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PROLOGUE
A short update on the previous saga of Aunt Alice and Spot. Intended for those that have forgotten, or, for those who would like to forget the cost of their medication....
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Young Spot began to communicate with the kind, understanding Aunt Alice, who lives in nineteenth century England, because he had problems engaging with the opposite sex. She, in her own inimitable way, attempted to advise him, but sadly he took little notice other than to wear trousers all the time. The consternation this errant child caused has led Aunt Alice to take to the hills, with her friend Sherry, trying to forget all about him.
Spot met a lopsided, boss-eyed girl whose mother, Brenda, wanted to invade England, declare independence for Wales and elect herself as Queen of that principality. She then wanted to eat an endless supply of...Leeks!
To cut short a long, insane story, stretching from Greenland to Afghanistan and unmentionable places in between, Spot captured this usurper Brenda, in the Sahara desert, depositing her at the gates of the British embassy in Cairo. From a military prison in England Brenda escaped, then, astride a prototype moon rocket being developed by Virgin Research, crashed and died in the cemetery surrounding Castle Barnard.
Spot, being his usual, dumb self and unaware of Brenda’s fate, bought Castle Barnard, from the reward money he had received from the grateful British Government, as an inducement in his proposal of marriage to yet another unsuspecting young women; Tracey Edges. Siren FM, the leading radio broadcasting station in the British Isles, employ Tracey to host a weekly Sunday morning show, aptly named; Sunday Girl, but secretly she works for the intelligence services, spreading propaganda worldwide about just how truly great Britain is.
WHEW...If you have followed all that nonsense then you are a better man than me, Gunga Din!
Read on, as the new adventures of our precocious star unfold before your reading eyes....BUT.....TAKE HEED.....It may be wise to visit your doctor if you already suffer from a nervous disposition. Even if you don’t.....request sedatives....BY THE BUCKET LOAD.
Part one of.................................The Haunted Castle
Dearest betrothed, Tracey
Allow me to address your points, as you raised them in your letter.
1) The ladies underwear hanging from the washing line:
This has occurred on a few occasions, and had I known of your surprise visit then of course they would have been removed......I guess that would have taken away the surprise, both for you in the way of shock and me in the way of delight. Such is the way of life.
Your point that being strung on the clothesline, draped between the two towers of Castle Barnard, bringing unnecessary attention, is one I take to heart. I did intend our washing to hang there and thereby signify our togetherness. The size of the ladies brassieres and......(Spot is embarrassed now).....six pairs of draws, is a worry, and yes, they were blowing around quite a bit, but it was a windy day. I agree with you that she must be a BIG woman to have need of such covering, but disagree with your assumption that I am knowledgeable of her! I have not the slightest idea of where they came from.
I have no idea about your supposition that the colours of the undergarments represented a naval distress signal. Perhaps it was just a coincidence, although I was later told that a Royal Naval Battleship did arrive in the nearby harbour that day.
As I said above, garments similar to those have been hoisted and flown before, but NOT BY ME! I can only surmise that a village person is using my facilities...without my permission!
2) Your concerns over my mention of creaks, bangs and voices in the night:
This is nothing to worry about. It’s just the wind playing games I’m sure. The man in armour, walking away from me, with his head on backwards was simply a dream. The night of the raucous laughter, clattering of cans and screams of excitement, must have a rational explanation. I have a specialist team of draught excluders examine the cellars. I’m sure they will come up with the reason. As for the disappearing HobNobs then maybe cook is taking them. I’ll question her.
3) The front door:
I had not ventured out that day that you almost visited, so I had not seen the white chalk cross on the door. It has happened before and I suspect some errant child must be in the habit of drawing it on there. I shall inform the local police at once.
4) The disturbed ground, with the ‘murder’ of crows on top!
Aren’t I the clever one to know that the collective name for crows is: Murder. Wouldn’t I just love to do that to them!
Here is something that I, nor anyone else can explain. The ground that you saw from the road is where the official Virgin research team were digging over, then burying something in. It keeps erupting as if giving off a loud burp. There is then that disgusting smell of raw leeks, or onions, in the air that you had the terrible misfortune to inhale. Why this is, is anyone’s guess. The crows then attack it with such force the earth is scattered everywhere and they will not stop until the green slim has disappeared. The MESS they make on the windows is stupendous! It’s costing a small fortune in cleaning costs.
I understand that your Sat-Nav is now playing up, with you not fully aware of your whereabouts. I can only hope that situation improves quickly, as I would welcome your return. Thank you for thanking me for the dog biscuits. I’m only too sorry that my Ginger-Nuts were dropped in a puddle by the postman. I shall write to the Queen and complain, whilst at the same time praising your stirling work for the secret radio network broadcasting messages of hope to our former colonies. One can only pity their demise.
Yours, to the second star on the right and back again.
Spot
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