Goldy and the traffic lights

The first part of shaggy dog tale/marathon:


Goldy the Shepherd and his fellow dogs were winging their way through space towards Earth, fondly hoping to discover intelligent life. True, they could see intelligent life by looking in the mirror, but there's something about the vastness of space that makes any halfway conscious species wonder if there are other critters out there that have better music; guitars with 6 six strings, maybe, rather than the dogs' regular 4; novel recipes for dog food, or whatever. Maybe, thought Goldy, someone somewhere has even found a better system of self-government than our Reasoned Debate Based On Facts, Cultural Heritage and Open Minds. To some extent Goldy was hoping for a new system because the RDBOF,CHOP system kept electing him chairdog and he fancied a breather.

One of the truly educational things about approaching a new world from a great distance at speed is that the blue shift portrays the history of the target world at superfast speed...

- - -

Goldy and Silver (his long term partner and favoured flea nipper) reclined in front of the monitor wall and watched the history of selected parts of the approaching Planet Erf.

'This is the Inter Sect,' barked Silver. 'They live in the desert region near the equator.'
'I've studied them briefly,' growled Goldy. 'Show the video, perlease.'
The prophet Kaley Doscope emerged from his cave during the time of his peoples captivity by the MicroLimpians. 'The MicroLimpians are the work of the Divil,' quoth Kaley Doscope in a pleasantly lilting voice. 'Tiz the very Divil isself I tell ye! Ye are tay resist MicroLimpians non-violently with considerable muttering when they pass by thus generating indigestion and poor sleep in the Divil's accomplices until they quit our land and let us live in peace.'

'Tiz the word of the Lord,' quoth the throng. 'they are in league with the Divil and we are the good uns!'
'Hail Myrtle!'
'Who's Myrtle?'
'Famous turtle; bound to be on our side.'

'Very interesting, Silver,' said Goldy. 'You'd make a fine chairdog; and I'll be there to assist if you find it tough in the early days.'
'Quit whining, chairdog. It's your job. The next spell of the video is about 1,000 Erf years later. The MicroLimpians are now enslaved by the DoScopes and have been wailing and lamenting, gnashing their few remaining teeth and generally complaining about the lack of worthwhile TV programmes provided by the fascist dictator DoScopes.'
'I know just how they feel,' woofed Goldy.
'You do?'
'Welllllll – I can imagine it; and feel for them like; as it were ... um.'
'I should quit mumbling and watch the video if I was you.'
'Good idea silver. You'd make one hell of a chairdog, y'know.'
'I KNEW you were playing dumb! Sneaky old chairdog!'

The prophet Thurd-Eye emerged from his meditation hut after months of total abstinence, with nought but rice, vegetables, apples and chocolate coated muesli and almond bars for sustenance. He addressed the assembled throng:

'The Lord has spoken,' he croaked. 'Hang on; my voice has gone all of a dither after months of silence.'
The crowd were agog. Many fell to their knees in trepidation and anticipation. Some were already there suffering from constipation, having been camped outside the prophet's yurt for months with only broadband via mobile phone for entertainment.

Thurd -Eye gurgled and gargled, coughed and harrumphed. Finally he cleared his throat in a civilised manner and began to recite.

The librarians flexed their muscles, laptops at the ready. The chiselling into stone could wait until later since Thurd -Eye was a famously high-speed waffler once he got the byte between his teef, so to speak.

'What did he say?' demanded a low-life late-comer.
'Hush, infidel!' complained the crowd.

'When you've quite finished,' began Thurd-Eye, 'The Lord done spoke to me, and this 'ere is what e said; near as dammit.'
'Gasp,' quoth the crowd; too agog to actually gasp in case the semi-intelligent humanoid narrator forgot to record the fact.

'He said, our neighbours, the wossnames.'
'Evertonians,' interjected the crowd helpfully.
'Yes. I clean forgot during my yurting. They are in league with the bad git.'
'The very divil!' exulted the crowd.
'That's the one. And we're supposed to instigate a work to rule until they sod off.'



'How come all the prophets are male!' growled Silver.
'Good point Silver Please be chairdog for a while, I need a sabyy attical!'
'No way, Goldy You're doing a good job boy!'
'Blast and bug rakes,' moaned Goldy



'The spiel of the prophets seems kind of reasonable to me,' said Silver.
'Yep. Ineffable it ain't. Seems more like common sense plus sociological insight; plus the exceptional well-balanced wisdom of the deity that isn't caught up in the day to day misery.'
'Yep. Sadly, the word of the prophet, in both cases, appears to be taken as eternal truth.'
'Did the bad guys sod off eventually?' asked Goldy.
'They did. But the punters keep up the vendettas on both sides.'
'Weird. Imagine if creatures were so weird they treated traffic signals like that...'

'It's funny you should mention that. We caught such a one on video!'

Policeman Ploud: you once saw a traffic light that was green?
Defendant: yes sir. It said I should proceed and other lesser life-forms should give way.
Policeman Ploud: have you seen any other traffic lights since?
Defendant: I don't need to.
Policeman Ploud: The lights actually used the phrase 'lesser life-form'?
Defendant: 'Of course not. That was self-evident, I should say.

'Bluddy L,' said Goldy. 'What a pudn!'



Part 2

Danyul sat beneath the Konka tree and was perplexed. 'I'm perplexed,' he moaned, for he was an exceptionally honest young fellow.

Why was he perplexed? Well, the circumstances were unusual, offering no scope for budding writers of opera, plays and what have you, and were pretty much thus:

Danyul's sort-of girlfriend had been taken away from school and made to stay with her Aunty Dragon in Queenside Castle – a semi detached residence in Kilton Means. Why? Because she showed an aptitude for computer programming (a subject close to Danyuls' heart) and the Pretentious Comprehensive School of Bryton Upon Channel didn't hold with girlies doing things that boys were supposed to do. They didn't much like girlies doing things the male teachers couldn't understand (barring the programmer general, who was a bit odd) neither, and it really pissed them off that she might get a job with Google as a Linux programmer earning more than them, by the time she was twenty one.

Danyul felt like he'd never felt before. This was one of those moments when background music starts to play in the teenage mind, life becomes just a tad Hollywoodesque, and mischievous archetypes crawl out of the compost heap to play Complications – their favourite card game bar none.
Danyul didn't think this though, he just thought 'bugger', closely followed by 'worrammigonnadoo?'

The teenage mind and male mind are strange places; imagine then the state of the male teenage mind – doubly strange; if it was a hadron, say one up quark and two strange, try if you can to imagine the size of the budget needed to generate such a particle, even for a smidgeon of a microsecond. Imagine the size of the accelerator – probably a ring roughly the circumference of Switzerland with a downhill slope in the Swiss Alps to get the little critters started.

Where were we? Oh yes – Danyul's mind. A lonely heroic trek, thought Danyul'; possibly with dragons – definitely with Dragons, given the future-mother-in-law-designate's role in the tale, not to mention her sister; and the castle – Princess (for Such was her name), Princess Such A Toodoo, to be complete, had to be rescued.

'I might need a ladder,' Danyul mused. 'Possibly a flask of tea or coffee.'

He pondered, incongruously enjoying the bark of the tree on his back. It's weird, so it is, hos a little thing like the feel of a tree at your back can be a wondrous thing when you've got to leave the said tree. I'll think about that later, mused Danyul, after I've rescued yon Princess. He made a special effort to use her proper name, given her predicament, usually calling her Such 'n' Such; though even that was an improvement on the So-and-So that most of their school associates blabbed.

'I'm supposed to be pondering to a purpose,' he declared, all of a dither – partly due to the new found determination of testicle-dropping adolescence, partly the fear that Father Crissmuss might really exist and be monitoring his every moment.

'Err, I might need a map!'
this felt like a good idea and Danyul relaxed against the friendly tree.
'Make yourself at home,' the tree seemed to say. Indeed it did say this, which just goes to show how pear-shaped the world can become once the mischievous archetypes are gathered around the card table, bright eyed, bushy tailed, a whole new day of marginally purposeful interference ahead of them.

*

Danyul folded his map to the appropriate section and set out with a boyish manly stride. Let there be dragons, he boldly thought, and future mother in laws he added with less confidence. Princess Such A Toodoo at Milton Keans, I'm on my way. Fear not. Er, etc..

His day passed uneventfully and Danyul camped for the night in a quiet field near to a small village.
'This seems a good spot,' he mused. 'Quiet enough to sleep. Near enough to habitation so that I don't miss my teddy. Well, not too much anyway.'

Danyul woke soon after eleven pm to the sound of grunting consisting largely of four letter words beginning with f. Fortunately he was too young to recognise the word, but old enough to recognise trouble.

He peered out of his tent and felt very relieved to discover the f-ers were not in the field. Should he move his tent? Dare he go and investigate.

*

'This looks a likely spot,' said Goldy. 'A youth of approximately humanoid, semi-intelligent species wandering boldly in trouble.'
'Well spotted, chairdog,' quoth Silver. 'Speak and we shall obey, more or less.'

'That's right,' quoth the other Alpha Proximan Shepherd dogs. 'Nice work boss.'
They wagged their tails, ready to follow, proud of their top dog.

'Okay,' said Goldy, please bring a couple of Erfian interpreters of semi-intelligent humanoid form.'
'Will do boss,' said the smallest of the pack.

*

'Ooer!,' quoth Danyul as he spied the crowd of drunks in their back garden, swearing, throwing empty cans and bottles around, and taking the mickey of any neighbours that peered out of their bedroom windows. He crept nearer to where a few neighbours were discussing the drunken rabble and listened.

'I told the police and they said they can't do anything unless they break a law,' said one.
'I told the social services and they said they have a deprived background, they just need love,' said another. 'So they're volunteering to live next door?' asked a third.
Danyul recognised the tone his mother used when she was practising sarcasm; or did she call it sauce? Something like that. Anyway, it didn't get an answer from the other neighbours.

'They none of them work,' complained one.
'We're paying for all their bloody beer, not to mention rent, rates, etc.,' added a second.
'Oh, don't start, I'll get a migraine,' complained a third.

'Look at the tribe of kids! All of them boozing by the age of fourteen, none of them ever likely to work!' complained one, regaining the initiative.

'Err, oh dear,' mumbled Danyul. I have Princess Such A Toodoo to rescue from the Dragon of Kilton Means. I can do without this wossname!'

And with impeccable timing life appeared to choose this moment to get worse.

'Ooer!,' quoth Danyul as he spied the pack of dogs approaching. 'The poo what I am in is getting deeper, so it is. This is one weird day.'

'It is that,' came a voice from the pack; a vaguely semi-intelligent humanoid sort of voice. 'Don't be worried, lad, we're here to help!'

'Sheesh! You speak proper Inglish!' quoth the boy. This is how adventures are suppose to be! Bring on the dragons.

Goldy stepped forward, his chief semi-intelligent humanoid interpreter trotting dutifully behind.

'Oh bother. I didn't mean it,' wailed Danyul. 'You're so big!'

'It's the diet,' said the interpreter after a few gentle rumblings from Goldy. 'Goldy the Wonder Dog is leader of the pack, by dint of our democratic Reasoned Debate Based On Facts, Cultural Heritage and Open Minds electoral system, and I am his mouthpiece/interpreter for fellow humanoids (yep, I'm one of them). Er, where was I? Oh yes. Goldy says it's largely the diet. Though the breeding surely helps; you should see his great-grandfather! What a dog ...'

Goldy rumbled in the interpreter's ear.
'Sorry, I got carried away,' muttered the interpreter. 'Um.'

*

The pack had been chewing the fat, so to speak, in the background, and Silver came forward to sit beside Goldy.

'It seems the neighbours are unable to do anything about the rabble. Should we intervene?'
Goldy smiled – a terrifying sight until you're used to the teeth. 'Do tell what provisional plans you've aired and we'll make a choice!'

'Welll -,' said Silver. ''It seems obvious to re-house them.'
'It does.'
'It may be best to choose a site where there aren't any sober semi-intelligent humanoids to annoy.'
'It may.'
'Possibly, with your approval, of course, they could have a tarpaulin, a spade and a few seeds, rather than the constant nappy changing currently arranged by the state and paid for by these sober semi-intelligent humanoid neighbours.'
'That's possible,' Goldy agreed.
'You aren't offering much in the way of feedback, top dog,' silver complained.
'Oh, I expect it's my age,' complained Goldy, suddenly remembering to limp. 'Time for new blood, younger than mine,etc., cough cough.'

'You said cough instead of doing it!' silver complained.
'Er, good point. You'd make such a fine chairdog, in my ageing opinion. Um, actually coughing in the literal sense hurt my poor sore antique throat, and there's always the danger that the semi-conscious, semi-intelligent humanoid chronicler (emphasis on chronic, you understand) might fail to report the said cough.
'Sheesh! You think of everything. We're so lucky to have a top dog like you. I propose another term in office for Goldy starting now! Those in favour.'

'Yes!' barked the throng, and the semi-intelligent humanoid interpreter and his understudy (a fellow called Marty rescued from the swamplands of Hill Annoy in a parallel universe).

The crowd of alcoloids (a sub species of the semi-intelligent humanoids of Erf) were suddenly quiet.

'Was that a fxxxing neighbours fxxxing dog, man?' grunted one of them. He looked at the dominant alcoloid, hoping to have impressed him.
'Could fxxxing be, man,' replied the dominant alcoloid, having left a long enough pause to keep the underling trying.
'Maybe we should fxxxing join in,man?,' suggested one alcoloid. 'Dogs are fxxxing dim, man. They're fxxxing pack mentality, man. No fxxxing brains of their own, man.'
'Wooo! man' shouted the alcoloids.

The neighbours, mostly indoors behind treble glazing, covered their ears. The very thoughtful ones covered the ears of their dogs, too.

'They're taking the mickey of the poor semi-intelligent humanoids' dogs!' complained Silver.
'We go through a spell of that as pups,' mused one Alpha Proximan dog.
'We've usually grown out of it by six moonths though,' added Silver.
'You were through it by five and half months!' Goldy praised.'You'd make such a fine chairdog!'
'We've just had the election! Now quit whinging!'
'So sorry, I forgot,' Goldy claimed. 'I expect my poor ageing memory is on the blink.'

'What we gonna do, then?' asked a young pup.
'Round up the alcoloids,' barked Goldy, suddenly up to speed, 'find a safe place to imprison the ones that won't undergo retraining.'
'Retraining?' asked a pup.
'If a normal, semi-intelligent humanoid hasn't been trained as a 'pup', due to absent parents or alcoloid parents, then it doesn't develop as Alpha Proximan dogs do, and has many problems. The semi-intelligent humanoid authorities have facilities for re-training, but the ageing pups need to volunteer. We'll help them to choose this option...'

'Wow!' said Danyul.
'I'm so glad you approve, Danyul,' said the interpreter on Goldy's behalf. 'You can go and tell the alcoloids we've got some free beer for them. Don't call them alcoloids, though. They rarely seem aware of the fact.'

--**--



'I don't fxxking know, man,' complained one alcoloid. 'It seems we can't even have a fxxking civilised get together in our fxxking garden nowadays, man.'
'These are indeed repressed fxxking times, and a repressed fxxking sosociety, man,' added the dominant alcoloid.
'Fxxking society, man?' asked one.
'That's what I fxxking said, man,' replied the dominant alcoloid.

'Here, man, where the fxxx are we?'
'There's fxxking non-one about, man.'
'He, he. That's a fxxxing relief, man. Don't need to be so fxxxing uptight, man!' added a junior alcoloid.

'We seem to have a fxxxing tent, a spade and a few seeds, man.'
'Er, where's the fxxxing beer, man?'
'Where's the fxxxing drugs, man?'
'Where's the fxxxing shops, man? I'm hungry, man.'
'There's a fxxking note here, man. It says there's a fxxxing few weeks rations of bread and a book on fxxxing farming in this box, man.'
'Er, why is there a box of fxxxing napppies, man?'

2B continued

Monkeys and Dogs - Edlam and Syllum

a story about - you'll see ....

Once upon a non-time in a non-place there was a bang; and it was big. Energy, for want of a better word, was thrown every which way, seemingly at random. The Entity with the Magic Wand, so to speak, looked on and saw that it was good.

After a mind-boggling span of time, all apparently totally boring and aimless, billions of lifeless galaxies coallesced, each containing billions of lifeless worlds. The Entity with the Magic Wand admired its show and saw that it was good, relatively speaking.


One planet in one galaxy evolved simple cells in the primeval ooze, so the rumour goes, and some cells even had the ability to divide and replicate. Occasionally a dollop of energy would hit one and initiate random changes – some of these were advantageous, and some weren't. The Entity looked down on its creation, metaphorically speaking, and saw that it was good; more or less.

A much livelier period was characterised by dinnersaurs. They spent 100,000,000 years tearing each other to bits, then eating the bits – the ones left standing, that is. The Entity scrutinised this, from a safe distance, and saw that it was good – from a certain evolution of the toothiest perspective.

Eventually, monkeys and dogs evolved, and relatively hairless post-monkeys. Some of the post-monkeys became so inventive that they built shopping palaces; one of the less impressive developments of post-monkeyism. There were more thoughtful post-monkeys who devoted themselves to overcoming the craziness of the instincts they'd apparently retained from the era of dinosaurs. Now and then one of these would have a vision, after years in a cave protected from the shopping malls.

On the great land mass called Eastbit, a now famous philosopher-hermit called Edlam was granted a vision of the Entity's elbow – a most unusual display of concern by the Entity, and a whole religion (Edlamism) evolved from this. The Edlamites built temples-without-shopping-malls, Twismalls.

On the other great land mass called Southwestbit, a similarly famous hermit-philosopher called Syllum was granted a vision by the Entity, it looked pretty much like a nostril to Syllum, and in time his many followers knew without a doubt that Entity was in fact a nostril. They called themselves Syllumites.

The Edlamites, and the astute amongst you have probably already guessed as much, declared that Entity is an elbow, as all right thinking post-monkeyists will undoubtedly agree.


In recent times, an Eastbitter Syllumite priest called Smith had severe doubts about the completeness of the Syllum philosophy and went to find a cave of his own where he hoped to see the Entity, possibly more than the elbow even, and ask for guidance.

A Southwestbitter Edlamite hermit called Jones had the same idea and went in search of a pole to sit upon, all the caves having been converted into holiday apartments in Southwestbit.

After many years, both hermits completed their meditation. They were surprised to find that the divine appeared to lead them through this process in the guise of a female post-monkeyist; they were utterly convinced by her goodness, kindness and merciless criticism of their failings.

'This is good!' quoth one. The other voiced a similar opinion. Something good was sure to evolve from such an experience. Neither had specifically seen a nostril or an elbow in isolation or with expicit emphasis, though the divine feminine appeared to have two of each.

Jones pondered:
Maybe the Intermittent and Neverending Wars, as historians had dubbed them, would be able to downgrade to Madness With Money – a sport (apparently) involving highly paid drug users who maimed each other while chasing a ball...

Smith pondered in a not dissimilar manner.

Each hermit philosopher was about to venture into the evangelical phase – evangelical for the Divine Feminine rather than their own fairly confused views – when she, Entityesse, appeared to first one then the other and declared that they had earned a connection to Entity himself.

'Sheesh!' quoth one, and the other hermit-philosopher was of a similar mind.

Imagine their woe when it became clear that Entity was so enamoured of its creation that they were 'rewarded' with a one way ticket back into the world they'd rejected.

'Have children now!' demanded Entity. 'And a job in banking!' Smith looked in the mirror and counted his teeth on the fingers of one hand. Jones did likewise, using the fingers of the other hand – his eyesight having long since failed.
'Banking?' he said. 'What's that?'

Every day the Entity delivered more such 'good news'.
'Are you sure this is a good idea?' asked Jones.
'And buy a new car!' declared Entity.
'Can you hear me? I'm blind and don't much wish to run over innocent post-monkeys in a car! Jones complained. He shouted the bit about hearing, just in case...
'You've had little life,' said Entity. 'Make it a good car!'

'I didn't think so...' muttered Jones, and Smith was of a similar persuasion.

When Smith returned to the desert to found a Colony of Potentially Intelligent Dogs, many of his contemporaries were dismissive. A bit of an escape from life, said one. No porn channel in the desert, vouchsafed another.

Jones had a similar response to his Institute for Educating Monkeys.

The Divine Feminine looked down, metaphorically speaking, and sighed. The dogs were trained to be less aggressive about food, and enjoyed carrots and beet as well as wrabbit. The monkeys became fine gardeners, though they restricted their endeavours to tree fruit – all that messing with spades caused such terrible back problems in the so-called post-Monkeys ...

When the Intermittent and Neverending Wars did finally end, simply because everyone was dead - suffocated under the garbage bags, irradiated, contaminated or terminally bored - the Divine Feminine was pleased to see that both hermits had released their dogs and monkeys before they too expired, and she was especially pleased that the the Ocean of Korg lay in between the two lands. Neither dogs nor monkeys were fond of water, and they weren't likely to invent boats yet awhile. They would remain seperated.


'This time we have two chances,' she sighed.

The Entity looked down and saw that it was good. Good for what, it didn't say...

postscript:

The Ocean of Korg was named after the Korg, a species of aquatic mammal sporting both fins and flippers. The flippers have 7 white digits and the flippers have 5 black digits. Both fins and flippers are very dextrous. The Korg sometimes lure mariners to their secret lairs by their ability to mimic virtually any sound they hear, accomplished by strumming their fins and flippers together. At least they used to when there were mariners ...

The dogs and monkeys eventually became aware of each others' presence using bits of junk left over from the Shopping Era. Their historians named the two extinct civilisations
A. Syllum
B. Edlam

things feel more under control once they've got a label :)

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Harry's school days

Guinea Pig Soup

‘We’ll get you into the Tootsie Institute of Technology, son. The success rates, the prospects, the famous guinea pig soup,’ said Mrs. G.

‘Guinea pig soup?’ asked Harry. ‘I’ve never heard of it. Are you sure it’s legal.’

‘Oh yes. I know some species are protected, for example the swan. And others are considered to be pets. Domesticated as it were, like the guinea pig. But the college no doubt has special privileges,’ explained Mr. G.

‘It’s true, son. I’m sure the Queen has the right to eat swans. Or was it an Oxbridge college?’ said Mrs G.

‘Where’s Oxbridge?’ asked Harry.
’She’ll eat an Oxbridge college?’ asked Harriet, Harry’s younger sister. She looked a picture of innocence kneeling elegantly on the deep pile Afghan carpet, hands placed gently together in a contemplative almost prayer like touch whilst absent-mindedly chewing the end of one of her many three foot long, multicoloured, bead strewn dreadlocks.

Mr and Mrs G looked at each other.
‘Er, it’s somewhere between Oxford and Cambridge, innit?’ suggested Mr. G.
‘Accent dear,’ Mrs G reminded him. ‘It’s probably a village half way betwixt the two, son.’

They’re talking weird again, thought Harry.

‘They’re talking weird again,’ observed Harriet.

‘Shush dear,’ said her ma.

If I’d said that I’d be in deep shit, thought Harry.

‘What is talking weird, Dear?’ asked her Dad.

‘It’s the language spoken by the native population of the People’s Republic of Weird, dad,’ suggested Harry. ‘Weird being a small semi-autonomous republic halfway between the US of A, which I’m sure you’ve heard of, and Cuba, which you possibly haven’t.'


*

Mr and Mrs G made embarrassed noises as they left Harry’s shared dorm. Largely due to the presence of his room mate’s family, Harry thought.

Harriet rolled her eyes in a knowing manner, and Harry resolved to write her a letter, the first time he’d have done so, not counting birthday cards and such obligatory notes.

‘Have you found the guinea pig farm yet?’ Harriet asked.
Harry shook his head and Carl, his Lithuanian room mate, looked very interested.

*


‘You really call your money LSD?,’ asked Carl. ‘It makes you that spaced out?!’

‘No! I mean, we do. From when it was pounds, shillings and pence.’

‘I see,’ lied Carl. ‘d for pence. Why d’you use d for pence?!’

‘Good question,’ said Harry, wishing he’d had an English room mate. ‘It was to distinguish it from other words with a p in, I reckon. The p had already been used.’

‘Someone had take the pee?’
‘Precisely.’

‘What other units of measurement were they then?’ Carl persevered.

‘Dunno. Probably the cubit, furlong, kilogram, centimetre, decibel, millipede. Stuff like that.’

‘Right,' said Carl. 'So when do we get this famed guinea pig soup?’

Harry wondered about this whilst watching Carl add more super glue to keep the small green tomatoes attached to his cannabis plants. The things one had to do to placate porters. Still, soon they'd be living off campus, thought Harry. Hopefully in different neighbourhoods.

‘I’m so glad you asked,' began Harry. 'I’ve been wondering the same thing. The staff always say they’ve never heard of it, but it’s common knowledge, whatever that means.’


*

‘Soup!’ exclaimed Carl. The lads careered into the dining room, keen to get their mitts (their hands, Carl) on the nosh (the food, Carl) and search for traces of guinea pig.

‘I see leek,’ declared one.
‘I detect potato,’ pontificated Chas the chess champion.

‘Detect!’ roared Biff, the college Rugby captain. ‘Hit him!’
‘No guinea pig, unless finely powdered,’ added Harry. ‘What’s it taste like?’

‘Leek and potato soup,’ said Carl. ‘Except for the bread. That tastes like bread.’
‘Imagine,’ said Biff.

So they did.

*

‘Soup,’ exclaimed Chas – he’d learned not to pontificate.

‘Carrot,’ said one.
‘Lentil,’ added another.

‘Taste?’ demanded Biff.
‘Carrot and lentil soup,’ alleged several.
‘Could be lentil and carrot,’ said Biff.

‘Or even a mixture of the two,’ said Harry.
‘You trying to be clever?’ asked Biff.

‘Yes sir,’ said Harry, ‘if you like.’

*

The headteacher glared hatefully down from the platform at the morning assembly.

‘In order to upgrade security, there are new turnstiles at the entrance and exit,' he bellowed. 'You will use them properly, displaying your wrist tag, and the central computer will always have records of everyone on the premises,’ he said.

There followed a smidgen of muttering from the back row, until the Headteacher glared.

*
Another uneventful day ended and the undergraduates queued to leave the campus.

Biff, Harry and Carl proceeded one at a time through the exit turnstile. Harry had a peculiar sensation as he watched Biff, the largest mammal wearing clothes that he’d ever seen, plodding mechanically within the stainless steel turnstile. He remembered their first term at the college – the excitement, even amongst those who claimed to loathe school, the exploration of nooks, crannies and new acquaintances.

Harry suddenly had a picture of his sister in his mind. apparently she'd now woven fine strands of metal into her hair and couldn't go into shops with high-tech security equipment on the exits, which was saving her money at an astonishing rate. It also looked rather special.

Carl got confused in the turnstile and started to whimper.

‘I haven’t remembered to write to Harriet for a while,’ said Harry. He shuddered…


*

Postscript:

Despite being 90% muscle, 15% water and very poor at arithmetic, Biff graduated along with his contemporaries and secured a job in Amsterdam working for an Indian company that had won the contract to provide Customer Support for Iffy Internet Providers (USA) for their residential broadband customers in the UK.

He found a flat to rent in a 5 star award-winning housing development and could hear 5 neighbours' bathrooms with astonishing clarity, despite the battering his ears had taken in the front row of the scrum. The architect had chosen to live out of town ...

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