Think yourself lucky I came to the door at this hour! If it is Christmas again just deposit the gifts on any surface you can find, and please see to it you don't upset the pile of bottles just yonder.
I was hiding in the cellars for a bit and have only just returned, so don't expect everything to be neat and tidy. It's been years since I had a Yeti scout to look after things for me, not that the Yetis ever knew a hawk from a handkerchief, and of course they can't take a joke or hold their liquor, to say nothing of their appetite for stones, which works a hardship on the masonry. Generally speaking the Yetis have no reason to live, but don't say that out loud hereabouts if you know what's good for you . Well then, a great deal has happened since you last visited. For starters, our scheming and ungrateful cook Mrs. Grogan fancied she might betake herself to the high seas!
Yes! She applied to Mr.Benny Robinson for a position as cook (it was put about that the last one was kidnapped by pirates, a likely story) aboard his new yacht, MegaMammon VII.
By the by, Benny Robinson has put on a few stone since last you saw him, so if he heaves into view just take my advice and stand well back as his waistcoat buttons may at any moment fly off like bullets in your direction.
Now back to Grogan and her scheme to travel the world as Mr. R's cook (and get her grasp on his last will & testament, no doubt). As it happens I have never taken much interest in foreign travel, which is too tiring and boring, and not a bit worthwhile for someone of my position in society. You have no doubt seen those ridiculous foreign places on the television, which is much the best way to see the world, and never mind Uncle G's policies .
I quite liked having a television set, but that notwithstanding I uttered nary a word of protest when Uncle G (Col. Rohde to you lot) put a hammer through it.
It was Grogan's anyway. She was ever so cross when she learnt her missing television was found in my rooms, and was no longer at its best after being hammered to pieces, but serves her right for disobeying Uncle G's only rule (No Televisions On The Premises).
I wish you could have seen Grogan's paralysed expression when she came upon the scene! I only regret not being sober enough to enjoy the full effect! And all the while Uncle G thought she was under the horrors of discovering a television set, or by then the piteous remnants of it, in our midst.
Of course at the time he didn't care a fig about yours truly, abed though I was under the horrors of delirium tremens, a condition which was not improved by the smashing of furniture in close proximity to my couch of repose.
After Uncle G was gone, Grogan stood in the hallway just outside my door, louring, and then looking daggers at me when I told her to fetch the dustpan and broom and be quick about it.
It was at that moment that I, and all of Swinehurst, heard of big mouth Grogan's plan to sign on as part of ship's company and be off in Mr. Robinsons employ.
Woke me right up, you can depend upon it! What cheek! That is how we were to be repaid after providing Grogan with a happy home for Lo, these many years! To say nothing of an extremely generous old age pension one day, a provision made by Uncle G despite my vehement protests.
Well, Good Riddance said I, but in the cold light of dawn she changed her mind, thanks to long and continuous interference from all the buggy-eyed gits and crybabies in the West Wing.
Such blubbing and carrying on! Crocodile tears of course, especially in the case of Dr. Milton Ku, who has no use for Grogan but who joined the sobbing procession just to annoy me.
You can have no idea what I put up with from that conniving pack of freeloaders, who acted as if the sun shone from Grogan's toenails, and who of course prevailed upon Uncle G. to keep "cookie" - yes, that's what they call Grogan, which shows you they're cheap and common as she is despite their affected manners - on at Swinehurst. And, oh yes, the usual dark muttering against yours truly, whom they accuse of causing every unpleasantness except the Great Triffid Blight of 1956.
I warned Uncle G to give Grogan not so much as an extra sou in pay if she stayed on, but of course her pockets will soon be abulge with gold and silver (which is rightfully mine) in recognition of her continued and faithful service. That's rich, considering she was all set to desert her post and be off with MegaMammon IV on the next tidal wave, never sparing a thought for anyone thus inconvenienced by her selfish behaviour, but there you are.
She actually had the face to tell Uncle G and Mum that I was the main reason she agreed to stay on! Of course the moment their backs were turned she gave me a very nasty little sneer! There, do you see? Treachery and Spite rewarded, Truth forever on the scaffold, Wrong forever on the throne!
By the way, I don't think Grogan ever had the slightest intention of becoming a seacook once she learnt Mr. Robinson was leaving his entire fortune to his only nephew, and by the way it's a dirty shame Uncle G shows no interest in following his friend's example.
Well, we must look on the bright side of life, as Uncle G. says, although I must be careful not to look on anything too bright at present. My eyes are still quite sensitive after all that time in the cellars!
Grogan has been rifling through my bureau and cupboards, As Is Her Wont, but I am nevertheless glad to be back in my personal quarters once again. Also it seems that a few of my pet crows and giant Auks have altogether vanished from the premises, or you'd have run out screaming by now, so think twice before agreeing to sample any of Grogan's meat pies.
Now I suppose I should go round to the Gazette, just to keep a hand in, although I cannot be responsible for anything the Yeti Trades Council may have been up to whilst I was hiding in the cellars.
Hello All,
What, you lot, back for more? Is it Christmas again? Can't a fellow have a moment's peace from these constant merry-making revels?
You have come at a most inopportune time, as I find myself in the jaws of the Black Dog Melancholy just at present.
The cause of my dangerous distraction from business as usual is the divine form of Miss Tessa Grogan. Perhaps you saw her on the way in? Yes, I thought as much, and if you wiggle your eyebrows in that lurid fashion again you'll be sorry, so mind your manners or I won't tell you anything more.
Bad luck she's Grogan's niece (any worse luck for me I cannot imagine),and is being hotly pursued by the Brilliantined serpent Nobby, a most irritating rival for her affection, the whole of which dilemma has put me at sixes and sevens.
Right, I see your eyes have dilated to their fullest in shock and disgust at the very idea that I am thus besotted, but if you'll pass me that bottle of gin I will endeavor to sit up and explain how I got trapped in this utterly awful beastly jolly absolutely soppy perfect rot of unrequited - dare I say it? - lovesickness. Which I shall soon overcome, no worries, and the sooner you hand me that bottle of gin the better.
Now then, you probably read all about the dust-up between the Triffid Fight enthusiasts and the Plants Rights people, during which I tried to help Uncle G restore order but was viciously attacked for my pains, not that anyone took the slightest notice except the Yetis, who rallied around Uncle G when the stone-throwing caught their attention (stones to the Yetis are like liver bisquits to the hounds).
Well, things ended badly at sea for the fleeing Plants Rights people, except for the beautiful Tessa, a goddess whom I was not favored to meet until she was brought ashore in the company of the despicable cad Nobby Robinson, who is now my blackest enemy in the world, and certainly not because he engineered the demise of all the Plants Rights demonstrators (except the lovely Tessa).
No,the cold truth is that I have at last met my match, and no one is more gleeful than Grogan, who hopes to see her niece married off to Mr. Benny Robinson's only heir in the living world, and who has poisoned La Belle Tessa's mind against me from the start.
Who do you suppose it was who activated the plants rights people with tales of cruelty to triffids? Grogan, of course, well knowing her niece would be in the thick of battle to save those bloodthirsty plants from lashing one another to shreds in the ring.
(BTW, Triffidus Maximus always has a bit of an advantage besides his towering height and girth, as he is the guardian of a little distillery I have set up in the swamp behind Mum's laboratory, so he gets plenty of practice time fighting off the other triffids, who are all howling drunkards, I can tell you, and also lashing the pirates good and proper when they come sneaking around the place.)
Of course Mum doesn't understand what Grogan is up to, and has formed a lukewarm opinion of Tessa just because know-all Dr.Ku told her Tessa tried to kill me. Fat lot he'd care if she did kill me, by the way, but meanwhile I know it was the plants rights people who took advantage of her passionate nature and put her up to that public act of violence, thus falling right into Grogan's treacherous web.
Ever since Grogan's half-hearted but telltale scheme to insert herself in Benny Robinson's will (by becoming his cook) came a cropper,she has been plotting other ways to get her hands on some of those millions, and now sees a way to have her cake and eat it too, served up by her grateful niece. There, do you see?
Now perhaps you'll understand why I put fox scent on her apron to attract the hounds.
Meanwhile I must sit grinding my guts at the tea table whilst that unctuous, despicable swine Nobby is the guest of honour, seated (thanks to the evil Grogran) beside an adoring Tessa. My gorge rises as he regales the company with tales of adventure on the high seas and in the world of high finance alongside his dear uncle, the zillionaire Benny Robinson. No bloody chance do I have to get a word in edgewise about my brilliant Danger Park, nor about my famous Singing Crows who starred in a major motion picture, nor any of my other considerable accomplishments.
Even Uncle G and Mum are all gaga over the cock-and-bull stories retailed by Nobby the Insipid, and all told for an adoring Tessa's benefit.
No one sees the steely glint of avarice in Grogan's eyes, calculating her gain every time that obsequious cad Nobby shoots a flirtatious look in poor innocent plant-loving Tessa's direction.
My only ally is Beethoven, who suspects Nobby of stealing his pencils, which I think he probably did because they were all gone by the time I got there.
Much good will the lunatic Beethoven do me, as he is deaf as a post and never comes to tea, but perhaps his accusation of Nobby will cause a cloud of hatred and suspicion to spread over the minds of the other twits in the West Wing, whose property is always going missing or being destroyed. As long as the deceitful Nobby is lodging in the West Wing, my plans regarding Tessa, who is well away from him (I hope)in Grogan's quarters, can take shape.
Well, I am quite exhausted by everything at present and must recline on my couch of solitude, there to dream of La Belle Tessa and plan a few amourous maneouvres, besides a trail of traps and snares to teach Nobby the Serpent a lesson, so please switch the lights off behind you and leave me to formulate my ruthlessly brilliant stratagems.