Spindles and the haunted pint…

A tiny, tinny, spluttery parping is heard in the background…and this fearsome noise announces, with much excitement, a new diary entry from Spindlehound!

It has been a while my good pals, and I must admit that things have not been easy in these times of great galloping plagues. I have been quite quite well in myself, but I have been devoting my time to the constant supervision of the bipedal inhabitants of the Towers. I have coaxed them out of their fetid duvet nests, banished their ill advised and unflattering lounge wear and have insisted, insisted most vigorously, that they needed constant outdoor adventures in the woods…with me…and the squirrels.

It was agreed, rather begrudgingly I have to say, that I had been an excellent motivator for them. 

I do have news though! We have been out of the house and up to the land of the North – well…the hallowed corners of the ‘South of the North’, to see…my grandad Tom. You may remember him as chief word wizard and all round jaunty rabble rouser. People still talk in hushed, reverential whispers about his exuberant performance on the dance floor at an infamous family wedding. We had had to content ourselves with seeing him on the internet video screen for the last year, but, as restrictions allowed us to, we sallied forth to see him in person.

The great occasion was his birthday, and we decided a discreet, informal and small family outing to the pub would be just the job. I think we all know how this was probably going to turn out. Shockingly, I myself was NOT included in this alcoholic frolic, so I planned to make my feelings known, via my undercarriage watering system and the kitchen floor. 

Happily though, before I had to implement this, my mate Tina and I decided on a night of gin cocktails, Wotsits and scandalous gossip! (Sprinkler system valve thusly re tightened.)

A clattering at the door announced the pub goers haphazard return some hours later. 

The reports of the evening were incomprehensible. When asked to clarify, there was an immediate cacophony of warbling voices and the waving of arms and flapping of unsightly bingo wings, which I took as an indication that something was afoot.

Donning my tweed patchwork detecting cape and fez and setting aside my knitted bat outfit…(we shall mix metaphors and our detecting heroes here) I leaned forward to hear what tall tale would burble forth from the uncoordinated, shambling articles that stood in front of me. 

It would seem that all was going well through the dinner with occasional loud and high pitched squarks (from Muvver and her sister mainly, although Hector got very overexcited when he set his gimlet eyes on his calorific pudding), they claimed that there had been something of the supernatural about their merry gathering that evening…

The chattering had wound down to a mild muttering, and as the reprobates paused to draw breath, six pairs of beady eyes fixated on a pint of beer that was, seemingly, slowly traversing the width of the table…without aid or encouragement from anyone. The movement was almost imperceptible, so much so that the merry band of cavorting loons assumed that the alcoholic fumes had unexpectedly overcome them. The glass remained static, unmoving for several seconds…and then…it recommenced its slow, balletic traverse over the table…towards Grandad Tom! 

They immediately accused him of harnessing his psychic powers, and encouraging the ale to wend its way towards him, his own pint having been drained to his satisfaction.

Now I am a big fan of the unexplained and of course I would have loved the prospect of a phantom pint. Sadly I could not tolerate their squabbling for much longer so I had to scientifically squelch their fanciful notions that the pint was being moved by – and these were the top runners and riders in their list of explanations… 

1. A Brian Cant haunting
2. A Terry Wogan haunting
3. The mischievous appearance of my nana from the other side of our heavenly ether, dropping in to say hello
4. Grandad Tom was in fact a Spiritualist Medium

Grandad had decided that it was not 3, as he felt that she might have directed the pint away from him if she were to manifest in such a way.

The explanation, as I told them, was that the pint of beer had been coaxed away on a small lake of table beer, and in essence it was aquaplaning towards Grandad Tom’s, by this time, outstretched, welcoming hand.

Naturally this explanation was not accepted by any of those fortunate to actually see the spectacle (not that I am still holding a grudge, and my tiddle, about not being included). Although in their defence I was treated to a surprise sausage the following morning at breakfast, which I think we can all agree is a splendid way to start the day.

It was, all in all, really good to see Muvver’s family again, and a small step towards a more normal existence I hope. I shall now take myself to my writing bureau, as I have another adventure that I feel should be told…

Until next time my good pals…Spindle out!