be matched by the wail from Lady H as her prized possessions ricocheted around the grounds.

This sight I would have to wait for. For the time being I suppose I would have to turn my attention back to the football. Oh look, there is some shiny tanned chap called Ronaldo…he appears to be rolling around on the ground doing a back shimmy like any good hound would be proud of.

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Spindle and the donkey

I may have mentioned in a previous blog post, a reference to Delaneys Donkey. Well, I have no idea who this Delaney fellow is, or if he is even missing a few of his creatures, but today I saw millions of donkeys. I had been promised (as if it were a great treat) that we were going to sally forth to the Donkey Sanctuary. I have to admit that my donkey experience is not that comprehensive although I had been hearing some alarming noises at night from the nearby field which I was assured was a donkey braying. I hope it was alright because it very much sounded like it had something caught in a zip.

Well…dear reader. Never mind advising Nelson on his love life, I have seen something today that quite frankly rendered me speechless – and momentarily unconscious. The day was mostly very enjoyable. After a cursory jaunt, we walked out to the sea and sat on the beach for a little while. I had lots of new sniffs and rolls on my back and then we went back to the sanctuary for a cup of tea to fortify ourselves for the next voyage of discovery.

We ambled on, muttering oohs and aah’s. The tiny terror is desperate for a donkey or three, but then again she also wants a bat, a ferret, a badger and a wolf. I looked over into a large paddock where several donkeys were methodically chewing the long grass and generally looking depressed. Apparently all donkeys look depressed so I was not to worry. I popped my agony aunt helpline number back in my handbag and carried on gazing around.

Then, without any warning at all, something unwieldy dropped from the under carriage of a fine looking fellow who was loitering in the corner. It was much like when the wheels drop down from underneath an aeroplane…actually it was nothing like that at all, but it was astonishing and quite frankly such an unexpected sight that I had to steady myself on the fence.

Obviously the poor creature was suffering from a dreadful affliction that had caused an unsightly appendage, which would have hampered his hurdling technique, had he wished to pursue a career in athletics. All of the donkeys (bar one, which I will elaborate on shortly) fled to the other side of the enclosure, and continued with their chewing, exchanging knowing glances. All except one little donkey that had a glint in her eye and a grin that was wider than her capacious hips. Her behaviour was…conspicuous. She produced a fan out of somewhere, and snapped it open it with a flourish. Hereby followed ten minutes of a complicated little hoof dance as she waved the fan about and peered at her suitor through her long eyelashes whilst she pouted seductively. He, whilst waiting for her to finish this strange display, kept peering at his watch, but he still maintained an interested gleam in his lascivious eye. Suddenly, well quite frankly I am not going to describe what happened next, but suffice it to say I promptly fainted and had to be revived with a folded up copy of the Guardian being wafted about. 

“Well, that was an unexpected diversion”, said the Tiny Terror who had by this point completely fallen about laughing at the goings on in the enclosure, Hector had his eyes closed and refused to open them. I had hoped for a modicum of maturity from either of them, but alas not. All I can say is that I had many many questions after witnessing this spectacle. Some of which I might ask Sister Josephine about over cocktails one evening.

It does bring me back to this chap Delaney and his donkey…I urge you to listen. 

Also, do visit the Donkey Sanctuary in Sidmouth, wonderful creatures, old souls, big hearts, huge ears and eyes to fall in love with.



Spindlehound, seagulls and a tidal wave of wee…

Close your eyes and imagine this, my dear reader. I am reclining at full furry stretch, there is a cool breeze ruffling my neck curls and the sun is gently warming my flappy ears. I am on holiday! Once again I have journeyed out in Mavis the Campervan and I can now announce that ‘Sidmouth, I am within you!’. It’s a very lovely place indeed, I can report that there are a healthy amount of sighthounds and other varieties of furry playthings here, all of whom are very friendly. 

What is not so friendly, is when you are have an unexpected face-off with a seagull, who I believe, are only a few mutations away from Velociraptors.  All I was doing, was quietly, and daintily nibbling at my ice cream when the bugger slunk up to me and eyeballed me in  a very intimidating manner. I wouldn’t look away but I must admit that it really did unnerve me. Have you ever seen a gulls beak up close and personal? *shudders. It looks like it has dunked its beak in tomato sauce, but I suspect it is really the blood of the last Lurcher who wouldn’t share its snack with it. It took a sliding step towards me and I tried my best to loom back at it in a menacing fashion. In this world there are loomers and lurkers – it turns out I am a lurker. I must get this from the Mistress, as she wrote the book about lurking. If there is a dark corner, she will be found there, full of furtive and spirited intention. Fixating me with its cold, soulless eye it made a lunge for my cone. I was full of righteous anger and acted accordingly, which was to cram in the remaining cone with a paw, sideways in, and leg it round the corner to lurk. A dark moment in the day, I can tell you.

 A lighter one was on the bus as I travelled into Sidmouth. I have to admit I am not a fan of a bus journey, I will tolerate it but I certainly wouldn’t sign up for a coach tour of the Austrian Alps. Anyway, I had assumed the lurcher bus position of four paws, firmly braced and planted on the ground at slight angles to aid balance…I became my own flying buttress. This helps me gain some level of reasonable purchase as we whizz through he countryside lanes and miss marauding cyclists and sat nav mishaps. There was a bit of a kerfuffle at one of the bus stops, so I craned my neck to see what was happening. It was the arrival of a rather magnificent specimen of a labrador, he had the jaunty charm that sometimes makes a maidens knees tremble and undercarriage swoon somewhat. I must admit to a slight quiver, but I think I managed to retain my poker face and I hurriedly practised my pelvic floor routine. He lolloped onto the bus and went to sit down a few seats behind me. I was determined not to reveal that he had affected me in such a devastating manner, so I continued to stare out of the window and thought about rabbits instead. 

As I daydreamed, I could feel his pervasive gaze on me so I swivelled around to look. It turns out that I was having something of an effect upon him too, a favourable one at that. I had no idea that I could illicit such emotions! Aware that I was very much out of my depth I smiled shyly as I felt my ears ignite, then turned away, which only seemed to encourage him. To cut a long story short, in all his excitement…well…he did a huge wee on the floor of the bus. Now dear reader, labradors are quite big dogs, but even so I had absolutely no idea that they could hold such a volume of liquid! He was bundled off the bus by his embarrassed human at the next stop (cockily throwing me his calling card as he went) and off we trundled again.

I would now like to bring your attention back to the aforementioned winding lanes that undulate like a majestic serpent through the glorious Devon scenery. Devon is a very hilly county. It was because of this that I spent the rest of the journey trying to synchronise lifting my paws up to miss the tidal wave of wee that kept sloshing up and down the bus. I was very glad that I had decided against wearing the crinoline that day. I was exhausted when we arrived and had to have a sit down and a cup of tea and a bun. 

The word on the street, or in the van, is that we are off to the donkey sanctuary tomorrow! I have promised to be on my best behaviour and have agreed that I will remain on my lead at all times for the jaunt. The tiny terror is completely beside herself with excitement as she is apparently very fond of donkeys and has a dream (one of which I am allowed to tell you) of having a couple of them at home. Maybe six. Hector is less excited about the visit, presumably he must be less keen on donkeys. 

As you can see, I have my spiffy holiday hankie in place.

There is never any excuse for not being stylish.

The Velvet Marmoset

An unexpected opportunity had arisen, and consequently there has been great excitement at Spindle Towers. News had come to us that Nelsons gentleman’s club ‘The Velvet Marmoset’ is up for sale. Nelson, somewhat anxious about this, has had numerous discussions with me as he sobbed great buckets of melancholic tears into his Cinzano. We were seated around the table of contemplation, discussing with fire and fervour the ramifications of the loss of the VM.

What it would primarily mean, is that I would see an awful lot more of Nelson, not a bad thing in itself, and of course he was still stepping out with the lovely Lady Hester. He seemed completely traumatised though as he was particularly fond of the establishment and had spent many an hour there. Fuelled by Cinzano and twiglets, we decided that we needed a plan.

I may have mentioned before that at times I do find myself at a loss for things to do. This could prove the perfect opportunity for me to get my paws into something, to channel my energy into a tangible goal. There would of course be outfits.

The Tiny Terror was beside herself with excitement as I discussed it with her later that day. We haphazardly devised a plan and decided to pool our resources together. As it turns out they are somewhat depleted after what she describe as ‘the horrendous costs of running a lurcher’. I think she might mean me. I tootled off and returned with my contributions to the cause, a receipt for a bottle of gin, an old bingo grid and a gravy bone. I was quite impressed at my haul. I also produced with a flourish an unidentified beak that I had discovered in the garden. Just a beak, I am unsure where the rest of the feathered creature was but it wasn’t due to my meddlesome ways this time. As it turns out she didn’t want any of my contributions, although I think she wavered a bit at the latter offering. We scraped together what we could and began our journey to night club ownership. During the following tedious weeks of discussion the Mistress (pfft!) seized upon the prospect of running a club with great excitement, this was a once in a lifetime chance to realise her desires to open a club where, as Lou Reed himself said ‘Just remember, different people have peculiar tastes’. This did cause some unease in Spindle Towers, but we decided it would be easier all round if we just let her get on with it. She scuttled out the room muttering to herself and citing passages from dubious literature through the ages.

We thought that it would take months of wrangling with solicitors but as it turned out the transaction was completed quite swiftly and only involved the procurement of an ancient Ford Fiesta and a box of Tunnocks Teacakes in exchange for the keys. We did check and it was perfectly legal and it was a pure coincidence that it coincided with Ralph ‘Fruity’ Richards hasty departure from these shores. Apparently he was going off grid, whatever that is. 

There was an awful lot of planning to do and it would take some time. Naturally we all had very different ideas. The property was quite large so we thought that we could rent out some of the rooms to assist with the finances. So far we had agreed to rent out one small room for the Hamster Fanciers Association, who had recently been evicted from their existing base for ‘nefarious behaviour in a public place’. It involved an oversized wooden sweetcorn and a rolled up copy of ‘Hamster Bi Monthly’. Something, we are assured was entirely motivated by an accidental over application of a HRT patch. The patch was of course not on the hamster, the problem was caused when it was discovered that Mr Pendle had snaffled some of his wifes’ patches, to help with…well…a trifling problem. It apparently did not help. Other rooms would of course become available in time, but we thought it prudent to see how this went first.

Sister Josephine had applied for the position of hostess. She seemed to have her own idea of what her job description would entail, but she fully embraced the idea of an all inclusive club and began to furiously scribble notes. She was to be in charge of some of the workshops we were thinking of running, the list so far:

1.Stripping for the uncoordinated

2. Castanets for the unwary

3. 100 ways with bicarbonate of soda

4. Needle felting with foraged hair

We also had to come up with some kind of marketing fluff, her first attempt was:

Any earthly worries, you will forget

Once safe inside the Marmoset

Give in to it my dears, to all it has

Your unbridled desires, leather clad

Next, we needed a spiffy new logo, and Sister J was spotted sketching various incarnations of a marmoset, clinging seductively to a pole, wearing a sumptuous velvet cape and winking. This was an improvement on the first one where the marmoset was languishing upside down..well I am not even going to elaborate, all I will say is that marmosets should not look quite like that. Ever. David Attenborough would have been very upset indeed.

We suggested she work on it a bit more, and this is where we are now in the planning stage. There is much to do here at Spindle Towers, but I will of course keep you informed of the Marmoset news!

Time for a nap, Pip Pip!



Spindle’s Sporran

I can’t quite believe it myself, but I seemed to have accidentally sustained another zoom based injury. In my defence, my brake pads are long overdue for a service. I have no memory of the incident happening  at all. It had been a very pleasant outing with my pal Nelson. 

There had been talk circulating Winchester, that his club, ‘The Velvet Marmoset’ was suffering financial difficulties and its future was teetering precariously. This is Nelson’s natural habitat so he is quite distressed about this news. We discussed this at length, formulating several back up plans (to be revealed at a later date) and before we knew it we were back at home. I treated myself to a cup of Earl Grey, some cheese and biscuits and waited for the return of my adoring humans. 

It was whilst I was in my accustomed position of ‘the upturned table,’ sprawled out on the bed, awaiting a belly scratch when my injury was noticed.  It wasn’t that bad to be honest but it did necessitate a trip to the vets, so off we trudged, the short one muttering profanities under her breath. I love the vets, there is always a ready supply of treats and it is in a pet supply shop so we get to see a variety of small furry beasties as we trot to the vet bit. It’s like a walk through paw buffet. 

I was led away by a charming young lady and after a thorough petting I emerged with a spiffy long dark green bandage on my limb, with the little plastic bag on the end to stop it getting soggy, or me peeing on it. 

I was chatting on the phone later that evening to the Tiny Terror’s dad, Tom, bemoaning the bad luck of my injury. During the day I had taken to using a walking stick to help redistribute my weight. I didn’t really need it but I fancied it gave me a battle weary look that I felt might encourage the emergency provision of sausages. I did find however, that using this stick meant that I was unable to also carry about with me my leather clutch bag. This holds all manner of important things like my handkerchief, hip flask and custard creams for any sudden onset low blood sugar occasions. 

Now Tom, my learned pal, is a Scot and has a brilliant mind when it comes to problem solving. After some careful consideration of my perceived problem he came up with a corker of an idea. I needed a sporran, a portable pocket for my custard creams. A snack on the go, if you will. He himself was no stranger to a sporran. In the year 1977, he found himself engulfed in the chaotic festivities of a street party, celebrating the Jubilee. Naturally proud of his heritage, he hastily borrowed his wife’s kilt and fashioned a sporran out of a wide painting brush (soft bristled) and a bit of string. It swung proudly (the sporran) and a good day was had by all. There also exists a photo of the Tiny Terror, who, for this occasion, was dressed as a bumble bee. Sigh. Sadly no photographic evidence could be found of the sporran but I am told that it was a glorious sight to behold which was spoken about in hushed whispers for many months afterwards and has now settled itself into local folklore.

The Mistress seemed fairly keen at the prospect of me sporting a sporran, but only if it dangled at the appropriate area to help to protect my precious chastity, which had to be, according to her, claimed after a hard won battle. This battle should feature suitable sonnets and great feats of derring do, so I asked if she herself ascribed to this same moral code.  We all paused to think about this for a while, as I sidestepped a flying cushion. 

After a frenzy of activity,  I held aloft my Spindle Sporran, fashioned from a purse I found which I covered in a sheepskin mitten, with braiding and jingly bells to finish. It was wound round my middle with a dressing gown cord. By ‘eck I looked smashing! Keen to try out this new method of carrying my necessaries, I went out for a wander. The first problem I had was that it is awfully difficult for a long limbed Spindle to reach round and firkle around in a sporran, especially if it needs to be done quickly. By the time I had contorted myself to reach around and opened the utility flap, the handkerchief was now redundant. It also produced a rather unsettling waft of air as it swung around my nether regions, which I did not care for. 

Nethertheless, I did persevere and it was fairly satisfactory until I had to crouch to respond to the call of nature. Sometimes brilliance can come out of nowhere. It would seem, that Tom had somehow managed to invent a self worn ‘catching mitt’ for evacuated ‘matter’.

It worked very well I must say. Less good is that I had to carry it about with me afterwards as I continued my walk. What with that and the plastic boot I was forced to wear, I think we could all assume that my virtue would not be in any real danger that day.

Spindle and the Tremulous Bush

This morning, Spindles sermon shall attend most vigorously to the concept of ‘Plausible Deniability’. A situation has occurred today which I am sad to say implicated me in an act of most heinous devilment. First, let us look at one meaning of the phrase. 

(The possibility of) denying a fact (especially a discreditable action) without arousing suspicion; the method of achieving this.

Apparently this phrase was first ascribed to politicians, but a Spindlehound has no real knowledge of what a ‘politician’ does really, so I can’t possibly comment. 

I shall return to this sorry tale. I must admit that I awoke on that morning with a feeling of disquiet about me. Nethertheless, I flung back the corner of my feather edged duvet and prepared to meet the morning with my usual cheerful demeanour, I performed my morning awakening routine, which involves stretching my lithe nimble limbs, yawning like a manic crocodile and shaking my sleep folds out. Best paw forward I say, so I slithered out of my four poster bed so see what was happening in Spindle Towers.

As a side note, something rather alarming seems to have happened. The tiny terror, Mistress of the house (so she thinks) seems to keep forgetting to go to work?! She arrived home last Friday, late I may add, with armfuls of flowers, gifts and a card. Wiping a soppy tear from her deranged beady eye, she flopped into a chair and announced her ‘retirement’. Retirement?? Only about 25 years too soon, but she has cited arthritis, whoever that is, and here she is. It has been a nightmare, her ever-present mooning face keeps bobbing about the place like an untethered balloon, as she crashes about the house. I had to cancel hosting the 10am Tuesday “Pole Dancing for Quadripeds” class with great haste. Anyway, once again I have digressed, Oh yes, Plausible deniability. After excusing myself to the garden for my morning sniffs and ablutions, I wandered back in to see where my breakfast was. It was then, without any warning at all, that my feeling of unease increased and developed into a sensation I can only describe as ‘most gippy’. 

With no time to produce my silken handkerchief I proceeded to lurch forwards like a possessed chicken and then followed a departing of my innards as I was sick all over the floor. This was most exhausting, which is why I staggered over to my day bed, and then when settled on it, I was accidentally sick again. I dapped daintily at my mouth with my handkerchief, burped, but then felt an awful lot better. The Mistress wandered over to see what was happening and peered at the mess. She sighed quite heavily, especially when she saw the state of my day bed. She described the mess as resembling pot noodle juice with an unidentified object laying within. She poked at the lump with a teaspoon to see if she could tell what it was, apparently “to make sure it wasn’t any of my major organs after all the racket I made”. This is where my efforts to convince her of plausible deniability began. However, it turned out to be implausible deniability as she continued her intrepid foraging with the spoon.

I must admit that I did have a bit of a sinking feeling as she poked about in it questioningly. All I could do was stand, still a bit wobbly, and in no uncertain terms deny I had any knowledge as to why, as the probed lump unravelled a bit, a little tail became visible. I expressed my utter shock at this discovery and explained hastily that I was sure it was a sock. I gesticulated wildly with my limbs, that I had absolutely no idea how a small furry animal could have possible found its way into my tummy pouch. I declared it must have found its way in when I was sleeping, as I sometimes do so with my mouth lolling open. It was uncanny. I could tell she didn’t believe me, she folded her arms in the way that only she can, and frowned at me. This it would seem was a discreditable action, a possible tarnish on my reputation as a gentile lady spindle. I could tell that her suspicion had been aroused. Bugger. In my defence it had happened in a bit of a blur. It was whilst I was out on my evening scamper that I sallied forth to investigate a twitching bush. Any hound will tell you that a trembling bush is a beguiling sight to behold. I forced my head into the middle of it and spotted a new chum. In the spirit of friendship I bent down to greet the little furry fellow, but I inadvertently inhaled much more powerfully than I meant to and it…well,,,it just shot straight down. I was powerless to help and it was all over in a flash.

Now, nature had taken its course. I thought she loved nature, she is always banging on about it. It would seem though that she just does not like it regurgitated on the kitchen floor. She stared at me, I grinned back and waved a paw to express my happiness to see her. She sighed. Time for bed after all that excitement, after breakfast though of course.


Spindle and the Mole

Today, my dearest and most devoted reader, I went for a walk. Nothing unusual in this I hear you sigh – which I notice has a note of detached indifference to it. The events of today however have caused me much soul searching. An unexpected moment of misguided exuberance on my part has caused me once again, to break out in an unbridled display of verse…yes, I have recounted the incident that has affected me so, in the only way I know how, in poetry.

I scampered through the woodland

The day had promised fun

And there I spied a recumbent mole

Basking in the morning sun

It was bereft of life it seemed

Its future plans negated

So as a mark of houndly respect

I rolled on it, until it deflated

I floated this small offering out on to my twitter account (I am a most technical hound you see) and was astonished and a little humbled by the outcry of concern for the mole. I have never really considered these velvety beasties in any detail before you see.

I would like to take this chance to reiterate that the mole was definitely and quite unmistakably deceased when I chanced upon it on my morning frolic. When I first spotted it, my aim was to simply offer it my condolences – by rolling on the little chap. It was an act of beauty and love. My arrival back home caused a certain amount of distress as I still had a touch of the ‘Au De Mole’ about me.

No thought was spared by I, for the grieving mole family that would at some point no doubt gather by his side to sing happy moley songs to celebrate his life, to be rendered speechless as they discovered the flatter version of…yes, I shall name him, Isaiah, the reason being that after my regrettable administrations, one of his beady eyes was indeed slightly higher than the other. This whole event has triggered existential turmoil deep within my limbs. It is because of much soul searching that I have decided to pen a farewell to dearest Isaiah. I must admit that my knowledge of moles is quite sparse, so I began leafing through some nature guides that were bursting out of the bookshelf. Firstly, some of the nature guides were of an…unexpected nature, I will be having a word about that later with the ‘disreputable duo’. 

As a sidenote, I also saw a photograph of a naked mole rat. Have you ever seen one? If so then there is clearly no need for me to comment. It was a sight that shall stay with me for a long while, let me tell you.

Anyway, after a flick through the information at paw, I believe I have a better understanding of them and have gathered together my thoughts which I have written as a mark of respect. I will personally deliver this missive to his the final resting stain and leave it for him, alongside a small bunch of bluebells that I pinched from the garden and an aggrieved worm.

My Dearest Isaiah

I must offer you, my dear, dear little chap, my most sincere apologies for my disgraceful behaviour this morning. I must admit that the ‘wild hound’ in me emerged without warning, which in my excitement I confused with the notion of affection. This is no excuse of course for my reprehensible behaviour. I do hope that your nearest and dearest weren’t too distressed by your appearance, you probably looked quite different to them, having popped open like an over ripened peach. Please be assured that as you travel to your next moley life, that I will be sending you my best spindly thoughts.


Elsie Esme Weatherwax Webb



This is my best existential face.