Subtitle: No blowdarts please, we’re British
After my white-knuckle ride on the Tea-Tray Express, I found myself in a small, darkened room, filled with esoteric memorabilia. From shrunken heads (I’m sure one of them was Lorraine Kelly) to huge dusty tomes filled with mystical incantations, Jonathan covered the whole world of the occult.
As my eyes became accustomed to the gloom, I became aware of the faint sound of rhythmic chanting. I couldn’t work out where it was coming from, but as I moved further into the murky room, I discovered that it was coming from behind the panelled wall at the far end of the fireplace. I briefly wondered whether or not to investigate further, but a sharp pain in my thigh brought me back to my senses.
Jonathan was lying in the footwell of the antique desk into which I’d just walked. He appeared to be unharmed apart from a gash above his left eyebrow. He sat up, bashing his forehead on the underside of the desk, and collapsed back to the floor. As he came round, I manoeuvred him to a sitting position, propped against the drawers of the desk.
‘How long was I out?’ he asked blearily, gingerly rubbing the large bump on his forehead.
‘Oh, only a few seconds,’ I replied. ‘What on earth is happening? Dawkins is upstairs. He’s been shot in the leg. Tarquin is tending to him as I speak.’
Jonathan hesitated for a few seconds before answering, stroking his beard thoughtfully as he pondered his reply.
‘I suspect that the Cosa Nostradamus has tracked you from the moment you returned home after the atrocity at the carnival.’
‘But… but… how?’ I spluttered. ‘We were hidden in your car the whole way. I’m not sure I’ll ever get the smell of that travel rug out of my hair.’
Jonathan suddenly stretched out a hand and plucked a stray sequin out of my hair.
‘How about this?’ he murmured.
I was just about to point out that it would be fairly impossible to track anyone with the aid of one measly sequin when I was suddenly grabbed from behind. Fortunately it was Tarquin, who’d taken advantage of the unexpected ceasefire to creep downstairs.
He peered at the sequin and asked, ‘Is that a Track-o-matic 5000 Mk III? Where did you get it? They’re very difficult to obtain these days.’
‘I fear it was planted on young Kats during the confusion of the carnival. We’re dealing with extremely dangerous people.’
I gaped at Jonathan and Tarquin in open-mouthed astonishment.
‘But... but… I… I… ‘ I stammered, for the moment unable to form a coherent thought, let alone a sentence.
Tarquin gulped nervously and revealed that he had been (some time ago) a member of the elite security wing of MFI, a crack unit dedicated to solving crimes involving flatpack furniture.
‘It’s more widespread than you might think. We worked closely with the Homebase Guard and on an international basis with Ikeapol.
‘Oh,’ was all I managed to say before something flew through what was left of the window and struck me on the side of the neck.
I shook my head as the room seemed to shift ever so slightly out of focus and I put my hand to my neck and plucked out a small feathered dart. I stared at in confusion for a moment before everything started to grow dim and I sank slowly to the floor…
Monday, October 31, 2005
Monday, October 24, 2005
The Nextest Episode
Subtitle: A very big house in the country
I came to several minutes later, to find myself being carried by the lovely Tarquin out to Jonathan’s car, a vintage Toyota Previa in lime green and turquoise. Apparently, as I found out later, it’s camouflage for the terminally colourblind.
We set off shortly after I was bundled unceremoniously on the floor of the car, Tarquin flinging himself bodily atop my inert form. Jonathan then covered us with an old travel rug, that smelt distressingly of Dettol and bakewell tart.
‘Just a precaution,’ he told us cheerily.
I managed to stop myself from pointing out that he’d be a damn site less cheerful if he had some mangy rug stuck over his head when I saw how worried poor Tarquin looked, in the smelly gloom of the back seat footwell.
Fortunately, once we got out onto the open road, we pulled into a service station, where we were able to change out of our rather conspicuous taffeta and crimplene dancing outfits into the clothes that Tarquin had hastily packed whilst I’d been blissfully unaware, passed out on the sofa.
Once suitably attired, we jumped back into the car and sped off in the direction of Jonathan’s country seat. I’d have preferred a whole house myself, but needs must when the devils steals your muesli, as my (slightly mental) granny used to say.
Several hours later, I awoke with a stiff neck from where I’d nodded off in the car. The aroma from the travel rug had combined with Tarquin’s slightly overindulgent use of Brut to create a narcotic gas. Fortunately, Jonathan was impervious to this, as one of his little foibles is to drive in full face mask. We alighted from the car, and found ourselves in front of an imposing mansion house.
‘Impressive frontage Jonathan,’ I remarked.
‘You’re not doing so bad yourself, young lady’, he replied with a wink at Tarquin, who reddened visibly.
We refrained from further banter, as it was getting dark. Dawkins, Jonathan’s butler was waiting by the front door to take our bags and show us to our rooms.
‘I’ve taken the liberty of releasing the hounds, sir, and have switched on all the fences.’
‘Thank you Dawkins, could you also see to Tarquin and Kats? They’ll be bunking in the Taupe Room. Dinner at 8 as usual.’
We followed Dawkins up the magnificent staircase to the first floor, where we were shown into a bedroom so huge we could have played touch snooker in it and still had room for a disco.
We unpacked our meagre belongings, then sat and digested the events of the last day or two. We were just coming up for air when suddenly the alarm sounded and metal grilles descended over all the windows.
Tarquin rushed out into the hallway, to find Dawkins slumped in a corner, with a bullet wound to the leg. We dragged him into our room, where I administered rudimentary first aid, though we had a spot of bother with the recovery position, and ended up just propping him up against the sideboard.
We had no idea if Jonathan had been injured, so one of us had to go and find out. We decided to draw straws, and as my picture was the more realistic of the two, I won. I like to think that my addition of a yokel and a couple of field mice swung things in my favour but I digress. I quickly fashioned some protective clothing from an occasional table and a silver tea tray and edged my way out into the corridor.
The scene was utterly chaotic – the walls were riddled with bullet holes, and the vase at the top of the stairs had been smashed into a million pieces. (Though I can’t verify that, as I didn’t have time to sit and count them all.) A bullet whizzed past my right ear, and I huddled behind the table. Cunningly using the tea tray as a periscope type device, I was able to plot a fairly safe course to the top of the stairs, at which point I was stuck. Until I decided that speed was of the essence and jumped on the tray and slid down the stairs, in an insane parody of the Winter Olympics luge run.
I reached the ground in a matter of seconds, and, after pausing to catch my breath, ran headlong into what I assumed was Jonathan’s study…
You’ll find out what it really was in the next thrilling episode.
I came to several minutes later, to find myself being carried by the lovely Tarquin out to Jonathan’s car, a vintage Toyota Previa in lime green and turquoise. Apparently, as I found out later, it’s camouflage for the terminally colourblind.
We set off shortly after I was bundled unceremoniously on the floor of the car, Tarquin flinging himself bodily atop my inert form. Jonathan then covered us with an old travel rug, that smelt distressingly of Dettol and bakewell tart.
‘Just a precaution,’ he told us cheerily.
I managed to stop myself from pointing out that he’d be a damn site less cheerful if he had some mangy rug stuck over his head when I saw how worried poor Tarquin looked, in the smelly gloom of the back seat footwell.
Fortunately, once we got out onto the open road, we pulled into a service station, where we were able to change out of our rather conspicuous taffeta and crimplene dancing outfits into the clothes that Tarquin had hastily packed whilst I’d been blissfully unaware, passed out on the sofa.
Once suitably attired, we jumped back into the car and sped off in the direction of Jonathan’s country seat. I’d have preferred a whole house myself, but needs must when the devils steals your muesli, as my (slightly mental) granny used to say.
Several hours later, I awoke with a stiff neck from where I’d nodded off in the car. The aroma from the travel rug had combined with Tarquin’s slightly overindulgent use of Brut to create a narcotic gas. Fortunately, Jonathan was impervious to this, as one of his little foibles is to drive in full face mask. We alighted from the car, and found ourselves in front of an imposing mansion house.
‘Impressive frontage Jonathan,’ I remarked.
‘You’re not doing so bad yourself, young lady’, he replied with a wink at Tarquin, who reddened visibly.
We refrained from further banter, as it was getting dark. Dawkins, Jonathan’s butler was waiting by the front door to take our bags and show us to our rooms.
‘I’ve taken the liberty of releasing the hounds, sir, and have switched on all the fences.’
‘Thank you Dawkins, could you also see to Tarquin and Kats? They’ll be bunking in the Taupe Room. Dinner at 8 as usual.’
We followed Dawkins up the magnificent staircase to the first floor, where we were shown into a bedroom so huge we could have played touch snooker in it and still had room for a disco.
We unpacked our meagre belongings, then sat and digested the events of the last day or two. We were just coming up for air when suddenly the alarm sounded and metal grilles descended over all the windows.
Tarquin rushed out into the hallway, to find Dawkins slumped in a corner, with a bullet wound to the leg. We dragged him into our room, where I administered rudimentary first aid, though we had a spot of bother with the recovery position, and ended up just propping him up against the sideboard.
We had no idea if Jonathan had been injured, so one of us had to go and find out. We decided to draw straws, and as my picture was the more realistic of the two, I won. I like to think that my addition of a yokel and a couple of field mice swung things in my favour but I digress. I quickly fashioned some protective clothing from an occasional table and a silver tea tray and edged my way out into the corridor.
The scene was utterly chaotic – the walls were riddled with bullet holes, and the vase at the top of the stairs had been smashed into a million pieces. (Though I can’t verify that, as I didn’t have time to sit and count them all.) A bullet whizzed past my right ear, and I huddled behind the table. Cunningly using the tea tray as a periscope type device, I was able to plot a fairly safe course to the top of the stairs, at which point I was stuck. Until I decided that speed was of the essence and jumped on the tray and slid down the stairs, in an insane parody of the Winter Olympics luge run.
I reached the ground in a matter of seconds, and, after pausing to catch my breath, ran headlong into what I assumed was Jonathan’s study…
You’ll find out what it really was in the next thrilling episode.
Monday, October 10, 2005
The Next Episode
Subtitle: A bit of a shock
As you can imagine, after the outrage perpetrated by the Sons of Thrower, the gay carnival atmosphere had turned to one of fear, anguish and distrust. Tarquin and I were trying hard to remain upbeat in the face of such devastation (and the jam splodge on his cummerbund was really rather distracting). We did try to search for some clues, but in our dancing outfits we looked rather conspicuous. There was nothing for it but to head back home and see if we couldn’t piece together some more of this mystery.
However, fate had other plans in store. We trudged home, only to find the front door in splintered pieces. We ran through the door, only to find the place well and truly ransacked. We did a quick inventory (being the organised sort, I have a checklist and clipboard kept in the wall safe – which hadn’t been touched, luckily) and found that nothing was missing, apart from a set of computer discs that I’d carelessly left out on the table.
I knew at once who was behind the break-in and turned to Tarquin, who had by this time recovered from his initial shock.
‘It’s the Sons of Thrower! I know it is! We’re definitely onto something here.’
He just stood there, with a curious look on his face, holding a sheet of what looked to be fairly ordinary A4 sized paper.
‘I think you’d better read this, while I put the kettle on.’
My normal response of ‘It won’t suit you, darling’ seemed highly inappropriate, given that his pallor matched the startling white brilliance of the paper.
I started to read the note, which was as follows:
Kats PI, you were warned. Cease and desist your prying. What you find out will do you no good. Especially where you’re going.
In accordance with prophecy, you have now been marked. For Death.
I was hoping that either the words ‘by Chocolate’ or ‘Only joking’ would appear, but it was not to be.
Trembling with fear and not a little indignation, I walked into the kitchen to find Tarquin rattling the teacups slightly too loudly.
‘It’ll be alright, you’ll see’, I said, with an air of breeziness I wasn’t expecting.
‘I only hope you’re right,’ he replied, with a tremble in his voice that I found oddly touching. ‘I know someone who can help us. He’s on his way round now.’
Just at that moment, there was a knock at the door, or more correctly, on the wall next to where the door had been. A cheery ‘Hello, anyone there?’ accompanied it.
Tarquin scurried to the door, and greeted our visitor warmly. He was a fairly stocky man, in his mid to late fifties, with a distinct air of Captain Birdseye about him. He advanced towards me, hand outstretched.
‘You must be the Kats I keep hearing so much about. Tarquin wasn’t exaggerating. I’m Jonathan. Jonathan Ffolkes, though the F is silent.’
I was a little thrown by the man’s charm, and the fact that he had a glass eye. In a small bottle, hung on a chain round his neck.
‘Ahh, you’re admiring the eye. The eye of Brize Norton. A powerful tool for necromancy.’
‘Isn’t that illegal?’, I asked.
‘No, you’re thinking of necrophilia. Quite a different kettle of monkeys that.’
I was momentarily lost for words, but fortunately Tarquin came to the rescue with a large pot of tea and a slightly damaged pear and walnut cake that he’d rescued from the carnage at the carnival.
We sat in silence for a few minutes, sipping our tea, and then the table was cleared, and the note we’d received was thrust at Jonathan, who read it, a frown appearing on his face as he did so.
‘Hmmm, this is worse than I feared. It appears you’ve attracted the attention of a particularly nasty cult.’
‘Please Mr Ffolkes, there are ladies present!’ I exclaimed.
He ignored my rather pathetic attempt at humour and pressed on. ‘You see this part here – ‘in accordance with prophecy’ – that’s a phrase used exclusively by one organisation. The Cosa Nostradamus.’
I was dumbstruck. ‘But… but…’ I started.
‘I know what you’re thinking,’ he said, ‘but you and Tarquin are going to have to go into hiding for a while. These people will stop at nothing to dispose of the pair of you. You’ve disturbed some pretty powerful people. The best place for you to hide will be at my country house. Go and pack, and we’ll set off straight away.’
My mind was reeling. Surely he couldn’t be serious.
It appeared, however, that he was. Not only that, but Tarquin had already packed our bags.
‘Don’t worry dear heart,’ said Jonathan, ‘we’ll have this all sorted out in no time.’
At this point, I did the only thing I could, and dropped to the floor in a dead faint.
And what transpired after that, will be revealed next time…
As you can imagine, after the outrage perpetrated by the Sons of Thrower, the gay carnival atmosphere had turned to one of fear, anguish and distrust. Tarquin and I were trying hard to remain upbeat in the face of such devastation (and the jam splodge on his cummerbund was really rather distracting). We did try to search for some clues, but in our dancing outfits we looked rather conspicuous. There was nothing for it but to head back home and see if we couldn’t piece together some more of this mystery.
However, fate had other plans in store. We trudged home, only to find the front door in splintered pieces. We ran through the door, only to find the place well and truly ransacked. We did a quick inventory (being the organised sort, I have a checklist and clipboard kept in the wall safe – which hadn’t been touched, luckily) and found that nothing was missing, apart from a set of computer discs that I’d carelessly left out on the table.
I knew at once who was behind the break-in and turned to Tarquin, who had by this time recovered from his initial shock.
‘It’s the Sons of Thrower! I know it is! We’re definitely onto something here.’
He just stood there, with a curious look on his face, holding a sheet of what looked to be fairly ordinary A4 sized paper.
‘I think you’d better read this, while I put the kettle on.’
My normal response of ‘It won’t suit you, darling’ seemed highly inappropriate, given that his pallor matched the startling white brilliance of the paper.
I started to read the note, which was as follows:
Kats PI, you were warned. Cease and desist your prying. What you find out will do you no good. Especially where you’re going.
In accordance with prophecy, you have now been marked. For Death.
I was hoping that either the words ‘by Chocolate’ or ‘Only joking’ would appear, but it was not to be.
Trembling with fear and not a little indignation, I walked into the kitchen to find Tarquin rattling the teacups slightly too loudly.
‘It’ll be alright, you’ll see’, I said, with an air of breeziness I wasn’t expecting.
‘I only hope you’re right,’ he replied, with a tremble in his voice that I found oddly touching. ‘I know someone who can help us. He’s on his way round now.’
Just at that moment, there was a knock at the door, or more correctly, on the wall next to where the door had been. A cheery ‘Hello, anyone there?’ accompanied it.
Tarquin scurried to the door, and greeted our visitor warmly. He was a fairly stocky man, in his mid to late fifties, with a distinct air of Captain Birdseye about him. He advanced towards me, hand outstretched.
‘You must be the Kats I keep hearing so much about. Tarquin wasn’t exaggerating. I’m Jonathan. Jonathan Ffolkes, though the F is silent.’
I was a little thrown by the man’s charm, and the fact that he had a glass eye. In a small bottle, hung on a chain round his neck.
‘Ahh, you’re admiring the eye. The eye of Brize Norton. A powerful tool for necromancy.’
‘Isn’t that illegal?’, I asked.
‘No, you’re thinking of necrophilia. Quite a different kettle of monkeys that.’
I was momentarily lost for words, but fortunately Tarquin came to the rescue with a large pot of tea and a slightly damaged pear and walnut cake that he’d rescued from the carnage at the carnival.
We sat in silence for a few minutes, sipping our tea, and then the table was cleared, and the note we’d received was thrust at Jonathan, who read it, a frown appearing on his face as he did so.
‘Hmmm, this is worse than I feared. It appears you’ve attracted the attention of a particularly nasty cult.’
‘Please Mr Ffolkes, there are ladies present!’ I exclaimed.
He ignored my rather pathetic attempt at humour and pressed on. ‘You see this part here – ‘in accordance with prophecy’ – that’s a phrase used exclusively by one organisation. The Cosa Nostradamus.’
I was dumbstruck. ‘But… but…’ I started.
‘I know what you’re thinking,’ he said, ‘but you and Tarquin are going to have to go into hiding for a while. These people will stop at nothing to dispose of the pair of you. You’ve disturbed some pretty powerful people. The best place for you to hide will be at my country house. Go and pack, and we’ll set off straight away.’
My mind was reeling. Surely he couldn’t be serious.
It appeared, however, that he was. Not only that, but Tarquin had already packed our bags.
‘Don’t worry dear heart,’ said Jonathan, ‘we’ll have this all sorted out in no time.’
At this point, I did the only thing I could, and dropped to the floor in a dead faint.
And what transpired after that, will be revealed next time…
Friday, October 07, 2005
Yet another episode
Subtitle: Ballroom Bliss
I imagine you’re dying to know what happened at the carnival dance-off. Well, I’m surprised you didn’t read it in the newspapers. We even managed the front page of the Didsbury Gazette, and that’s no mean feat, I can tell you. Having said that, the local WI were having a quiet week, so they were quite stuck for news.
Anyway, back to the matter in hand. Tarquin, who’d proved himself to be a man fairly light on his feet (though not in that way), and I were last minute entrants to the dance competition due to one couple dropping out at the last minute. I heard that there’d been some kind of freak patisserie-related injury, but you’ll be as relieved as I was to know that no permanent disfigurement resulted, though the stains proved to be more than a match for Persil.
The day of the competition dawned bright and clear, and I was up early to make sure that we looked our best, and besides the fake smiles needed time to set, otherwise they’d look a bit…well…fake.
Several hours later, we emerged from our lair in the manner of two slightly startled butterflies emerging from their respective cocoons, to a round of rapturous applause from the neighbours. We hadn’t intended to spread the word around about our entering the competition, but once Mrs Smith (from No 24) had spotted a particularly energetic bout of rumba-ing one evening at Mondo Bizarro, there was no stopping the rumour mill.
We arrived at the competition marquee in plenty of time, so we had more than enough time to assess the other dancers. I wasn’t sure how well we’d do, but Tarquin seemed quite confident. I suspect that was more due to the raisin bran we’d had for breakfast than our terpsichorean abilities however.
I was unable to really focus on the competition, as I was sure that the Sons of Thrower were ready to strike. Still, as the clock struck three, we all took our places and waited for battle to commence. The first dance was the Paso Doble, not our strongest dance, but we did pretty well, only clipping one of the other couples slightly. After that there was a Tango, a Merengue and a Boston Two-Step, during which, by a combination of a rather energetic overarm twirl/throughstep movement, we took out three spectators and the tea urn.
We managed, more through dumb luck than anything else, to make it through to the final. Sadly, the three dances weren’t our best ones at all. There was a Molvanian Waltz to start with, followed by the Crableigh Mambo (a local dance, not well known in the dancing world) and the Rumba. I knew this was the best of the three, which wasn’t saying much. However, after a brief rest period, and a glass or two of barley water, we were thrust back into the fray. You’ll be pleased to know that despite a slight ‘incident’ with one of the judges (he’ll be out of plaster in a couple of weeks) we just managed to squeeze into first place!
Once we’d comforted the losing couples, who both seemed dreadfully upset – the men were virtually inconsolable, though the women just shrugged it off – we prepared ourselves for the prizewinning ceremony.
Just as we were about to be presented with the Linoleum Blair Memorial Trophy, there was a sudden explosion from the WI Hospitality Tent. We ran headlong towards the area where the tent had been, only to be caught in a hail of sponge, jam and buttercream. Tarquin and I rushed forward, only to find that by some miracle, there was only one victim of this outrageous attack, and she’d be fine once she’d attacked her skirt with a Vanish stain removal stick.
We hunted around the site of the explosion, which appeared to have been centred around a large arrangement of profiteroles, some of which had travelled at least 50 feet with the force of the blast. I noticed a small scrap of white paper, which I secreted in my secret pocket (big knickers have their uses) to examine later. Tarquin also found a couple of clues, but seemed more intent on trying to eat his way through the evidence. Fortunately, before he could start on the ‘Yard of Éclair’ we were moved on by the police.
We trudged wearily back to the dance tent (sorry, marquee) and collected our trophy, not that we really appreciated it at the time. Of course, it was to come in very handy later on that week, but more on that next time….
I imagine you’re dying to know what happened at the carnival dance-off. Well, I’m surprised you didn’t read it in the newspapers. We even managed the front page of the Didsbury Gazette, and that’s no mean feat, I can tell you. Having said that, the local WI were having a quiet week, so they were quite stuck for news.
Anyway, back to the matter in hand. Tarquin, who’d proved himself to be a man fairly light on his feet (though not in that way), and I were last minute entrants to the dance competition due to one couple dropping out at the last minute. I heard that there’d been some kind of freak patisserie-related injury, but you’ll be as relieved as I was to know that no permanent disfigurement resulted, though the stains proved to be more than a match for Persil.
The day of the competition dawned bright and clear, and I was up early to make sure that we looked our best, and besides the fake smiles needed time to set, otherwise they’d look a bit…well…fake.
Several hours later, we emerged from our lair in the manner of two slightly startled butterflies emerging from their respective cocoons, to a round of rapturous applause from the neighbours. We hadn’t intended to spread the word around about our entering the competition, but once Mrs Smith (from No 24) had spotted a particularly energetic bout of rumba-ing one evening at Mondo Bizarro, there was no stopping the rumour mill.
We arrived at the competition marquee in plenty of time, so we had more than enough time to assess the other dancers. I wasn’t sure how well we’d do, but Tarquin seemed quite confident. I suspect that was more due to the raisin bran we’d had for breakfast than our terpsichorean abilities however.
I was unable to really focus on the competition, as I was sure that the Sons of Thrower were ready to strike. Still, as the clock struck three, we all took our places and waited for battle to commence. The first dance was the Paso Doble, not our strongest dance, but we did pretty well, only clipping one of the other couples slightly. After that there was a Tango, a Merengue and a Boston Two-Step, during which, by a combination of a rather energetic overarm twirl/throughstep movement, we took out three spectators and the tea urn.
We managed, more through dumb luck than anything else, to make it through to the final. Sadly, the three dances weren’t our best ones at all. There was a Molvanian Waltz to start with, followed by the Crableigh Mambo (a local dance, not well known in the dancing world) and the Rumba. I knew this was the best of the three, which wasn’t saying much. However, after a brief rest period, and a glass or two of barley water, we were thrust back into the fray. You’ll be pleased to know that despite a slight ‘incident’ with one of the judges (he’ll be out of plaster in a couple of weeks) we just managed to squeeze into first place!
Once we’d comforted the losing couples, who both seemed dreadfully upset – the men were virtually inconsolable, though the women just shrugged it off – we prepared ourselves for the prizewinning ceremony.
Just as we were about to be presented with the Linoleum Blair Memorial Trophy, there was a sudden explosion from the WI Hospitality Tent. We ran headlong towards the area where the tent had been, only to be caught in a hail of sponge, jam and buttercream. Tarquin and I rushed forward, only to find that by some miracle, there was only one victim of this outrageous attack, and she’d be fine once she’d attacked her skirt with a Vanish stain removal stick.
We hunted around the site of the explosion, which appeared to have been centred around a large arrangement of profiteroles, some of which had travelled at least 50 feet with the force of the blast. I noticed a small scrap of white paper, which I secreted in my secret pocket (big knickers have their uses) to examine later. Tarquin also found a couple of clues, but seemed more intent on trying to eat his way through the evidence. Fortunately, before he could start on the ‘Yard of Éclair’ we were moved on by the police.
We trudged wearily back to the dance tent (sorry, marquee) and collected our trophy, not that we really appreciated it at the time. Of course, it was to come in very handy later on that week, but more on that next time….
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