Hope To Chain This Memory

Life has far too many distractions. Things that lure you away from what good boys and girls do with their time. Well, I have found another one of those distractions, Fallen London. A well thought out and deceptively simple on-line game based around Twitter, this has really got me hooked. If you take time to explore it, you will discover why. It has the same kind of strange sense of humour and imagination to which I would aspire. The really good news is that you are limited to 70 moves a day, which means it doesn’t lure you too far away from the good boys and girls.

For those of you who want to stick close to the stereotypical good boy, Glynn Jones, here is part 48 of “A Couple of Tenors Short”.

There is another quiz question associated with the part number. Another one where I’d never heard of the artists or the song, still, it’s a doddle if you know the answer.

OK, the quiz question out of the way, here is my mantra. This is a serial. Any new-joiners should start with the opener known as Part One.    

The troublesome recap has now settled into its new home. You can find the recap here!

Now read on...

Jones hated liver. Well, Jones hated liver cooked the English way, fried until a pale grey and then casseroled until it made a passable shoe leather substitute. It was fine flash fried, with a touch of garlic, but Pippa’s version came served with lumpy gravy and stringy onions, accompanied by pale green cabbage and runny mashed potatoes.

Jones had his left elbow on the table with his head resting on his hand as he prodded a piece of liver around the plate.  Pippa kept talking about people he didn’t know and how they were going to break the story about Horace Adkins working for the Government.

“What was that?” Jones looks away from the liver with a start as something Pippa said penetrated the fog.

“You weren’t listening to a word I was saying were you?” Pippa looked at him and smiled. “I said I wouldn’t be surprised if Simon Cowell had to resign as PM over this.”

“Really?” Jones narrowed his eyes and shook his head.

“Oh yes, he’s losing all his popular support with his refusal to give poor Horace Adkins a State Funeral  and this, combined with some of the statements he has made over the need for the highest integrity in office could well be his downfall.”

“So what would happen then?” Jones

Pippa gave a shrug. “They’d probably be a leadership contest. Until then, I guess the Deputy PM would be in charge.”

“So, they would put old Brucie in charge?” Jones shook his head. “He must be eighty if he’s a day!”

“He’s eighty-two, but it would only be temporary.” Pippa took a mouthful of liver without flinching. “They’ll run the leadership contest quickly. There will probably be only one candidate, Sir Terence Cauldron.”

“What!” Jones spluttered, and then regained his composure to add. “No proper contest?”

Pippa looked at him for a moment. “Why do I get the feeling there is something you are not telling me?”

Jones gave up his chasing of the liver and looked at his wife. Pippa fixed him with a seductive stare. “You know that I have ways of getting you to tell everything.”

Jones laughed it off and left the table.

After clearing up dinner, Jones went to his study and started searching through the drawers of his desk. After a couple of minutes, he became aware of Pippa stood in the doorway.

“What are you looking for?”  She asked.

“I’m missing a folder from work. I wondered if I brought it home by mistake.” Jones answered without looking up.

Jones opened a draw and was confronted with several thick folders. He pulled them out of the drawer and dropped them on the desk.

“The Maryfield case.” Jones sat back in his chair and looked at the pile of folders. “There must be months of work here. Why on earth can’t we remember it?”

“You are a one, Glynn Jones.” Pippa rolled her eyes as she spoke. “It was what caused us to first meet, remember?”

Jones could remember. Pippa Hucknell had been working for a local paper. She was already at Maryfields when Jones had arrived with Smithy and Watson. Jones remembered the way her blonde hair seemed to glow in the damp morning gloom. Jones could remember being totally distracted by her legs. Jones remembered the way she glided towards him, held out her hand and caused him to gibber a greeting like a lovelorn teenager.

“I don’t think I’d ever forget that.” Jones turned and smiled at Pippa. “It is just for the life of me, I cannot remember what the Maryfields case was all about.”

Pippa looked at Jones and stroked a long finger over her lips. “You know what, darling? Neither can I!”

It's Supposed To End In My Mind, My Baby

Here is part 47 of “A Couple of Tenors Short”.

There is another quiz question associated with the part number. I’d never heard of the artists or the song, still, it’s a doddle if you know the answer.

OK, the quiz question out of the way, here is my mantra. This is a serial. Any new-joiners should start with the opener known as Part One.    

The troublesome recap has now settled into its new home. You can find the recap here!

Now read on...

Jones took half a step back towards the restaurant before shaking his head and walking slowly back towards the parked Datsun. As he walked, he examined the business card in his hand. It was the same as before, “Postulant Wayne Bright, Our Lady of the Assumption” with a mobile phone number.

“Not even an actual priest.” Jones said to the Datsun as he climbed in.

The Datsun gave a short “proop” as Jones tucked the card into a loose panel on the dashboard.

For the rest of the journey home, Jones stayed silent, ignoring various inquisitive noises from the car. When he reached his home, he remained in the car for a several minutes, staring blankly ahead at the back of Pippa’s Mercedes. At last he gave a sigh and with a quiet groan climbed out of the Datsun and went inside.

The house smelt of frying onions and cabbage. Jones threw his flying jacket over the banisters and headed for the lounge where he collapsed into an easy chair.

“You’re back!” Pippa peered around the door to the kitchen at Jones. “Dinner won’t be long. You relax and I’ll bring you a beer.

Jones kept his eyes closed and said nothing.

“You better switch on the news. There’s something you’ll want to see.” Pippa shouted from the kitchen.

The news channel was showing a crowd marching on Trafalgar Square with banners demanding a state funeral for Horace Adkins. The reporter on the ground was describing the mood as fun and good natured as the camera panned to a group dressed as Clement Atlee carrying a litter with bust of Horace Adkins made of recycled tin cans.

Pippa came in with the beer, handed it to Jones and sat on the arm of his chair.

“This lot were what me late home. I had to go the long way round.” Jones grumbled and took a sip of beer.

“This isn’t it.” Pippa ruffled his hair playfully.

The news station cut back to the studio and a stern faced newsreader dressed in a garish striped blazer with a clashing orange cravat. Behind him, a picture of Archie McRamie’s book, “The Cat Crowed at a Little After Two-thirty” came up on the graphic.

Jones choked on his beer and leaned forward.

The newsreader, in solemn tone, talked of a story that would appear in the next day’s Guardian newspaper that would allege that the events in the book were sanctioned at the very highest levels of Government and that the Prime Minister, Simon Cowell, had sanctioned them personally. 

“There, what do you make of that?” Pippa reached down to the remote control and turned off the television. “It turns out that Horace Adkins is a national hero.”

“You’ve changed your tune.” Jones looked up  at his wife. “On Monday you were linking Adkins to the macramé trade.”

“Me?” Pippa’s voice was a high pitched squeak. “I would never do such a thing. Horace Adkins was such a wonderful man.”

Jones looked at her then sagged back into the chair. “Besides, I knew about Adkins working for the government. Joanne Schooner, Archie’s agent, told me all about it today. When I discussed it with somebody at the station, they already knew. It isn’t much of a surprise.”

“Really?” Pippa’s eryes widened, then narrowed. “Are you saying that people have been trying to hush this up?”

Jones gave a weak laugh and shook his head. “You and your conspiracy theories.”

“Goes with the territory, darling.” Pippa kissed him on the forehead. “So why was it that you gave such a start when you saw the story on the news?”

“Sorry, to disappoint, but I thought they were going to announce that Archie had been abducted and as you know, that story is being kept under wraps just in case it is a kidnapping.”

“Aha! I knew it, Archie has been kidnapped!” Pippa stood up and grinned.

Jones gave a tired laugh. “No, my love, we don’t know what has happened to Archie; just that he is missing, presumed abducted. Trust me, as soon as I having something to tell the press, you’ll be the first to know.”

Pippa observed Jones closely. “Just make sure that I am. Now come on, let’s eat. I’m famished.”