Hazard of Parsnips, Chapter 11

Lord Dennis

It appears that I owe you some sort of apology. At this juncture, I am not entirely sure what sort it should be; by nature I am not inclined to give you any. I will have to consult with my father’s apologepedia as the soonest convenience, but we will proceed with this letter in a tone of general apologisement.

I should explain.

You may or may not be aware that my precious Clarence has been abducted. Well, it’s pretty obvious that you are aware of it since you were accused of doing it and incarcerated for a prolonged period. I cannot help but admit that I truly believed that you were responsible for this most heinous crime and I almost wet my bloomers with excitement when D.I. Detective-Inspector announced that you were under suspicion. Indeed, prior to this proclaimation of your arrest, it had seemed that the local plod were not going to take any action against thee and I had already begun the process of rounding up an angry mob from the local village. To be fair, it really doesn’t take a lot for them to get all riled up and they were all frantically polishing their pitchforks at the mere thought of becoming unruly. This is not a euphemism. Frankly, I thought that I was going to have to tell them that you’re a kiddy fiddler, but it seemed that they were more than happy to burn down your estate on the grounds of circumstantional evidence for a possible kidnapping of a vegetable salesman. The uneducated masses do come in handy occasionally.

I literally danced the fandago when the fuzz announced that you had been taken in for questioning. I played Temptation by Heaven 17 on my father’s stereogram and giggled merrily at the delicious irony. Then I remembered that dear Clarence was still missing and it was probably a tad inappropriate for me to be so happy. To make amends, I insisted that Mrs Jennings, our housekeeper, fed me a sour plum at once, in order to remove all traces of a smile from my oh-so-sexy countenance.

As we had no further reason to cause a riot, the villagers were at a loose end and had nowhere to channel their freshly pent-up aggression. As a compromise, I suggested that they go and throw a mixture of horse manure and salad cream through the bars of your cell. In hindsight, I’m semi-sorry that I asked them to do this.

But, oh! Lord Dennis, please try and understand the emotional turmoil that I was under at the time. Not only was uber-spunk Clarence missing, but the national press was intimating that Sir Robert Williams was about to leave the Take That Society. Yes, I will concede that he is an absolute cock, but I could not help but worry about the fate of Alderman Gareth Barlow and the rest of those fine fellows. Would this fine, upstanding band of brother be able to survive without Williams’ weak mock-rappery? It was almost too much for this delicate flower to bear.

I digress. Although my monolithic slab of manhood was in parts unknown, I felt confident that the bizzies would extract his location from your obstinate mug and that we’d soon be re-united in glorious romantitude. What I did not expect was the man Kowalski.

The first I knew of this ‘American’ was when he rapped on the door of my father’s manor to the beat of Tiger Feet by Mud. It was a most unusual knock and I instinctively knew that it forbode the arrival of a most extraordinary visitor. Our butler, Brandreth, announced the constable’s arrival and relayed to me that he was wishing to speak with myself most urgently. Now, I can assure you that I am not by nature inclined to bow down to the filth, but I could feel an almost tangible aura emanating from the parlour in which he resided, so I pulled on my leggings and decided to indulge my curiousity.

As soon as I entered the room, my senses were assaulted by a sheer weight of animal magnetism. It was like a giraffe had just stood on my foot. One cannot help but feel that it is most fortuitous that I am so enamoured of my Clarence or I could well have invited Monsieur Kowalski derriere le bins du Aldi, if one can derive my meaning. I took a few moments to compose myself and it was only then that I realised that Kowalski’s eyes had been tightly shut for as long as I had been in the room. Before I could pass comment, he spake:

‘Can you hear it? Can you hear it pumping on your stereo? Yes, it’s true. That, sweetcheeks, is the goddam bassline of justice and Kowalski is here to pluck it from your four pretty, little strings.’

His metaphor was stretched, to say the least, but his meaning was beyond question. From his very stance I could deduce that he was a man with more answers than questions – an unholy imbalance at the best of times – and for some unknown reason he had decided to rain his answers down upon me.

He was uncomfortably frank and within seconds he had mentally undressed me, redressed me in something more becoming and then mentally invited me out for dinner. If I had any blood vessels left in my cheeks (following my freak boating accident) I would have surely blushed so vividly that they could have used me as a lighthouse.

When he had completed this sexually charged visual interrogation, he informed me of the reason for his being there. He was 100% convinced that you were innocent and that some ghastly chap called Der Naughty Kitty (I’m not sure if this is his real name) was responsible. Apparently, this kitty character had even sent the pigs a letter proclaiming that he was indeed the culprit! As if to rub salt in my wounds, the man Kowalski even shew me the offending missive.

I must confess that I thought it was utter bollocks. A serial kidnapper\perv called Der Naughty Kitty? It sounded utterly preposterous. Clearly, it was you, Lord Dennis, that was responsible for the disappearance of my beloved and no jumped up, but undeniably saucy, yank was going to tell me any different.

I literally bit off the policeman’s head for wasting my time with his ridiculous theory and demanded that he leave my crib immediately. He sauntered out of the parlour like a rabbit who had just won a rollover on the Euromillions, whilst trying to conceal from his wife that he had won the lottery so he could try and sneak off and live the playboy lifestyle on the French Riviera. Frankly, I didn’t know what it all meant.

I was livid and could barely contain my rage. Indeed, I insisted that Mrs Jennings joined me in one of our Fight Society evenings in the basement of a local hostelry, and I took my frustrations out on her flabby face. I had a lot of explaining to do when father didn’t get his breakfast on time the next morning, I can tell you, but it was worth it. And dear Mrs J received four farthings from the tooth fairy, which paid for another bottle of gin. It was a win-win scenario. Regardless of the successful pugilism, I remained outraged. How dare this Kowalski try and use evidence to prove your innocence when I had decided on your guilt through tried and tested gut instinct. It was unconscionable.

Anyhoo, I was completely out of sorts for the entire next day. In an attempt to raise my spirits I sat around in my frilliest of lingerie, sometimes sucking a lollipop, at other times cuddling a giant novelty teddy bear. I felt that if I could engender some FHM-style knocker-based validation then my self-worth may have been boosted. Alas, there was only father around at this stage, and I must confess that it made me feel a tad uncomfortable to have him perving on my, admittedly magnificent, arse.

Things had become so dreadful that Brandreth actually beat me when we played along with Countdown. The man is virtually neanderthal, so I wasn’t impressed. In one round my longest word was ‘egg’. I’ll say no more.

Things did not get any better. I was just tucking into my egg and soldiers in front of the fire, whilst father watched Look North West, when the bulletin did nothing more than show your visage via the medium of photography. We listened intently to the reporter and you cannot imagine the shock we experienced when we learned that the man Kowalski had done nothing less than release you from prison. I was well miffed, put it that way. I was all for jumping in the Sierra and swinging by the cop shop – I was well ready to kick off on the jumped up little man and demand that he re-arrest you at once. There was no way that he should be letting you go when my precious Clarence was still incarcerated in parts unknown.

I rushed upstairs to my boudoir to re-apply my make up. Even if I was only going to have a barney with some bobbies, I still like to look my best. It was only then that I spotted a letter sat on my dressing table – and it was written in my Clarence’s uncultured but erotically erratic hand. Oh, how my heart did race. It was like I had been sniffing poppers. I immediately ripped open the crusty envelope and read with trepidation about the horrors that my Clarence had been made to endure. And that most shocking part? It appeared that this Naughty Kitty was real after all. It transpired that I had done you a shocking diservice, Lord Dennis. In a way, it’s your own fault for always acting like such a knob.

Immediately, I knew that I must share this note with the rozzers. I say immediately, but I had to stop off via the servant’s quarters to slap Brandreth around the chops for not giving me the letter sooner. To be honest, he’s far too old to still be of any real use. We only keep him on out of sentimentality – it’s hard to fire your first lover. I know that daddy feels the same way.

Needless to say that we soon headed off to the police station. I wanted to get my encounter with the hideous, yet compelling Kowalski out of the way as soon as possible. After reaching the SHPD HQ, I demanded to see the fiend immediately. He may have been right, and I may have been ever so slightly incorrect, but he was still a colonial and needed to be put in his rightful place. Disgracefully, they left me twiddling my thumbs in an interview room while they went to get him without so much as a cup of Earl Grey. The absolute heathens.

Thirty six minutes later and Kowalski languidly sauntered into the room wearing the tightest pair of Farah slacks that I’ve ever seen. They certainly didn’t leave a great deal to the imagination, so to speak. It was almost as if it was talking to me. It was frightful, and yet I couldn’t take my eyes from it.

My moment of shame came and went, thankfully Kowalski seemed too pre-occupied with the cut of Detective-Inspector’s jacket to gloat over my mistake. The one upside is that Clarence’s letter may just be the evience required for the old bill to finally bring him home to me. Oh how I’ve missed his ruggedness. He’s like a mystic outcrop somewhere in the North Sea. Metaphorically speaking. He’s actually nothing like that. He’s not surrounded by water or covered in bird crap.

So, the point that I’ve been trying to make is that I’m sorry for accusing you of this most terrible of crimes. Again, I will point out that if you weren’t such a bounder then I probably wouldn’t have leapt to such a conclusion. Just a bit of friendly advice.

A bientot.

Miss Eileen Bilton.

2 thoughts on “Hazard of Parsnips, Chapter 11

  1. Dear Misses Biltong,
    I do like this ‘entry’. It’s a bit like the last ‘one’ but also a bit ‘different’. It follows on seamlessly. You can detect the work of two ‘hands’ in the writing of it. I like ‘that’.
    How did you like Islington? I was born and grew up there, until the slum clearances happened, then we had to move out so that the socialists could snap up all the new workers’ mansions.
    Yours,
    Cynthia Glans-Crushing
    x

  2. Dear G

    A thousand thanks for your ‘feedback’. I am tattooing those very words upon my eyelid so I can read them even when I blink.

    I cannot take any credit for this entry. This was all Sherby’s doing.

    Islington was fine enough. I liked all the stuff around that said “building a better Angel’. I tried to take a picture, but the speedboat i was in was travelling too fast.

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