The UK has been baking under a harsh and pitiless sun for weeks now, with constant health warnings being issued about not venturing outside between 11am and 3pm.
Yesterday that ended, with a fearsome electrical storm and 89mm (3½”) of torrential, pelting rain falling in little more than an hour!
I hurried back to the bar to comfort Wilson, lest he be frightened by the thunder, but I needn’t have worried – I found him sleeping soundly.
Or to use the correct medical term, Passed Out.
I went to settle his bar tab, and the size of it assured me that at least, despite the heat, he was well hydrated…
With the temperature today set to reach 38°C (almost 100°F) Wilson has declared that it is too hot for normal holiday activities.
‘It’s even hotter than Costa Rica, New Dad!’ he exclaimed. ‘This unrelenting heat is totes doing my nut in!’
He popped Antony and TT into the MiniBar to keep them cool, and headed down to the hotel bar.
Here he asked the barman whether he could borrow an ice bag and a mini fan, and ordered a Mojito with Extra Ice. And Ants.
Then he made his way, with the ice bag balanced precariously on his head, to a cool corner of the Bar.
While he wasn’t looking, I had a quiet word with the barman asking him, when Wilson ordered cocktails, to only put alcohol into every third or fourth one…
Everyone is safe – please stop worrying!
I couldn’t bear seeing Wilson so down, so in the middle of the night I carried him, still asleep, out of his bed to the car, along with Antony and Tiny Toy, and drove with them down to Weymouth.
I left a note for The Bees, explaining what I’d done… but while I was unpacking a moment ago I found it in my suitcase; in my haste I must have accidentally packed it!
I’ve phoned home and put everyone’s mind at rest, and I can only apologise for any distress…
Anyway, Wilson is still sleeping – as soon as he wakes up I’ll tell him: we’re on holiday!
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*Mea Culpa = My Bad in Latin – don't say this stuff isn't educational!
The Police have been back again to search the house, but to no avail.
They’ve made a bit of a mess with their Fingerprint Powder and Police Tape – in fact Polly is stuck to the tumble dryer by her antennae with crime scene tape as we speak and we don’t know whether it would be illegal to try to cut her free.
There’s still been no Ransom Demand, and Uncle Zoltan thinks this means the most likely explanation is that they’ve been Abducted By Aliens!
We just hope that if that’s the case, the Aliens don’t use their… um, Probe!
Just in case it’s NOT aliens, please keep a look out for an Anteater accompanied by two Toy Anteaters and an Elderly Man!
Oh, Polly says that Wilson’s New Dad prefers to be described as ‘late middle aged’ but I think we all know what that really means! ;o)
Hello, We are Polly and Billi The Bees and this is our Emergency Blog!
We know it’s not the first of the month when we usually Blog, but this is a PROPER EMERGENCY!
We went round to Wilson’s tumble dryer last night to see if he was alright and ask whether he’d like some Honey on Toast, and when we got there we immediately saw that he wasn’t there!
We asked everyone if they’d seen Wilson, and while we were doing that we noticed that Antony and Tiny Toy are missing too!
Although Wilson has been very depressed lately, we’re sure he wouldn’t do anything silly, specially not if Antony and TT were with him, so we think he must have been Kidnapped!
Or possibly Anteaternapped!
Obviously we telephoned the police straight away, but they haven’t found them yet.
We’ve made a MISSING POSTER – please let us know if you’d like a copy of it to put up in your window or at work.
As I was passing Wilson’s tumble dryer this morning, he leaned out and asked me, ‘This holiday – where were you thinking of going?’
‘Weymouth!’ I replied, ‘It’s really lovely there, with loads of interesting things to do and places to visit.’
‘So, where exactly is Weymouth – is it abroad?’ he enquired.
‘No,’ I continued, ‘It’s in Dorset, quite near to Bournemouth.’
W’s head withdrew, and I heard his muffled voice say, ‘Forget it, then. I’ve already been to Bournemouth. Many times. I’m bored of it. In the immortal Last Words of King George V, “Bugger Bournemouth!”’
‘Actually,’ I replied, ‘he said “Bugger Bognor” – and don’t use that word!’
I don’t know what Wilson and Nërp discussed – neither of them is willing to discuss it – although the following day, Wilson did seem a tad brighter.
Today, though, he appears to have relapsed a little.
I came across him sitting in the living room with the curtains drawn, quietly singing The First Cut Is The Deepest to himself…
I asked him if he was okay. ‘Yes,’ he sighed, ‘I’m fine…’
But it was obvious he was not fine – he was clearly some distance from fine.
I decided to play my Trump Card – the thing that never fails to cheer W up!
‘Do you feel like a holiday?’ I asked.
He fidgeted in his seat for a moment, and replied, ‘Okay. If you like.’
This was not the response I had been expecting.
Or hoping for…
Last night Nërp took Wilson aside for a private chat.
They shut themselves in the dining room, and were still at it well into the night.
Nërp had previously consulted me about whether it would be appropriate for him to offer Wilson any Relationship Advice in an effort to cheer him up about his lost love, Cinthya Nazereth.
I had some reservations about what a robot, however well-intentioned, would know about relationships – human, anteater or other – but I told him to go for it.
After all, W’s spirits are still pretty low, and I doubt anything Nërp might say could make him feel much worse…
When compared with CS Lewis’ The Screwtape Letters Wilson’s correspondence with the Flying Spaghetti Monster may not be Great Literature, but it’s still pretty unique – not many people have in their possession a signed letter from a Deity!
Accordingly, Wilson’s first instinct was to put it on eBay.
Having slept on it, though, he has decided to frame both letters, as they will become ‘A unique and priceless heirloom!’ in years to come.
In history there have been many gods, although most of them are no longer worshipped.
Estimates of the number of gods currently being venerated vary between just 15 and 330,000,000 (Hindus, eh?!) – but last Wednesday Wilson wrote a letter to one of them.
Not just ANY god – not even the god it would be most appropriate to write to on a Wednesday: Woden – W chose to write to the one god with the self-awareness to acknowledge that he [or she or it] is not real: the Flying Spaghetti Monster.
Imagine my surprise, then, when this morning a reply arrived!
The postman rang at the door and handed it to me in person – not because of its sanctity, but because it had been posted with Insufficient Postage.
A Golden Seraphim would have been good, but times must be tight in Pastafarian Heaven if they can’t even afford stamps…
Wilson has written a letter to the Flying Spaghetti Monster, explaining about the ‘miracle’ he thinks he witnessed and applying for the job of Pastafarian Saint.
Since the Church of Pastafaria is a satirical ‘religion’ founded to mock the teachings of creationists, I can only guess how his letter will be received.
What puzzles me even more is, how W knows the address of the Flying Spaghetti Monster…
Father Xmas [Santa Claus] perhaps, but an actual deity – albeit a satirical one?
I finally located Wilson round by the Asteroid Shelter, where he and the sTone Brothers were staring, awe-struck, at Mr Juicy’s grave.
(You may remember Wilson’s friend and co-star, Mister Juicy The Talking Orange, who died in tragic circumstances at the end of last year.)
I followed their gaze and saw, picked out by a sunbeam, an orange tree, bearing several oranges, growing out of the tomb.
‘It’s a Miracle, New Dad,’ Wilson whispered to me – ‘It’s a bona fide miracle!’
‘It’s NOT a miracle,’ I started to explain, ‘it’s just that Mr Juicy must have had some seeds in him when you buried…’
But Wilson continued, ‘I shall write to the Flying Spaghetti Monster – He will probably declare Mr J a Pastafarian Saint! He might declare ME a Pastafarian Saint, because I discovered the miracle!’
On hearing this, the sTone Brothers started shuffling about and trying to attract W’s attention…
Wilson was in the garden discussing yesterday’s match with the sTone Brothers.
When the Uckfield Bees play, their usual position is Left and Right Goal Posts, so their knowledge of The Beautiful Game is about as shallow as W’s – but none of them let cluelessness stand between them and a good chat as they discussed such topics as:
• Is Football Really Coming Home?
• What does that even mean?
• Should the Half-Time Break be extended if some of the players need a bit of a nap?
and
• Should the Handball Rule be relaxed if all the players have paws?
Suddenly, though, the air was rent by W screaming, ‘New Dad! New Dad! Come quick – something’s happened!’
I ran out into the garden to see what had occurred, and to determine whether First Aid would be necessary…
The Bees, being Owner-managers of their own football club (Uckfield Bees) have been taking a keen interest in the World Cup.
Consequently, they have prevailed on everyone to spend the afternoon sitting indoors in the stifling heat watching the England v Sweden quarter-final match on tv.
TBH, no-one else has much interest, although it’s hard not to be swept up by the general air of excitement prevailing throughout the country.
Uncle Zoltan is apparently supporting Sweden – but only because he is a natural contrarian!
When Wilson first saw his honey on toast, he said he wasn’t hungry and couldn’t face any food.
However, he took one bite, just to please The Bees, and it seems to have stimulated his appetite – barely an hour later has consumed quite a considerable meal and declared himself to be ‘Still sad… but full up!’
Once we were alone, I asked W why he had been summoned to the zoo in the first place.
‘Well, New Dad,’ he began, ‘my Big Sister Andrea thought she was going to have a pup, and she wanted me to be her Birthing Partner – that’s why I took the spoons and the Kazoo!’
I asked, ‘What did she have – a little boy pup or a girl?’
‘Neither!’ he replied. ’The Keeper called the Vet in, and she said it was a “Phantom Pregnancy” – I got very excited then, because I thought I was going to be the uncle to a baby ghost… but all it means is that you’re not really having a baby at all. Queen Victoria had one, apparently – whoever she is.’
As soon as we got home, Polly and Billi The Bees took Wilson into the dining room, where they sat him down with a plate of buttered toast with honey, famed, apparently, for its restorative powers.
In spite of the heat, Polly insisted on draping a warm blanket round W’s shoulders, ‘For the shock.’
Wilson, surrounded by only his closest confidantes, took a small bite of toast and honey, and smiled bravely.
Even Uncle Zoltan showed up – he toyed awkwardly with his top hat for a minute, before walking up to W and announcing, ‘Terrible business, old chap. Terrible. Sympathise, dont’cha know. Still, stiff upper lip, what?’ before he walked away shaking his head, and leaving a trail of footprints in the butter…
We started the journey in silence.
After a few miles I turned the radio on, but the song playing was The Beatles’ And I love Her – Wilson reached out and tapped the Off button with his claw.
I stopped the car in a Lay-By so we could talk; Wilson held out the Polaroid he’d been gazing at since I first saw him – it showed a pretty young sloth, smiling at the camera.
‘This’ he told me, ‘is Cinthya Nazereth – the loveliest sloth in the world...’
After a moment, he continued, ‘I was certain she’d marry me – we’d done some kissing round the back of the Capybara Enclosure and everything – but she said she wasn’t quite ready to settle down yet.’
I shook my head sympathetically.
‘Still,’ he continued, ‘She did say it wasn’t me, it was her – so that’s something!’
‘Yes,’ I agreed, ‘it is – hold on to that thought.’
I started the engine and continued our journey home…
Hello, we are Polly and Billi The Bees, and this is our Guest Blog.
We hadn’t been looking forward to today’s instalment, because we were going to have to bring you the very sad news that the first Bumble Bees have been added to the Endangered Species List – The Rusty Patched Bumble Bee is now Officially Endangered!
But as though that weren’t enough, now there’s this terrible news about Wilson!
As you know, Billi and I have been married for a couple of years now, so we’re very unhappy to hear that Wilson’s Wedding has been cancelled.
Once he gets home we’re going to try to cheer him up by cooking some of our favourite Bee Recipes for him – how can anyone stay sad when they’ve got a nice plate of Honey on Toast in front of them?
Even Uncle Zoltan – having himself been jilted when barely out of his pupahood – feels poor W’s pain…
Halfway to the zoo I received an SMS from Wilson, asking me to collect him as the wedding had been cancelled.
When I arrived, I found him sitting disconsolately outside the entrance staring at a Polaroid photograph.
He was accompanied by Byron, who was pacing awkwardly up and down looking exactly like someone who couldn’t think of the right thing to say.
I put an arm round W’s shoulder and said, ’Come on, mate, let’s get you home.’
Byron punched him gently on the arm and W gave him a halfhearted smile in return.
He climbed into the car with a sigh and slumped in the front seat, and as Byron waved us off we started our journey back to Uckfield…
