Gnomes

Yes, folks, welcome back to Limpet Central. I'm here to tell you all about the exciting opportunities currently on offer in gnome related industries, one of the few remaining growth sectors in our present troubled economic times. Here's a window into a day in the life of one such employee, currently working in the high-tech sandwich manufacturing facilities owned by the famed entrepreneur, Barry the Gnome. *Groan*

7:30 - Wake up in semi-squalid flat in the unfashionable outskirts of Tumberwell, examine last night's pizza in dispassionate revulsion from vantage point of bed . Get up.

8:00 - After uncomplicated preparations, and an "anything you can lay your hands on that's edible" breakfast, enter factory gates and clock in. Try to avoid glances of particularly unpleasant employees, try to avoid stepping on particularly diminutive employees.

8:05 - Begin work at fish paste boilers and meat reclamation unit. Scrub offal tanks, escaping just in time as they are filled with steaming mass of the morning gizzard shipment. Meet coworker, Nigel the Gnome, who is already reading pornographic magazine. Attempt not to see contents, but see anyway and regret it.

10:00 - Tea break. Enter fetid alcove that passes for a tearoom, hope Gorgrod the troll is not there. Gorgrod the troll is there, reading the newspaper and scratching himself in an unsavory manner. Before kettle has boiled, Gorgrod starts reading aloud news article about latest government incompetence in a hesitant but bellowing voice, his finger following the text as he reads. Puts down paper and stamps about, incoherently and with many random pauses to remember words like "and" or "the", as he elaborates on what he would do if he were in charge, his small, closely set eyes budging manically, bits of spit arcing violently across the room. Nigel the Gnome enters, followed by Graham the Gnome. The former tells funny story about his aunt Dorris and a humorously shaped toilet brush. Laugh.

10:15 - Continue work. Mind wanders, end up with feet covered in pâté, another one of Nigel's practical jokes. Get own back by putting pilchards in his spare boots.

1:00 - Lunch time. Take free sandwiches from staff canteen, wonder how it is possible to eat them, having witnessed their manufacture. Go for walk in Tumberwell, face approximate direction of Zarfang and assume wistful expression, then think about Grott's unpardonable desertion and assume tetchiest expression. Shake fist. Walk quickly away from passer by who is giving funny look.

2:00 - Work resumes. Transferred to sandwich assembly department due to Dave the Gnome being sent home after caught swimming in the gravy vat. Listen to old women that work there talk incessantly about their relatives' health complaints (including bunion problems, varicose veins and Antie Doreen's "trouble") until near insanity ensues, cheer up considerably upon noticing Nigel walking along, wearing his spare boots and looking suspiciously at them, as he hears squishing and observes pilchard paste oozing from the lace holes.

5:00 - Home time at last. Assure Nigel that it wasn't me with the pilchard incident. Clock out, once again attempting to avoid most unpleasant employees. Walk home and cook tea, attempt to remove persistent fishy smell from clothes.

7:30 - End up in nearby pub with Nigel the Gnome and his various gnome friends. Get a bit drunk, listen with amazement at Nigel's revolting stories. Make fun of Nigel's fishy feet. Attempt to play game of darts, leave pub in a hurry after accidentally lodging dart in leathery backside of drunken troll. Outside, accidently reveal culpability in the pilchard incident, recieve pointy end of Nigel's hat to groin. When recovered, on to another pub.

10:00 - Back home, time for bed. Think about how great scented plug-ins could be, if used correctly and responsibly. Look forward to another exciting day.


****

Well, that's pretty much the sort of lifestyle I'm currently enjoying. Pretty good eh? Who needs dark magic when you can.... AH! WHO AM I KIDDING! It's driving me mad already! I seriously need something exciting to happen, I'm going to get down to the library and find some magical tomes of unspeakable, or failing that, speakable evil this weekend and give this magic thing a whole new try. I'll show that Eldrigar a thing or two, see if I don't! Or failing that, I can at least give that Barry the Gnome something to think about. I've seen him swanning about in his gold-plated trousers while his staff toil away at minimum wage! Honestly, it's enough to make you turn communist!

You know, it would be very helpful if I'd had time to get some of my stuff from Zarfang. I expect it's been burnt to the ground by now, though, and it's not as if you can send the removal van around the day after you're defeated in a wizarding duel. If nothing else, I would have liked to keep my old potion collection, especially the one that makes you fall in love with cakes, if for nothing else but the ability to play some spectacular practical jokes on people. Seems a shame, though, that potion's probably the only stuff of its kind ever made, seems a shame for it to get thrown away.

Anyway, time for me to go, I've got work in the morning. I'll leave you with one gnome related thought first - why do gnomes always refer to themselves as such-and-such "the gnome?" It's just plain ridiculous - I don't call myself "the human", do I? Err, well, maybe I'm a bad example, being as I do, in fact, call myself "The Limpet". Never mind, I'm getting bored of gnomes, as I'm sure you are.

See you next time, who knows what might have happened by then? Well, hopefully something. YAY!

My destiny lies in.... sandwiches

Well, hello again. It is I, The Limpet, wizard, albeit in somewhat reduced circumstances. Yes, the Limpocolypse cometh, or comethed, or something, the details of which I fear I must relay to you now.

Well, all I can say is I know how Napoleon felt on the island of Elba. Deserted by my minions! Alas! You'll see, I'll tell you about it when my grimace has built up to a critical point and I can bear reliving the experience. The things I do for you.... In the meantime, I will describe my present condition.


OK, I admit it; I had to do it and I'm as sorry as you and indeed all prospective minions will be on hearing this. I'm now in the employ of Barry the Gnome, owner and proprietor of Barry the Gnome's Premier Sandwich Manufactury and Related Industries. Ha! "Premier" - that's a laugh! I've seen what he puts in the fish paste... *Sigh*, what a fate for someone with such previous potential for mystic power! If you remember, I mentioned that a gnome at the Ebon Tower of Unyielding Gloom showed me the vacancy notice - in the circumstances, I could have done worse....

Oh well, I SUPPOSE I'd better tell you how I ended up here, but I make no apologies if it's depressing. I could, of course, describe a titanic sorcerous battle, full of fantastic neon fireballs, thundering flames and arcane transfigurations in which I suffered a tragic and totally unfair reversal due to some underhanded and cowardly tactics employed by my adversary. I could say that, but it would, in fact, be slightly distorting the truth. Actually, it pains me to say this, it didn't go anything like that.

As soon as Eldrigar fixed his eyes on mine, as he stood there imperiously in the fading light, his expression seemed to change to that of someone who'd discovered they'd trodden in something unpleasant while walking in the park. OK, I admit, my appearance after the consumption of Grott's secret formula wasn't terribly impressive, but despite the sudden horror I felt in seeing him suddenly appear at my door, especially having recently heard of his abnormal prowess, I couldn't get over the feeling of how monumentally galling his insufferable sneer was. Still, I don't mind admitting that being suddenly transformed into a pile of ash at a wave of his hand was actually the thought foremost on my mind. He looked briefly around the room, taking in Maevrin, who was twisted awkwardly around to watch him as she sat at the kitchen table, then he seemed to sigh and shake his head in mock exasperation, before fixing his eyes back on mine.

"Get out," he said, simply.

I stared at him in disbelief.

"But, this is my home," I said, with as much righteous indignation in my voice as I could muster (not much, I'm afraid)

"I don't care," he responded flatly, his face mocking, "It's an eyesore, and I'm fed up with it; I'm fed up with you. This is my land now."

At this point, Maevrin got up from the kitchen table and sidled over to me.
"Go on," she whispered, her face almost eager, "Tell him to get lost!"

I looked at her with a mixture of horror and indignation.

"What the hell are you talking about?" I whispered breathlessly, noticing with alarm the irritation starting to spread across Eldrigar's face, "What happened to all those sarcastic remarks from before? Now we're standing here facing certain doom, and you're suddenly cheering me on?"

Maevrin looked away. I think it must have been the alcohol talking. At that moment, I noticed Grott was there, standing right beside me, though I hadn't seen him enter the room. Eldrigar began to talk again, his voice becoming dangerously brittle.

"I'm not going to make it any more clear than this. Get out, all of you, stop wasting my time. Well?"

I lowered my gaze from his. What could I do? I knew I was beaten, I just couldn't believe it was all over so quickly.

"I'll go," I said, quietly.

All that remained was to go trooping out of the front door beneath Eldrigar's insufferable smile. Honestly, is it not enough for some people just to merely exist? You know? For some people, existing's not nearly enough, no, they've got to cause nothing but trouble for other people.

Once I'd reached a safe distance, I tuned my attention to Grott, who was following at my side. I put on a slightly sickly grin.

"Well, Grott," I said, with ineffectual forced brightness, "I suppose you'll be up for coming along with me? An exciting new life beckons, I'm sure."

Grott looked at me steadily, the gathering dusk casting his small black eyes into dark, deep shadows. Then something happened that I couldn't have predicted. He slowly shook his head, stared at me for a moment, then began to walk slowly away in the direction of Zarfang, until he became lost in the twilight.

I turned away from him, feeling almost like laughing. I noticed Maevrin was standing a short way off, but she wasn't meeting my gaze. I began to walk.

"Go home," I said, not looking back. "And for your information, I can't do any magic"

****

Well, I told you it was depressing, didn't I? Oh well, never mind, I think I was only conning myself in thinking I could make it as a genuine dark mage anyway, plus I can now get all the sandwiches I can eat, which you've got to admit is pretty good. Discovering from that sprout that my great uncle wasn't even a dark wizard should have told me I had it wrong all along anyway - I'll keep wizardry as a hobby, rather than a profession, I think, I'm sure to get the hang of it one day (I'm still accepting minions). You know, what I wouldn't give to get my own back on that revolting wizard.... one day, maybe.

I must say Grott jumping ship when the chips were down was a bit of a blow, though. I did only get his services due to him randomly knocking on the door, so easy come, easy go, I suppose. Anyone affected by the unreasonable gloominess of the previous passages should practice a technique I'm thinking of patenting. First, stretch your arms out beside you and breath in. Then, squat down while gradually breathing out, stand up while gradually breathing in and then say "HOOMANAHAA!" with as much vigour as you can manage. Repeat as many times as necessary. Oh yes, and please note, it's probably helpful if nobody sees you doing this.

Right, well, tune in next time, in which I will describe the AMAZING lifestyle and CRAZY characters here at the sandwich factory! Gnomes guaranteed! Please don't report anything I say to any public heath officials. Bye for now!

It's been a funny sort of week

SkibedeBOW!

Debededee...

BebyabadeBOW!

ByabadeBO....gaCHA!

Badabada BOOM!

Just thought I'd start off proceedings with a bit of freestyle scat this time. Never mind.

Well, actually, it's been not so much a funny sort of week, as a pretty much totally disastrous week. As I'm sure it's become abundantly clear to you that I'm always saying that, I feel the need to impress on you that this is the real deal - the Limpet apocalypse, or something like that. It's only my upbeat cheeriness that's keeping the whole thing running right now, of course.


Well, I expect you're wondering what's happened? Either that, or you're wondering something completely different, like whether you left the gas on, if you forgot your dentist appointment or indeed why you're reading this at all. I don't blame you, really. Well, I'll tell you, though I reserve the right to have to go off and do something else right in the middle of typing this, thus leaving an EXCITING CLIFFHANGER, or something like that. That, and avoiding the necessity of you spending all day reading a stupidly long post. Actually, I probably can't manage something as dramatic as a cliffhanger, it'll probably be more like standing slightly too close to a curb while wearing unnecessarily high platform shoes. Come to think of it, why have I never thought of buying some shoes like that? Flares, glasses in the shape of stars, purple stove-pipe hat.... Now that would be something worth investigating.

Our tale begins as our hero makes his steady progress back to Zarafang one afternoon across the good old Howling Waste we know so well... He is carrying two large cans of black paint, one in each hand, the reasons for this being obvious had the reader become acquainted with the last post. The rather schizophrenic weather that those parts were so famed for was today bright and sunny, and our intrepid wizard felt the need to stop occasionally and wipe the sweat from his brow. Upon one of these stops, no sooner had he set the paint cans down when he heard a muffled but distinct voice coming from some unknown place in the landscape around him. He chose this moment to seamlessly shift back into the first person.

"What was that?" I thought. "I could have sworn I heard a voice."

I waited a moment, straining my ears. The voice came again, this time it was unmistakable.

"HELP!"

It sounded like a woman's voice and it seemed to be coming from somewhere off to the left of me, behind a small, jagged pile of rocks, no different to the thousand other small, jagged piles of rocks that make the Howling Waste so inviting and stimulating to the senses.

I went over to it, picking my way across the pebbles, small boulders and scree (whatever that is) and encountered a large, gaping black hole.

"IS SOMEBODY THERE?" came the voice again, this time with a note of desperate hope.

"Yes, it's me!" I shouted back down the hole, realising too late that this was a stupid thing to say. Maybe I should get out more and have more in the way of practice at conversations; maybe Mrs Fengleworth was right.

There was a pause.

"THAT'S IVAN, ISN'T IT?"

"How could you tell?" I asked.

"ONLY YOU COULD SAY SOMETHING SO DAFT!"

Honestly, how rude. Only one person could manage to say something like that after such a brief acquaintance.

"Maevrin? Is that you?"

"YES! GET ME OUT OF HERE!"

"Have you been down there long?"

"NO, ONLY A FEW HOURS. I WAS JUST STARTING TO ENJOY IT."

"Really?"

"NO! WHAT'S WRONG WITH YOU! GET ME OUT!"

Getting her out of there was probably easier said that done. I shouted "Just a minute!", set the paint pots down beside the hole's opening and scurried off in the direction of Zarfang.
I hurriedly opened the door and entered, finding Grott cutting little pastry shapes on the kitchen work surface, for reasons unknown.

"Come, Grott!" I said, dramatically "Things are afoot!"

Grott dropped his pastry cutter and presented himself for duty. Once again, I was touched by his unrivalled dedication to my evil schemes. Yes, I know I've not had any evil schemes for a while, but let Grott's good example for any young people that might be reading this and aspiring to a career as a minion - learn from the professionalism!

I grabbed the rope I was planning to use as a safety line while painting the tower and set off in the direction of the hole, Grott trotting along and wheezing away at my heels.

I soon arrived at the scene of the action and began to let the rope down, as Grott eagerly capered at my side. At this point, Grott didn't prove to be as helpful as I'd hoped, as his eagerly twitching feet knocked over one of the paint pots still perched near the edge of hole, its lid falling off as it overbalanced, sending liberal quantities of black paint spilling into the depths of the hole.

An unearthly scream issued forth.

"WHAT THE HELL WAS THAT? I'M ALL WET! AHH! WHAT IS THIS STUFF!"

I turned to Grott, who was looking sheepish. Honestly, why does this sort of thing have to continuously happen? When trouble comes, call the A-Team, me and Grott, and prepare to receive a face full of paint.

"Grott! Watch what you're doing! The fate of Zarfang rests on that paint!"

I was in the mood for grand proclamations that day. Grott shuffled his feet embarrassedly. You know, if I didn't know better, I'd say he did it one purpose in retaliation for Maevrin's over-reaction at his unusual appearance, but it was too late to worry about that now. Oh, my life is full of fun, as exemplified by this jolly little incident, we all have such a good laugh, don't we....

"Don't worry!" I shouted. "Just a bit of paint, we had a small accident! I'm just going to chuck a rope down, we'll have you out of there in a minute!"

After a while, Maevrin's grimacing, bespectacled countenance emerged from the gloom. I'm sure that you can very easily summon up a mental image of what it looked like, which will surely be more impressive and amusing than anything I could provide. It was matt paint, rather than gloss, just to let you know. Actually, the effect was a curiously piebald one, I noticed as more of her came into view. A certain oriental species of bear-like appearance generally fond of bamboo came to mind, and her hair looked like it was made of liquorice. Her heavy duty glasses had been rather ineffectually cleaned, leaving only small holes to see through, giving the impression of some kind of flying goggles.

"Well," said Maevrin, gazing in disbelief at the condition of her adventuring costume, "I suppose I'd better thank you, in spite of everything. Starving to death down a hole is a lot worse than getting a whole load a paint thrown over you, after all. Yes, actually, why the hell did you just throw a whole load of paint over me?"

"Ah, don't mention it," I said, "It was just Grott getting a little bit over excited and knocking the can over. You're OK? Uninjured?"

"Oh, so it was him," she said, casting an unfriendly eye at the beknobbled dwarf that was grinning by my side. "Yes, I'm OK. I don't suppose I could borrow your shower, could I?"

"Yes, of course," I said, "And, if you don't mind me asking, how's the questing coming on?"

"Oh, that," she said, impatiently, "I'll tell you about that when I've got this paint off me. What were you doing with it, anyway?"

"Well," I hesitated, thinking it was probably best to draw a veil over the incident that made the paint necessary, "Just a bit of DIY. Come on, let's get that stuff off you."

We set off for home.

"So," I said, trying to lighten the mood "How did you find yourself down that hole?"

"I fell down it, of course, what else! I was trying to watch that mage of yours, wasn't watching where I was putting my feet. Normally, sneaking around is one of my specialities. I think I was more out of practice than I thought."

As normal, I couldn't think of an immediate answer to that, or at least one that didn't largely consist of the empty "oh well, never mind" style of optimism that probably wouldn't improve things, so the intrepid Limpet Man, Panda Girl and The Wartazor made their way back to Zarfang in silence.

I noticed as we entered the tower that the unfortunate smell left behind by the disappearance of my supernatural visitor from a few days back was still lingering about. You only notice this sort of thing when you've got guests, and I regretted not having aired the place out. It seemed Maevrin had noticed it as well, judging by her expression.

"It's not what you think," I said wearily. "It involves sprouts, but not the way you might expect."

While Maevrin was upstairs doing her best to clean herself up, I got Grott to make us a cup of his famous scorpion and arrowroot tea, in the hope it would act as a quasi-apology. I even put a little bit of Grott's special liquor in there, in the hope it would cheer her up a bit, taking a liberal swig of it myself. After a while, Maevrin re-emerged, looking marginally more cheerful. The paint had come off her face and body reasonably well, but her clothes still had a rather impressive modern art appearance. Maybe she could make it into her new trademark feature, or something.

"Feeling better?" I said, passing her a cup of the deep green liquid Grott had brewed up.

"Thanks, not so bad now I can actually see where I'm going."

By this, I presumed she meant her glasses were now entirely transparent. She took a sip of the tea and looked somewhat surprised.

"Hey, this is pretty good." she said, appreciatively.

"I got Grott to make it, you know, I think you've got off on the wrong foot with him - he really is a great guy once you get to know him."

Grott, standing next to me, bowed deeply, grinning and letting off the occasional small gibber.

Maevrin looked at him doubtfully.

"Well, OK, I'll take your word for it. I suppose you'll be wanting to hear what I've discovered, then?"

"Yes, whenever you're ready."

She took another sip of the tea, then poked at her face suspiciously.

"Hey, this tea's making my face go numb."

"Oh, don't worry about that," I said hurriedly, wondering weather I'd become tolerant to the strange effects of Grott's drinks, "It's perfectly normal. Tell me what you've found."

"Right, well, I've basically spent my time trying to follow him around, or asking people if they've met or know him. From what people have said, it seems he's a total newcomer to the area, nobody knew him previous to his arrival. Whenever he arrives on the outskirts of town, he just says a few words under his breath, and a moment later, he's disguised as an old man with a beard."

So he could do that as well? Actually, this was starting to get a little bit strange. You see, dark wizards aren't uncommon and can show up in almost any place. They might be generally benevolent but a bit alarming, or they might cause a limited amount of nuisance, but they generally don't do all that much, as it's easy enough for the average town to hire someone to get rid of them if they're a problem. Plus, in this day and age, no wizard, no matter how good, can withstand a totally unexpected burst of machine-gun fire - the modern age has rather broken the monopoly on dangerous weaponry that magic used to have. I don't think I've ever heard of a dark wizard that could do all the things this one could. Well, only once, but that doesn't really count.

"So what's he been doing in town?" I asked.

"Well, as far as I can see, all he's been doing is hanging around in taverns, pubs and the like, talking to people. Getting to know them, that sort of thing."

"Getting to know them?" I said sarcastically. "I'm sure he can't be here for the social life."

"Yes, yes, very amusing. I didn't like to get too close to him, but I did manage to overhear a few things he was saying. It seemed he was always turning the conversation towards old legends and tales, he wanted to hear if there were any specific to the area. I don't think he managed to hear anything he was looking for, I saw him leaving a place looking annoyed several times."

"What is he, some kind of travelling historian? You know, it's not the sort of thing dark wizards normally get up to. Maybe if I can convince him that there's absolutely nothing of interest around here, he'll go away."

"Well, don't ask me, I just gather the information, I couldn't care less what he's doing."

During this time, she'd been sipping away at the tea and had already finished it, in the process going noticeably red in the face.

"What's in this stuff?" she said, staring at the empty cup. "It doesn't half make you feel weird."

"Oh, various things," I said, vaguely, "But I put a little bit of Grott's special brew in it, just thought you could use it after your ordeal. Here's the bottle."

I held up the flask, swishing its mysterious black liquid liquid about.

"Do you want to try a bit? It's.... unique."

"Alright," she said, suddenly and unexpectedly cheerful, "Why not."

She held up her mug and I poured a small amount in, thinking a little would probably go a long way. She took a tentative sip.

"You know, that's not half bad, I could get used to this stuff. Should I feel like I'm about to take off and fly around the room?"

"Oh yes," I said, "That's perfectly normal. Anyway, carry on, what else did you find out?"

"OK, yes, where was I? Ah yes, that wizard. All I found out about him was that he seems to fly about all over the waste land around here, normally off to the north of here and he seems to be looking for something, systematically. I've hidden under the cover of boulders and watched him. He circles around in the air, then goes up and down, backwards and forwards, covering the ground bit by bit. Hey, it's pretty impressive the way he can fly around on that purple cloud thing, isn't it? Can you do that?"

"No," I said, "Not... quite. But nearly. So he's searching for something?"

"Yes, he seems to be. He seemed to be getting frustrated with it yesterday at dusk. I was watching him gliding across the sky, when he suddenly stuck his hand straight up in the air above him, and this bright purple beam came shooting from the tip of his finger. It was so bright, I could barely look. It was bloody lucky I was the other side of him, the beam tore a great gouge out of the landscape."

I've probably no need to tell you that this news was even more disturbing than the previous.

"So, did you find out anything else?"

"Well, no, not really. But that's pretty good for 56 Waldroons, isn't it?"

I agreed with her, though come to think of it, I probably could have done what she did myself perfectly well. Why do I always assume things are going to be worse than they actually are? Well, I suppose I didn't have to take the risk of him seeing me, that would have given the game away. The trouble was, despite my half-hearted efforts to get rid of the depressing spectre that was Eldrigar, dark whatsname of Mandri-something, investigation had shown he was even stronger than I could possibly have expected. Just where would I go from here? Perhaps "going from here" would be the best plan. But leaving Zarfang, my beloved mage tower would be such a wrench...

Maevrin cut off this gloomy train of thought.

"Well, cheer up! How about some more of that stuff from the bottle, you know, I think I can feel it doing me a power of good."

I very much doubted it, but poured her some anyway.


**** two hours later ****


We'd spent an enjoyable time in gradually increasing states of drunkenness. The conversation had slowly degenerated into an insane babble, and after the running up and down the stairs and screaming contest, we had a look at the place I'd scrawled the message on the wall, and had a good laugh. I complained for the fifteenth time that I couldn't be sure how many arms and legs I had, as I kept loosing count, she complained for the seventeenth time that she had too many knees. Who would have thought Grott's concoction could be even more entertaining when consumed with someone else?

As darkness started to fall, it found us sprawled in the kitchen, me with my face against the work surface, Maevrin lying flat out on the kitchen table, having a conversation that consisted largely of non-sequiturs.

"You, you know, you know" she said, indistinctly "Nobody understands me, you know."

"Ah, yes, no, I mean, no," I said, staring at and incredible close-up of the plastic work surface in wonderment. "I mean, I know."

"Stamps, that's all they think of me, you know. Just 'cos I like 'em. Stamps. Can't help liking 'em. Not a crime."

"No!" I said, with sudden intensity. "NO! Indeed. You know, you've got to go on.... living your life, yeah! Gotta live it, ha! What?"

"They all... think it's the sort of thing men do mostly, you know, you know, sexists the lot of 'em. AH!"

"Wah, it's too... nobody understands me, either!"

"Really, why?"

"Don't know... can't remember."

I'll spare you any more of this inspired dialogue. You know, at that moment, though intoxicated I felt I was enjoying the presence of someone else in Zarfang for the first time I could remember. Suddenly the peace, quiet and solitude didn't seem so perfect, it was nice to have someone about after all.

Why is it good things always seem so brief, fleeting and impossible to get hold of? At that moment, something happened that seemed to drive the alcohol from my veins instantly.

There was a sudden banging sound from the front door, followed by a click. I looked up, and saw Maevrin was doing the same.

The door slid slowly open by itself.

Eldrigar was standing there motionless in the doorway in the twilight, fixing his cold blue eyes on mine.

TO BE CONTINUED>>>>

A busy day is a happy day

Greetings once more, my adoring public. I hope you haven't wasted away in anticipation of my next post, understandable of course, when faced with the prospect of hearing more of my great exploits. Actually, I've had absolutely nothing to do at all, and when that happens, strange things usually follow. As you will see (cue dramatic music : dun dun daaaah!)

I had a grumpy sort of day aimlessly pottering about after the repeat of the unwelcome vegetable invasion I (and you all) received gratuitous amounts of in the previous post. Some might be amazed that I'm able to remember and report events that happen to me in such startling detail. Well, I can't help it if I've got a flawless memory for utterly irrelevant details, can I? Don't start blaming me! It's always the same, I can never seem to remember the name of people I've met yesterday, yet I can remember the names of all the characters in obscure kids TV programs I saw when I was six in perfect detail. Well, it does have its uses for annoying people you don't like at social gatherings by bringing up facts and figures about the Thunder Cats, and that of course has the added bonus that they think you're insane and go away, leaving you to reign unchallenged on the buffet table.

When I'm bored, I don't know about you, but I like to have a random trawl through the internet. Actually, come to think of it, I do that anyway when I'm not bored, so maybe it was pointless saying that. You can forget yourself while following a random path through this great data dustbin of ours, I don't have to worry about references to magic that bring back uncomfortable memories, as normally Harry Potter is the only wizard of note that crops up, and he is, of course, entirely fictional, unlike me. Yes.

Honestly, that Harry Potter, it always bothers me that he's always having so much fun with magic. I tell you, it's not a bit like that for most people, you can't do anything remotely fun, useful or amusing with actual magic most of the time, unlike you can in Hollywood it seems, sometimes I wonder whether it's all really worthwhile. Oh well, hey ho, let's not get bogged down in negativity, instead I'll tell you about my amusing antics last night, and I'm sure that's raise some inexpensive laughs.

Well, as I said, when I have nothing to do, strange things usually happen, this time was no different. I suppose it was my fault entirely, really, you just can't drink Grott's unknown distillate while you're doing something else - you've got to concentrate on the level of the liquid in the bottle, as if it's contents are depleted too quickly, disaster can swiftly ensue. The well documented "face feeling like it was made out of sponge" effect wasn't putting me off as I laughed hysterically at the forty second video of someone falling off a log I'd watched that night. The sponge effect was succeeded by the "legs feel like elastic bands" effect, then the newly discovered "eyeballs revolve in opposite directions" syndrome.

After running up and down the stairs a few times, shouting "WEEEEEEE!", I dimly remember coming to a sudden halt at my bedroom window, while I grinned and gnashed my teeth menacingly, whispering a few choice words about the all knowing fish people under my breath. Eldrigar's tower sat in resolute verticality out there in the night. Something had to be done, and I decided that now was the time.

Grabbing a large pot of white paint that I'd been saving for unknown purposes, I proceeded to hang from the window in the attempt to paint the legend "YOU SMELL OF POO AND POTTING COMPOST" on the wall of Zarfang, in Eldrigar's direction. Ah, yes, don't, please don't ask me why that was the message. I don't know where the potting compost part came from, I don't think I was quite in my right mind, as you probably agree. In any case, it only came out as "YO SMEL OF PO AN POTTAG!". You know, I'm beginning to regret telling you about this.

I lay down happily in bed, my handiwork complete after amazingly not having fallen off the side of the tower. There was not a worry in my addled mind, apart from the way the room kept rotating disconcertingly around me.
"I'll take a nice picture of that in the morning," I thought to myself, contentedly. "I'm sure it'll look bloody great when the sun's shining on it."
I slowly drifted off towards sleep. Then an uneasy feeling began to slowly creep over me. The thought that Eldrigar might, in fact, come past and see it, and then blow me to smithereens gradually began to take form in my mind. Suddenly, my eyes snapped open and I sprang from the bed.

"Ohmygodohmygod!" I gibbered, running around the room. "How am I going to get that off there?"

It turned out that a pencil eraser wasn't quite up to the job. I hung from the window, rubbing at the letters, but the paint had dried on hard. On the horizon, the first faint light of dawn was beginning to show - time was running out! I needed something dark to obscure the letters.
"How ironic," I thought, as I dangled insanely against the outer wall, "A bit of potting compost would really do the trick right now..."

Just then, I had an idea. I went downstairs and ran a bucket of water, and chucked in six or seven bottles of heavy duty ink that I'd bought a year or so ago in an abortive attempt to learn how to draw occult runes. Then I added some soy sauce, some mud from the back garden and a few tea bags for good measure. I balanced myself precariously from the window once more and flung the concoction right across the terminally misspelt letters. Hallelujah! Joy! It worked! At least for the meantime, until I get some proper black paint, the words are covered. As long as it doesn't rain before I paint over them, everything should work out very well indeed. I went to bed, thinking that on the whole it had been pretty exciting in retrospect, it's always a crisis like that that bring out my true inventive genius.

Well, nothing much else to write now, I suppose all I've got to do now is wait for that girl to get back from her mission. I'm beginning to wonder if she'll turn up again. Probably pocketed the money and buggered off back to her stamps, I shouldn't wonder. Oh well, time to head downstairs and see if Grott can come up with something palatable again today. Stay tuned for more stuff, if that's really your idea of a good time....

I like to end with some dots like that. (....)