Deffo!

'Owl says copies are flying off the ethereal shelves.'

'Goodness.  So what's it about?'

'Cast your mind back, Pooh, to 1665.'

'Sorry, Piglet, the 9pm watershed is my retrophilspector limit.'

'Oh, never mind.  Anyway, all of a sudden, great numbers of people were…you know, shuffling off….'

'Surrendering the lunch-pail.'

'And all that swilled in her, yes.'

'So why was that?'

'Hard to tell.  Owl says it was probably the sudden, desolating awareness of living in England in the middle of the seventeenth century.'

'Or any time.'

'Well quite.  So this posed a huge headache for the memorialists.'

'Who?'

'Engravers, Pooh. Enamellists.  Glazers. Monumental Masons.'

'Are those the extra tall folk who greet you by tugging their left earhole?'

'Commemorators, Pooh.  People who record where someone lived and when they lived and…you know…'

'Did the lunch-pail thing?'

'Yes.  They couldn't keep up with demand so they were reduced to crafting small squares to put up on the houses…just enough room to carve "Ee woz eer" or, for a couple, "X and Y 2gevva 4evva".'

'Ah, 2gevva 4evva.  Oh the days of the skinhead spray-paint. I used to love that song…'

'What song, Pooh?'

'"O the days of the skinhead spray-paint / O the ring of the piper's tune".'

'Pooh, I don't think--'

'Some Irishman pinched it, you know.  Gave it to a barmaid named Kerry.'

'Pooh, I--'

'Probably couldn't afford "2gevva--"'

'Anyway!  The book about the memorialists' plight is in high demand again.'

'What's it called?'

'Journal of the Plaque Year.'

'By?'

'Daniel Deffo.'

'Deffo?'

'Tigger says he must have had a seriously togetherly upbeat publicist.'

'Must have done.   Memorialist himself, was he?'

'Apparently not.  Started out mass-producing lemon-barley squash in Flanders, then ran into an Italian operatic tenor who'd got slung off a P & O liner at the mouth of the Ocarina.   Named him after his lemon-barley drink, set him up as first stand-in on the GoCompare adverts and made a fortune.'

'Goodness me.  What an enterprising personage.'

'Oh, yes.  He made sure he got himself vented in the discourse of the neighbourhood.'

'What?'

'That's from the Plaque book.'

'Is it all like that?'

'Pretty much, Owl says.  Plus a lot of to wits.'

'Must be why Owl likes it.'

'Not improbable.'

'Ah, that's another gem: "It's not improbable to be loved by any--"'

'You're breaking up, Pooh.'

Dunsinane and Terminus

'This is 2Hundred Acre Winpo calling 3Hundred Acre Pigscruff, do you read me?'

'Pooh.  Just speak into the microphone as normal.'

'Hello Pigscruff, hello Pigscruff, alien message on the line from Johnny Commonsense.'

'Pooh!'

'Oh, all right.  I'm just getting bored, that's all.'

'You'll get used to it, Pooh, it's--'

'Fact is I think I'll go out for a walk.'

'Ah.'

'Ah?'

'Ah.'

'Does it say we absolutely can't?'

'Well, it's not been…I mean, as yet…well, Owl says it's a grey aria.'

'Oh.  Well, I've found a way round that.'

'Really?'

'Wire frame to go over your head and body.'

'Yes?'

'Brown paper and leaves and bits of twig on the outside.'

'Yes?'

'Label saying "Birnam Wood for Dunsinane and Terminus".'

'Ah.'

'Ah?'

'Ah.'

'Make you one?'

'Please.'

'Capital, 3Hundred Acre Pigscruff!  A bientinytot.'

'Souffle, Pooh.'

Night in Neath.

'Pooh?'

'Yes, Piglet.'

'Take your headphones off and go outside.'

'Might I have to be some time?'

'No, just a minute or so.  Just go out and listen.'

'Righty-ho.'

…….

'Pooh, are you back?'

'Yes.'

'What did you hear?'

'Nothing.'

'Wonderful, isn't it, the silence?'

'I suppose.'

'Makes me want to, oh, I don't know, walk in restless dreams through narrow streets of cobbled stone.'

'Alone, I assume.'

'Only way to tackle a cobbled street, Pooh.'

'Quite.'

'I might even linger 'neath the halo of a street-lamp.'

'Not 'neath the arches?  They'd be warmer.'

'They've fallen, Pooh.'

'Hmm, modern engineering.  I might have known.'

'Though I don't have a collar to turn to the cold and damp.'

'Kanga might have one or two knocking about.'

'Ah, wonderful, I'll give her a ping.'

'Funny line, that, "'neath the halo of a street lamp".'

'Actually, Pooh, it's a bit of a, you know, play-doh on words.'

'I feared it might be.'

'See, it seems to mean just "underneath" but there's more to it than that.'

'Go on. He said. Reluctantly.'

'It's really about where he wrote the song.'

'Is it, now?'

'See, he was playing the folk clubs around Swansea and someone told him about the place to go to in Wales where people are looking for fun and feeling groovy.'

'Oh, really?  Where was that?'

'Blaenau ffestiniog.'

'Bit tricky to slip that into a song.'

'Isn't it?   Though not impossible, I suppose.'

'"Lookin' for ffun and ffeeling--"…no, on second thoughts--".'

'"Hello, Blaenau, what'cha Blae-knowin?  I've come to watch your fflowers"--'

'Give it up, Piglet.'

'Yes, I'd better.  Anyway, he started out for Blaenau but got in a real pickle with the train route.'

'Ah, fell foul of the old Trafnidiaeth Cymru, eh?'

'Pardon?'

'That's Welsh for Welsh, Piglet.'

'I see. Oh, well, diolch, Pooh-bach.'

'Who are you calling a Poo-bah?'

'I'm not--oh, never mind.  Anyway, he wound up spending the night at Neath station.  That's where he wrote the song.  And he wanted the listener to know the town and exact location that inspired him.'

'I don't follow, Piglet.'

'You know, it's like those Agatha Shakespeare whodunits.'

'What, "The Taming of the Shrub" and all that?'

'Exactly.  You know, there's always a line that sets the scene.  Like "Gloucester, the King's camp".'

'I always thought that was someone telling Gloucester that the King--'

'No, no, no, Pooh.  Place, Gloucester.  Precise place, the King's camp.'

'Ah.'

'Ah?'

'Ah.'

'So there it is.  Neath.  The halo of a street lamp.'

'Well, I never.  Bit rum, though.'

'What?'

'Spending the whole night alone at Neath station.'

'Well, there was a young lady--'

'You're breaking up, Piglet.'

Mingle with Fingal

'Pooh.'

'What is it now?'

'I can only see your ear.'

'Oh, for pity's sake.'

'Try moving your head or your screen but--'

'--There, I've moved my head and my screen--'

'--Not both--'

'Happy now?'

'Now I can only see your other ear.'

'Good grief, Piglet, does it matter?  You know it's me.  My ears need something to be stuck either side of and--'

'--Yes, Pooh--'

'I'm still that something.   Though it does raise an interesting philosophical caramba.'

'Conundrum, Pooh.'

'So much the better. Two for one.  You know, just because you can see my ear, does that mean the rest of me exists?'

'I'm all too aware it does, Pooh.'

'Ah, but does it?  It's like if I get up from a chair and leave the room, is the chair still a chair if I'm not looking at it?'

'Pooh, don't worry--'

'What was his name, the chap who busied himself with all that?'

'Mr Russell?'

'Jack Russell!  Of course.  Very versatile man, Piglet.  Could evaluate the utility of the physical sciences while fetching your evening paper from the doormat.'

'Yes, a loss to the world.  Now if we can get on--'

'But I still don't know why we're doing this now.  I mean, we can still go out and talk to each other from a distance.  Why are we having to bother booting up our lapsangs and doing screen-time and all that?'

'A trial run, Pooh.  So we know what to do if they tell us we have to self-instigate.'

'It's all nonsense.'

'Pooh, you'll get used to it.  You'll even enjoy it.  When some folk boot up their lapsangs, one of them hums the first line of a melody, then the other hums the next line and it, you know, sets the tone for their conversation.'

'Oh, really.'

'Really.  Owl and Rabbit use "Fingal's Cave" and--'

'Oh, marvellous, so they slope off into a cave when they're meant to be self-dizzying.'

'No, Pooh--'

'And who's this Fingal and how long's he been round here?'

'Pooh, it's a piece of music--'

'Got himself a cave, eh?'

'--Yehudi Mendelssohn--'

'I didn't know we had a cave round here.  Unless this Fingal's had it dug out.  Bet he did.  Bet he's one of those second hormone owners.  Can't imagine what rate-band he's on.'

'--Pooh, Fingal--'

'So… off he swans to Owl and Rabbit and it's "Never mind all that self-dizzying. Come and see my cave-away-from-cave"--'

'--Pooh--'

'--"My bijou bolthole"--'

'--If we could just--'

'--"My little old podiatry-terre"--'

'--Pooh, listen--'

'--I notice he hasn't invited us. Oh, no.  We're not good enough to mingle with Fingal.'

'Pooh, shall we try again tomorrow?'

'I'm going to Googoocachoogle him.  What's the betting he's one of those, you know, nervy riche?'

'I'll sign off now, Pooh.'

'Actually…you don't think he's another perishing Woozle?  Not there when you look for him and not there when you don't?  See?  Times like this you need old Jack Russell.'

'Over and out, Pooh.'

'Out? Thought we were practising self-instigation.'

'Au revlon, Pooh.'

'Oh, very well, Piglet.  Auf Widdicombe.' 

Love Puddle

'Goodness, Piglet, I didn't think it would be that drastic.'

'Certainly is, Pooh. Huge cutbacks on all programming.'

'Well, I'd heard Eastenders would only be on two nights a--'

'Eastender, Pooh.'

'Oh…just the one?'

'A different character for each five-minute episode.'

'Doing what?'

'Well, they might run to one end of the Vic bar and yell "Don't you care nuffink abaht famerlee?", then run to the other end and yell "No I bleedin' don't" and then rush out just in time to bounce off the bonnet of a moving car.'

'I see.'

'Well, the front half of a car.'

'Ah.'

'Made of papier mache.'

'Right.'

'Reinforced.'

'Oh, good.'

'If available.'

'Well, naturally.'

'With a couple of the floor crew going Brrrm, Brrrm.'

'If available.'

'Well, quite.'

'But surely they can't mess about with all the classic things. I mean, The Archers--'

'Archer.'

'Oh, dear.'

'Now an everyday tale of a country bloke.'

'And what's his tale?'

'Standing disconsolately in various fields yelling "Damn you, Brian Aldridge, what about my set-aside?".'

'And what about it?'

'Set aside. Potential cost overrun.'

'I see.'

'Love Island will just be Love Puddle.'

'Well it usually is at the end of each episode.'

'Let's not go there.'

'But Piglet, some of these programmes cost next to nothing to put on. Why cut them back? For pity's sake, Gardeners' Question Time--'

'Gnomes' Answer Time.'

'Really?'

'Tigger says they're an under-represented subset of the horticultural demi-monde.'

'He still talks like that?'

'Yes.'

'But he has promised to seek treatment?'

'Faithfully.'

'So what will these gnomes be answering?'

'Some of them might wax aggrieved about the length of their rods.'

'Sounds like we're back to Love Island.'

'Puddle.'

'Beg its pardon.'

'Not that all the programmes will be cut back.'

'No?'

'Belgravia.'

'Gesundheit.'

'No, no, that new Julian Fellowes series.'

'Oh no!'

'Oh yes. Managed to escape. Plans to broadcast itself in full.'

'Can nothing be done?'

'Berlin scientists are working on a vaccine.'

'To do what?'

'Morph it into out-takes from Benny Hill.'

'Would that be better?'

'Could it be worse?'

'Point taken.'

 

The One With The Ninny

'News just in, Pooh.'

'Very now?'

'Yes.'

'Instamatically now?'

'Pooh, he's been spotted all over the news.'

'Spotted? What is this? Huw Edwards Love-a-Leopard Day?'

'No...him!'

'I knew it! The fruits of keeping the faith, Piglet. Did they get him to sing "Heartbreak Hotel"?'

'No, no, no.'

'Ah, he's tired of it. Well, can't blame him. Quick chorus of "Rock-a-Hula-Baby", then?'

'Pooh, listen. He's gone quiet for weeks and weeks. Not a peep. Totally incommuniavocado. And now this Perrycomovirus has surfaced, so has he.'

'Who?'

'The one who always goes canvassing with his Ninny.'

'Not Jacob Rice-Davies?'

'The same. Bet you'll never see him and the virus in the same room together.'

'So when was this?'

Spotted yesterday rushing through an ever-so-important door yelling "Wash your hands".'

'Well that's sound advice.'

'Except that once he was through the door he added "Not that I care. We've got your votes now, you oiky fools".'

'Well he would, wouldn't he?'

 

Tools at Twilight

'Apparently everyone's very worried.'

'Well they would be, Piglet.'

'Although it now transpires that there's no need.'

'No?'

'Their Prime Miniscule says so.'

'I'm glad to hear it.'

'Everything is in place for a robust response.'

'Excellent.'

'And their Health Secretary said just the same.  Apparently they've both had a chat

with a cobra who's in the know.  So that's all right.'

'How comforting.'

'Any time now the Health Secretary will be unveiling sweeping measures.'

'Specific lengths of hospital broom, is that?'

'No, for wholescale prevention.  He said all tools and strategies were in play.'

'My goodness.'

'Said he himself personally would not be taking his tool off the table.'

'I'll be blowed.'

'As will he if he persists--'

'Well, you know, Piglet, different folks,  different tactics.'

'I suppose so.'

'Some wear a mask, some wash their hands a lot--'

'Some get into a little tool-tabling at twilight.'

'Exactly so.'

'Rather like the Three Witches, really.  Ear of newt, tool of toad and all that.'

'D'you know, I've been trying to remember their names.'

'Athos, Portnoy and Aramerystwyth.'

'That's it.'

'Oh, they'll survive--especially with that stirring motto of theirs.'

'Dib dib dib and shut yer face.'

'That's the one.'