I was about to post the page---once again from a story that was completed in 2007---when I realised that I just was not happy with one panel.
So in my never ending quest to give to you all my very best, I've pulled the page and hope to be publishing it next week, with the new panel and the old page to show you why I made you wait.
Once again, sorry for the delay but I'm sure you will thank me.
In the meantime, here's an extra Friday treat: this is part of a short Sleepy Hamlet tale that will make up a collection of five such stories, due to be published by March 2014
Enjoy
Tora, Tora, Tora
Mrs
Markle, the village post mistress, stomped heavily down the street that ran
through the village of Sleepy Hamlet. She cornered violently and turned into
her post office causing the little bell to spasm with shock.
“Something
must be done” she shouted to Miss Vera, her frightened little field mouse of an
assistant. “this simply cannot be allowed to continue; the very existence of
the countryside is threatened and from a foreigner. A foreigner, I tell you, and
the very worst kind of foreigner ---an invasive foreigner!” She stood, stock
still like a frizzy haired Mussolini, hands on hips in the middle of the fruit
preserves section with her herculean bosoms quivering like two very angry
jellies.
As
usual, Mrs Markle had spotted something on her afternoon walk that had offended
her to the very core of her being; not a difficult thing to do when you had a
fuse as short as Mrs Markle’s and were a puritan, and as such felt it your
moral duty to become agitated at least four times a day.
“Well,
aren’t you going to ask me what I’m so fired up about?” Miss Vera didn’t want
to ask at all. She knew that it would lead to an out pouring of futile anger and
frustration on behalf of her employer. She knew that if she asked ‘what was the matter’ Mrs Markle would
stomp around the store, shouting so loud the shops’ mullioned windows would
vibrate, her ears would ring and her nerve endings would jangle. But she also
knew that to deny Mrs Markle her valve releasing moment of fury was tantamount
to mutiny. So she gulped the gulp of the nervously dispositioned and asked:
“What
is upsetting you so much, Mrs Markle?”
“HIMALAYAN
BALSAM WEED!”
The
sudden outburst sent Miss Vera crashing into a display of Arran Island Knitting
Patterns, causing them to scatter.
Mrs
Markle ignored her shrew like assistant as she scrambled around, picking up the
slippery plastic pattern cases while attempting to re assemble the stack. Instead
Mrs Markle stomped and stamped her way around the shop, snorting like a bull at
her inner turmoil.
“HAVE
YOU ANY IDEA HOW INVASIVE HIMALAYAN BALSAM IS?” Miss Vera shrugged her
shoulders and gave Mrs Markle a weak smile before continuing with her re construction
duties.
“DO
YOU EVEN KNOW WHAT HIMALAYAN BALSAM IS, MISS VERA?!” Once again, the timid shop
assistant shrugged her shoulders in the universal expression of ignorance.
“Well
I’ll tell you what Himalayan Balsam is, Miss Vera. IT’S AN INVASIVE RIVER WEED
OF THE FAMILY IMPARTIENS WALLEREIANA--- A PLANT THAT USED TO BE CONTENT TO LIVE
IN THE PLANT POTS OF A GRATEFUL AND JOYOUS NATION. THAT WAS UNTIL THE LITTLE
SUBVERSIVES GOT BITTEN BY THE NOMADIC BUG AROUND 100 YEARS AGO AND MOVED ONTO
THE NATIONS RIVERBANKS AND BEGAN A CHOKING COLONISATION OF THEM. AND ON MY WALK
TODAY I NOTICED THAT A LARGE GROUP--- PROBABLY AN ADVANCE SCOUTING PARTY----
HAS TAKEN UP RESIDENCE ON THE FAR BANKS OF OUR VERY OWN RIVER BRIMSMAL!”
And
with a petulant huff worthy of an over pampered pop star, Mrs Markle stormed
off to the back of her village store.
Miss
Vera, who had tightened her eyes against the tirade, slowly began to open them.
Gingerly, she first opened the one, then the other. She began to check the room
and having satisfied herself that everything was as it should be she turned to
where her employer had been standing a few seconds ago. But Mrs Markle was no longer there, and when
she heard the familiar noises of the little hand printer being pumped into
action, she raised her eyes heaven wards and sighed.
Mrs
Markle had inherited a small hand printing press from her grandfather who had
run a successful print business and Village Newspaper many years ago out of
what was now the village stores. Mrs Markle lovingly looked after the antique
Adana print press and made great use of it for her many leafleting campaigns on
behalf of the damned and gossipy souls of her fellow villagers.
Miss
Vera put the last few knitting patterns down and followed the ‘chugga-kachugga-kachuga-kachuga’
noises into the back room. When she peered around the door frame Mrs Markle was
violently pumping the printer and churning out a hastily prepared leaflet. One
of them came out at such a velocity that it cleared the collection tray and
flew towards Miss Vera before halting mid air and dropping to a soft landing
where it slid along the sparkling storeroom floor to a halt at the sensible
shoes of Miss Vera. She picked it up and read what was written
NOTICE TO ALL VILLAGERS.
WE ARE BEING
INVADED BY FOREIGNERS
PLEASE COME TO
THE VILLAGE
HALL TONIGHT TO
DISCUSS TACTICS!
A TALK TO BE
GIVEN BY MRS MARKLE
Free cup of tea
and individual
Cherry Bakewell
on entry
8 til late
Miss
Vera would have liked to tell her employer that the leaflet was a bit over the
top and that the language used was a tad emotive. But before she could pluck up
the courage to question the indomitable wall of tweed that was Mrs Markle, she
was being brushed aside by her employer, who had grabbed the freshly printed
bundle of flyer's and was heading towards the door.
“I
shan’t be long, Miss Vera. Mind the shop for me will you, I’m going to put
these up all over the village” and before she could raise a finger of enquiry,
the door had been opened, slammed shut again and the booted feet of Mrs Markle
were disappearing into the village.
Miss
Vera looked at the leaflet again. ‘Oh my’
she thought ‘I just know this isn’t going
to end well’
As
the afternoon rolled on and the villagers began to file into the store to find
out more about the invasion force that was being unleashed against them, Mrs
Markle held court but stayed tight lipped, insisting that yes, they really were
under attack and yes she would explain all later and yes there really was going
to be Cherry Bakewell’s with the cup of tea and no, Mr Barton couldn’t have an
extra one for his wife who would’ve loved to come but was too busy grouting the
bathroom walls. She even managed to keep the terrifyingly Germanic Mrs
Heppleheimer at bay, who’d turned up prepared for war--- resplendent in her
World War 1 helmet, topped off with the spike. To each and every one of them
Mrs Markle insisted they wait until tonight to hear all the facts.
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