Nature Wallpaper: Summer Burst

The Traffic Cone Picnic

Sing along now…”Today’s the day the traffic cones have their picnic.”

Rural Portrait: Cow Parsley Profusion

So much vegetation, I was hard pressed to find the footpath!

Revel in the Ribaldry 39

It has been…ooh…an eon since I last posted an extract from one of my fabulous, semi-legendary Hamster Sapiens books. Well several months anyway. So I thunk it was about time for a morsel from this wondrous e-tome…

And here it is…

Most of the audience, that cold winter’s night on the outskirts of Hamster Heath, had attended any number of Danglydong Dell Diaries Days, and as a consequence were almost immune to surprise. But even so they thought that a terrible mistake had been made when a really boring fart appeared upon the dais, and duly proceeded to open his diary.

“I say,” the recently deposed mayor, Chester Bogbreath, shouted, “what’s someone from Belchers Pond doing here tonight? This is a Hamster Heath affair. I, for one, do not approve.”

Chester wasn’t alone in his opinion, and soon the audience began to look and sound somewhat ugly. Wendy Nuthatch knew that history was replete with examples of pleasant evenings that had descended into riots because of some minor infringement of the rules – and rule infringement definitely included a diarist from one of the town’s outlying hamlets, which was pushing the boundaries of good taste to new levels.

Wendy held up a paw to silence the growing dissent. “I see that some of you recognise our next reader.” She observed.

“Too right.” Huck Ballesteroid was the first to reply, “What’s an historian doing here? Historians aren’t no good for nothing, ‘cept ‘reinterpreting past events to fit the current political view point. Is that what’s he doing ‘ere tonight: Reinterpreting history to suit you and your odious left-wing cronies at the town hall?”

Wendy audibly gulped. This Ballesteroid fellow was more astute than she’d given him credit for.

“Of course not.” She replied indignantly. And for once she spoke the absolute truth: Adjusterming Boficals was present solely for the reason that it was he who would continue the tale of Joan Bugler’s second adventure in the land of Prannick – for the simple reason that he had actually been there at the time.

“Trust me on this one, will you?” She pleaded, “It took a lot to persuade Mister Boficals to attend: He has many important duties at this time of year – like planting out his winter pansies, and re-grouting his patio – so it is an honour to have him here. In any case – you want to find out what happened next don’t you?”

There was a general rumble of agreement from the audience as it re-seated itself upon the boles of the felled rhubarb trees that made up the majority of the seating in Danglydong Dell. And Wendy knew that she had saved the evening when the audience members wrapped themselves in the discarded rhubarb fronds in order to keep warm, and turned their eyes to the front once more.

Upon the dais Adjusterming Boficals waited a moment longer for everyone to make themselves comfortable. He then seated his monocle properly within his eye socket; cleared his throat; and began…

Tipplesday, the Forty-threeth of Plinth. The local historian, Adjusterming Boficals, had been walking his pet cavy, Gladstone, with his son, Lenny, upon the moor above Belchers Pond for most of the wind-swept morning. Ostensibly they were there in an attempt to reduce Gladstone’s rather corpulent stomach by means of exercise and the ingestion of extremely coarse heather. But Adjusterming had other – half-formed – ideas.

The former lecturer didn’t entirely believe in cavies: He thought that they were the product of some failed experiment from a past era – although he couldn’t prove it – and as such should be exterminated. But his wife liked Gladstone, and didn’t want him to die of something induced by fatty acids, and had duly despatched Adjusterming to the moor to ‘cure’ him. Lenny had come along because he realised that it would be the easiest thing in the world for his father to lead Gladstone off a cliff, or tempt him into a wild rabbit’s burrow, where he would be eaten, and the evidence lost.

As a result of this distrust, Adjusterming decided that he would spend the time searching for the remains of the legendary lost village of Bristly Bottom, and allow Lenny to hold Gladstone’s lead. This way he wouldn’t have to keep looking around the bulk of the cavy to see where he was going, or dive for cover every time that Gladstone either broke wind without warning, or unthinkingly ejected one of his famous ‘poo-poo projectiles’.

For many years previous the historian had been researching the even more famous lost town of Hamsterville, but had been beaten to his prize when Horatio Horseblanket stumbled upon it whilst out go-carting one day. So finding any fossil remains that might lead to the discovery of Bristly Bottom earned a high priority, and it was whilst his head was immersed deep inside a small tussock of weird-looking grass that something happened that startled him so much that he actually cried out in involuntary alarm.

Although the event had actually gone unnoticed by Adjusterming initially, Lenny had witnessed every slow-motion second of it. He’d just happened to be looking in the right direction at the right time to witness the appearance of a trans-dimensional transfer point. One moment an outcropping of rock stood forlorn and alone against the dull grey sky: The next it was inhabited by the very startled body of the vile Arthur Dung.

© 2013 Paul Trevor Nolan

This charming tale is available as an e-book via my page,

Tooty’s E-Books Available To Buy Here!

 

Rural Wallpaper: The Scent of a Hampshire Spring

This was shot with  an early Olympus digital camera from 2001. Not bad, huh? This is what it might look like on your computer…

And here’s a charming picture of your intrepid photographer out and about…

…combining two activities that brings pleasure to his tedious existence. Actually it isn’t that tedious: I think I’m really rather fortunate.

Tea Dust Art / Earplug Adventures Wallpaper: Blasting Off With Some Urgency

A Zanahoria Negro lifts off from an asteroid at maximum boost…

I wasn’t planning on writing another Earplug Adventure, but these teadust art and plastic carrot shots are giving me an idea. Hmmm…

Seeing is Believing: The Mark of Doom!

They say there’s no fool like an old fool; and I must have looked like a truly aging wally to anyone who passed my house this  morning. You see I’d just arrived home upon my bicycle from a neighbouring village where I had dropped off my ancient Toyota for it’s annual safety test. Perhaps I was exhausted. Maybe I was so concerned that it would cost a fortune to fix any problems with the Toyota, that I was neither seeing nor thinking clearly. As I made the final effort up the slope to my house, I was horrified to find that someone had made a discrete paint aerosol stroke upon my wall. In Britain this is a sure sign that ‘spotters’ have been around to check out any vulnerable properties for later burglaries by criminal gangs…

My first concern was the question of why they had selected my home. What made it such easy pickings? Finding nothing obvious, I thought it best that I remove the sign before the aforementioned criminal gang appeared. So, without further ado, I set about the mark with soapy water and a scrubbing brush. The result? Nada. Next I attacked it with a solvent – turpentine substitute to be precise. The result astonished me: the mark remained…er…unmarked! Then I brought out the big guns; a sheet of  sanding paper. No paint on Earth could resist  that. But it did. There was no effect whatsoever. My expression must have been the dull-eyed look of a simpleton. I think I summoned up a “Duh?” Then it dawned on me. Raising my gaze upward, I became aware of the proximity of my Skoda Octavia. More significantly it’s rear lamp cluster. Focussing to a more distant point I noted the presence of the Sun. It, the Skoda, and the criminal gang’s sign aligned perfectly…

I’d been trying to scrub off a ray of light! In my defence,  they do say that genii make the best idiots. Guess that makes me a genius – especially since my ancient Corolla managed to pass it’s test yet again!

Tea Dust Art / Earplug Adventures Wallpaper: Alien Visitation?

What’s this – a potential squadron of Zanahoria Negro lookalikes making planetfall upon the home world of a primitive pastoral earplug civilisation?

Could be.

Hideous Biker Wallpaper: Tooty the Zombie Motorcyclist

Once bitten by the bike bug; now bitten by a zombie

Tea Dust Art: The Zanahoria Negro Above a Winter Forest

The forest of conifers is good old tea dust  shaken and stirred inside a white cardboard box. The Zanahoria Negro is a plastic carrot painted black. All good stuff, you understand. Only the best for my art…

The falling snow was added later. Who knows, maybe it will appear in an Earplug Adventure.

Didn’t That Go Well? The Coronation of King Charles III

I was one of millions who sat at their TV to watch this spectacle…

…that proved that the UK can still cut it when it comes to pageantry, pomp and circumstance…

Of course there are centuries of history behind it. Look at the age of that chair…

…or ‘throne’ as it should be termed correctly. There are continents younger than that piece of furniture. All in all that was the good old UK doing what it does better than anyone: showing off and making us proud. But of course it wasn’t all official stuff. Up and down the country, citizens of Charles’ realm did their own thing. Take, for example, my neighbours across the road…

…as they festooned their house with bunting and balloons. In fact they had the king crowned a day and a half early…

…many times over, with a Charles manakin and a powered crown that went up and down all day long. And look closely, there was his mum looking down on him from heaven too. So very silly, and a perfect counterpoint to the real thing. Sadly, two days on, there are people moaning about the cost, and the fact that protesters were arrested before they could hurl rape alarms amongst the procession and spook the horses! Are there really people who wanted to see animals and human beings hurt on such a joyous occaision? Shits – the lot of them. And there was me thinking that it might bring the people of Britain together in common celebration!

Best show on television this year. Proper ‘reality’ TV.

 

Simple Wallpaper: Forget-Me-Not Shadows

Tooty Flips His Lid

Whenever I’m out and about taking photos of stuff whilst on my bikes, I find it most annoying that I have to remove my helmet before doing a David Baily impression…

Of course if I wore an open-face helmet, it wouldn’t be a problem. But ever since I slid along a road on my face (in November 1976 to be precise), protected only by a thin clip-on visor (that mercifully didn’t detatch itself from the helmet) I’ve always worn full-face (or integral) helmets. Unfortunately full-face helmets restrict close-up views somewhat – especially when trying to dig a camera out of a velcro jacket pocket blind. However, after much thought upon the subject, a quick trip to the nearest motorcycle clothing emporium got me this…

…which looks kinda natty, with not only a regular flip-up visor…

…but also a flip-up front…

Will wonders never cease? So now, as I pull to a halt at the side of the road…

…I  don’t have to shout from behind a huge face guard when I remonstrate vociferously with the lycra lout that has just annoyed me…

Moreover, if said lycra lout takes a swing at me, I can flip the front back down in a nanosecond. I’m now also capable of seeing my way into my jacket’s velcro pockets too. No more struggling with mobile phones or wallets before finding the camera. Bliss. Money well spent methinks.

The Final Act for a Bluebell Girl

When Jayne – one of my most loyal readers – asked if I would show some pictures of my late wife, Linzi, from the time when she was a dancer with the Bluebell Girls, I replied that I would look for an excuse to comply.  Well today, two and a half years after placing her ashes upon the sideboard in my sitting room, my son returned home from a shopping trip in near perfect climatic conditions and announced that this was the time to finally scatter his  mother’s mortal remains. I couldn’t agree more: blue skies, gentle breeze, and bright sunshine:  conditions that matched the day of her death exactly, and which (I’m sure) would satisfy her. So, along with his sister and the two dogs, we adjourned to the garden, where first we scattered wild flower seeds…

 

…followed by the ashes of her beloved chihuahuas, Ernie and Poppy…

…whom had been residing inside the display cabinet since 2011 and 2010 respectively. Then, in a ceremony that wasn’t the least sad (I’d already had a little grizzle earlier when I fetched the ashes into the kitchen in preparation) we three humans each scattered her ashes around the garden – upon boarders and in plant pots – until only a few handfuls remained. These were then taken to a bench upon the hill that overlooks our home, and desposited there amongst the grasses and wild flowers…

This, I thought, was the excuse to show a picture of her during her Bluebell days. But alas, all of her memorabilia lies gathering dust beneath our bed in Spain. So I’m  forced to include this terrible ‘still’ from the opening titles…

…from this Spanish movie…

…from the 1970’s. She’s the dancer in green.  However, in a slap-head moment, I realised I DID have a picture from her Bluebell days. Her very first promo shot, aged at sixteen, that she hung in our downstairs lavatory. Pretentious she was not. With the stage name of Linzi Wells, here she is in all her youthful glory – facing straight at the lavatory seat…

And just for her, I add this lovely woodland scene…

She would most definitely approve of this as a wallpaper; she really loved blue flowers – particularly bluebells. I expect though she thinks I’m being a little dramatic by dedicating it to her. She never did ‘dramatic’: not her style.

 

Carnage at the Castle

When I decided to lengthen and widen the entrance to my Fantic’s bike-port (or lean-to, as it’s probably described more accurately)…

…it became necessary to re-locate the hedge-hog house…

…as mentioned in these earlier blogs 1 and 2. I was concerned that the occupants might have been disturbed by the ‘building’s’ uprooting, so set up a camera to check out the scene, so to speak. I needn’t have been worried; life clearly carried on as normal…

Hey, doesn’t this next mouse look rather like the Plastic Annihilator?

Whatever, once the task was complete (and having surveyed the rest of the garden) I found myself surplus one box-like flower pot that had been split open by repeated winter freezing. So I up-ended it and created a mouse ‘castle’…

Well a ‘ruin’ anyway. Naturally I tossed a few seeds, fat pellets, and what-have-you inside it; set up a camera; and awaited developments. Due, probably to a sudden downpour, the first to arrive were some small black slugs…

But before long the Plastic Annihilator and his buddy – we’ll call it Brian – joined the feast…

PA and Brian remained for some while, before being supplanted by a late-coming  vole of some kind…

Vole didn’t stay long, because minutes later an unexpected caller…er… called…

Yeah…I do have an incumbent hedgehog afterall. Hoorah!

Oh, but what of the small black slugs?

Gobbled up and polished off, that’s what. Carnage at the Castle!

Spend Spend Spend…A Heck Of A Lot More And Then Some.

Regular readers will probably recall the fiscal nightmare that is the Back Lane Behemoth…

…otherwise known as my Yamaha XJR1300. As much as I adore it, it has cost me quite a pocketful in the couple of years I’ve owned the 21 year-old modern classic. And things haven’t changed. When I mentioned that I intended to swap the BLB in for a smaller, lighter Yamaha MT07, my regular mechanic pointed out that it would need some remedial work done before a dealer would even think about taking it in as part-exchange.  Years of dissuse (before I took it on) had played havoc with perishable parts, like intake rubbers, gaskets, seals, what-have-you. Moreover a ham-fisted previous owner had butchered several parts. So I said, “Go for it.”  Three weeks later it’s back – with a list of replacement parts as long as my arm – all of them far from cheap. The bill for the work equalled the the engine’s capacity. A GBP for every cubic centimetre of the machine’s four mighty cylinders. Taking a deep breath I said, “Perhaps I won’t be swapping this in for a 700 just yet: it’s going to have to pay for itself first.” To which Andy (of Earle Brothers Motorcycles) replied, “As great as an MT07 is, if you swap it in, you will forever regret getting rid of the XJR.” He then added words to the effect that if I was impressed with the performance increase their last work had wrought, I was going to be doubly-pleased with their latest efforts. “It’s an absolute rocketship!” he finished. After a twenty mile test run, I have to agree. Oh boy have they released some ponies: it flies! Money well-spent: it stays. So, if any bike is going to make way for a 700 Yam, it’ll have to be the Fantic…

But then, when I think about it…aren’t they about to release a new Fantic Caballero with a Yamaha 700 engine in it?  Hmmm, sounds like the best of both worlds to me!

The Plastic Annihilator!

For many years, before I assumed the role, my wife would keep the feed for the wild birds in our garden in a transparent plastic bucket with matching lid and a similar breakfast cereal container. These proved sufficient to keep the contents inside safe from the rodents that would have liked to eat them…until a few days ago when I found this on the shed floor…

Judging by the condition of the bucket lid, a very smart rodent had discovered a way of breaching my defences…

It simply sat on the inner surface of the lid and chewed around the edge until the plastic sagged enough for it to gain purchase on the lid itself and make a hole through which it could enter Alladdin’s Cave. The following day I replaced the lid with a spare. It didn’t survive the night. Transfering the contents of the bucket into the cereal container, I felt confident that no further losses would be incurred. I was wrong. Oh dear…

Clearly I was up against something considerably more imposing than a mere mouse. More like a Meerkat. So, after replacing the ruined container with a wooden wine box, I set up a camera to capture images of the invincible perpetrator. What could it be? It’s jaws must be incredibly powerful. A super-rat perhaps? Then the images came in…

Just a diddy little house mouse. Nothing special at all. Or is it? I call my four-legged un-buddy Andromeda Strain. If you’ve ever seen the movie of the same name, you’ll know why. The Andromeda Strain was a micro-organism that destroyed plastic and threatened the entire world. However, in real life, the wooden box defeated it entirely.  Those ravaging gnashers barely scratched the surface. Who’d have thought? We’ll see what tonight brings though: I’m expecting carnage.

Earplug Adventures Wallpaper: Woken By An Ice-Age

Choreographer and troupe leader, Margret Greenhorn is woken early by her dancing girls – The Greenhorn Girls – only to discover that the alternative reality in which they live is about to enter a new ice-age. From Winning Numbers. Fascinating factoids: Tooty attempted to create a look that suggested COLD by photographing some ice outside in the yard where he worked (and created this scene five minutes later), then placed his ‘actors’ upon the A4 print-out from a laser printer. It didn’t work entirely; but he liked Margret’s dull-eyed look enormously, so it doesn’t really matter. In retrospect, he should have taken the scene outside in the real cold. Still, too late now. The Greenhorn Girls are loosely based on the famous Parisian dance troupe, The Bluebell Girls, created by Margret Kelly during the Nazi occupation of France. Tooty’s late wife was once a Bluebell Girl.  

More Effort Required, Mr. Nolan.

When I first mentioned ( in Is A Third ‘Silent’ Novel Possible?) that I intended to actually attempt to write a third ‘Silent’ book, with which I planned to complete a trilogy of these earlier tomes…

…it was with great hope that I still had the ability to write such a thing. A quick tidying-up of the original books convinced me that I did. So, without further ado, I spent the entire evening and beyond hammering at the keypad. The result was a meagre two pages of ho-hum. But I wasn’t downhearted; merely tired. The following day, thought I, I’d be ready to attack the would-be manuscript again. I was wrong. In local parlance, I just couldn’t be arsed to. And so it has remained. However, I will not be so easily defeated. Once more  shall I step into the literary breech. And just as a spur, here is a fragment of what I wrote last time. It has to be brief; there are too many spoilers otherwise. In fact those two pages of script are loaded with them. Welcome to a tiny smidgin of Silent Existence…

Consequently Colonel Cosgrove and his United Nations personnel no longer required isolation suits outside of Crag Base. So it was upon a windy bluff, high in the hills above the abandoned service station that hid the subterranean base, that the stubble-haired American found Tasman and I. As he joined us he made a grand show of breathing in the cool natural air                                                                                              

   “Guys,” he said as he looked about himself appreciatively, “you have no idea how great that feels.”

   I smiled in response. He was correct: I didn’t. Tasman, however, knew exactly how he felt: he’d begun reading Cosgrove’s mind the moment he had first spotted the stocky individual struggling along the tussock-strewn hilltop path towards us. “Lots?” I suggested.

   As he lowered himself to sit beside us, he replied: “You could say that. It’d be an understatement though.”

   I was always pleased to be in the Colonel’s company. In fact I’d been known to address him as ‘Dad’, which he wasn’t afraid to admit he loved. However today was slightly different.

© Paul Trevor Nolan 2023

Now it’s time to knuckle down and write this bloody book!

Earplug Adventures Disaster Wallpaper: Estimated Point of Impact

Bad news for the silicon inhabitants of this particular city that  squats like a defecating toad upon the vast plain that leads to the distant Museum of Future Technology…

But do we care? Not a jot. And maybe the disaster will find it’s way into an earplug adventure!

Spring Wallpaper: White Blooms; Blue Sky

Now That ‘Northern Mist’ Has Reached It’s Climax…

…it’s time to remind you that by clicking on

All Earplug Adventures in PDF Format Unexpurgated & FREE!

you can read or download (or both) the entire tale. It looks exactly like this…

Northern Mist: An Earplug Adventure (part thirteen)

So this is it – unlucky number 13. The thirteenth and final episode of the first earplug short story. It’s been quite nice, hasn’t it?

It was Fanny’s good fortune that she had been blessed with substantial hip padding – or ‘fat’ as it is more commonly known. Consequently she suffered no more than a bruised ego and a grazed knee. Muttering to herself she exited the maintenance tunnel and proceeded past two comatose earplugs and across the disused roller skate parking area…

“There she goes.” The fourth member of the security suite cried out. “What is that in her back pocket – a packet of gobstoppers?”

Of course, what the junior RoboSecGua couldn’t possibly have known was that Fanny’s pockets bulged with antidote packages, which, once she had gained access to the main thoroughfare, she proceeded to cast to the floor, where they burst spectacularly…

“Look at the smile on her face,” EvilRoboSecGua called out as it rushed for a close-up of the main viewer, “it can mean only one thing: she has a potion that counteracts the Northern Mist. I’m so excited I could slip my differential!”

“Quickly,” RoboSecGua snapped at the machine intelligence that operated the communications panel, “inform the maintenance operatives in the nul-space generator control room. Tell them to start the ventilation system and begin pumping whatever that gaseous material is around the museum.”

Shortly, the aforementioned maintenance operatives, cocooned as they were in their control room, did just that…

“Looking good.” Rikki said. “A few more packets of that magic dust, and were home and dry!”

Well Fanny was perfectly capable of delivering those ‘packets of magic dust’, so before long customers of the nearest Café Puke…

…found themselves reviving; clambering to their feet; and wondering why their coffees were stone cold with a nasty skin on top.

Further, two trainee baristas in the neighbouring Skanki Kaffe fired up their Vomitino machine for the first time, and treated all the second-fix construction workers to an inaugural cup of vile brown muck and a stale croissant…

Of course once everyone was made aware of the situation, earplugs from every quarter of the museum raced to thank their saviour…

Equally of course, many were surprised by her identity. They had expected an Earplug Brother, or failing that Hair-Trigger. As the Angel with a Huge Nose went to show her gratitude by enfolding Fanny in her huge angelic wings, the intended recipient couldn’t help but recall her vision of the sun shining from the angel’s rear end. But her smile was quickly erased when, from the opposite direction, a swarm of zombies slithered…

“Fanny,” their spokes-zombie, former TV cricket commentator Brian Trouserflap, belched, “and you too, RoboSecGua: we’ve just detected Mister Zinc and that blue tart entering the museum. If you hurry, you’ll head them off at the pass. Or, in museum parlance, the Grand Hall.”

Meanwhile, the main door to the Grand Hall had opened upon well-oiled hinges to allow ingress to the would-be conqueror and first lady…

“It’s a little Spartan.” Blue observed. “And dark too.”

“I’ll take anything after a year or so in that damned watchtower.” Zinc replied bitterly. “Hmmm, I do believe this would make an excellent throne room. High ceilings: I like it. My stentorian tones would echo nicely off the walls in here. All the serfs and peasants could gather to hear my latest edicts. And all of their body heat and personal stench would be carried up to the extractor units above. I just wish I could see the whole room. Don’t tell me the electrics are on the blink.”

Blue had an idea. She shouted, “Lights!”

Instantly both interlopers were bathed in a bright, but warm light…

…which made them aware that they were surrounded by security forces.

Initially they said nothing, especially when they realised that Rupert Piles was transmitting their arrest ‘live’ on his huge Three-Dee TV camera. Of course they failed utterly to recognise Fanny as their nemesis, or even acknowledge her presence. Fanny didn’t mind, of course; anonymity had its advantages, especially when the ‘bad guy’ was prone to thoughts of revenge.

“Oh dear,” Blue finally said as the nearest RoboSecGua prepared to deploy it’s lasso ‘tongue’, “Do you have a Plan B, Zinkipoo?”

“No,” the artificially silvered earplug replied, “but if I did, it would be a lobotomy. I assure you it’s no fun being a failed megalomaniac.”

So, following a day of celebrations, and as the sun dipped behind the distant mountains, those inside the Museum of Future Technology could look out of their windows and watch Fanny’s antidote coruscate delightfully in the air above that fabulous edifice…

The End

©Paul Trevor Nolan 2023

Earplug Adventures Wallpaper: Welcome To My World…

…none of which is real, of course…

Earplug News 24/7: Great Discovery Made!

Unexpected news concerning Uda Spritzer’s scientific mission is filtering in. Photographic evidence supports her assertion that she has discovered the mythical lost city of Gertrude Worthington!

 

 

Northern Mist: An Earplug Adventure (part twelve)

Before you indulge in Part Twelve, here’s a reminder of what the finished product will look like…

Now on with the show…

Following a quick bowl of cornflakes and an energy drink, Fanny set about mass-producing the antidote. Within the hour she was certain that she had made enough of the substance to pack it into small paper bags; tie them tightly closed; go out into the street, and hurl them – one by one – to the unyielding stone path upon which she strode…

 

Each bag burst with a silent flash – releasing the antidote into the air.

“Looking good, girl.” She whispered to herself. “Of course the proof of the pudding is in the eating.”

The ‘eating’ it soon transpired, was very good indeed. Wherever the sparkling motes of antidote drifted, the closest earplugs revived; looked about themselves; regained their sentience; and made exclamations of relief and joy…

“Whooo,” some would call out appreciatively, “pretty!”

Meanwhile, in the most northerly watchtower, Mister Zinc and Blue had utilized the silver earplug’s remarkable technical abilities to hack into the Museum of Future Technology’s CCTV system…

“So,” he said, “everyone in the museum have been rendered inert.”

“There are the maintenance crew.” Blue pointed out one glaring error in her boyfriend’s summation, “They’ve locked themselves away in their control room.”

“It matters not.” Zinc replied, “They number only three: I can use one of my innate talents to mesmerize them.”

“And if that doesn’t work,” Blue informed him, “I’ve bottled some of the Northern Mist: I can squirt it in their faces.”

Zinc appeared impressed. “Now you see why I chose you as my life partner.” He said. “Clearly my genius has rubbed off on you.”

Time was of the essence: Fanny was eager to get to the museum and administer her antidote. However, for a brief moment, exhaustion threatened to overwhelm her. She paused to lean against a door jamb…

With breath regained, she set off once more – only to be confronted by Dumper Collins…

Clearly he’d seen what she had been doing and recognised her physical condition for what it was:

“You’re done in, gal.” He said. “Knackered. You’ve done enough: let me carry them little bags of magic down to the museum for ya. I can chuck ‘em at the ground as well as anyone. I’ll stamp on ‘em if I have to. If you was an athlete, they’d be administering oxygen and slapping the cramp out of your thighs. You gotta let me carry the load for ya.”

It was a kind offer gratefully received but not accepted. Fanny recalled how far and quickly Dumper had fallen behind her when they had rushed to tell the authorities about the Northern Mist:

“Thank you, Dumper,” she replied, “but if we had to wait for you to find your way to the Museum of Future Technology, Mister Zinc would be settling into his throne room with a cup of tea and a slice of drizzle cake – probably served to him by Magnuss Earplug in shackles. So I reject your kind offer and offer you this advice: get yourself an exercise bicycle; you’re a couch potato in danger of an early demise through arterial clogging.”

Before Dumper could summon a counter-argument, she was gone.

The Town Cryer witnessed her departure, and so, from his high vantage point in the Town Cryer’s Cupola he shouted a narration of Fanny’s progress to those less well advantaged in the streets below…   

“She’s made it to the river.” He bellowed. “She appears to be about to chuck one of her antidote bags into the gently tumbling waters. Yes, there it goes…”

Aware that Mister Zinc intended to enter the Museum of Future Technology in silent triumph, Fanny realised that it was of utmost importance that she get there first with her antidote. But just to make sure, she cast another of her diminishing supply of bags into the stream that led to the coolant intakes of the museum’s nul-space power generator. As the concoction reacted violently with the cool mountain waters…

…she realised that no matter how quickly Mister Zinc transported his vile self to the museum, there was a good chance that by the time he arrived, the potion would evaporate out of the coolant tanks, become an aerosol and allow some of the defenders to revive.

“But I have to be certain,” she said as she drew in a deep lung full of pristine mountain air, “I have to get there and wake everybody up. It’s my only option.”

The first sign of Fanny’s imminent arrival was witnessed by the Council of Zombies upon their three-dee projector…

“Kevin,” the council leader, Raj commanded his undead chum, “put a call through to those Robot Security Guards. Tell them Fanny’s on the veldt outside the museum.”

“Can someone else do it?” Kevin complained, “I’ve been sitting here so long that my legs have stopped working. Whatever circulation I had down there, isn’t anymore.”

Fellow zombie and third member of the ruling triumvirate, Mary had just returned from a little light exercise in the cemetery. “I’m feeling as fresh as a daisy,” she said, “I’ll do it.”

Raj was surprised. “You are?” He enquired with a slightly disbelieving tone in his croak.

Mary considered the question. “I might be over-stating my health a smidgen.” She replied. “Perhaps it would be more accurate to compare my sprightliness with a week-old plugmutt turd. But I can still call the security suite: it’s really no trouble. Give me half an hour and I could probably shuffle ‘round there, if the coms aren’t working.” 

Fortunately the situation wasn’t that desperate. Mary called through successfully, and ten minutes later a junior RoboSecGua spotted Fanny upon the secondary view screen…

The senior RoboSecGua turned to EvilRoboSecGua and said:

“You’ve been about a bit – like across the gulfs of space to distant worlds in a stolen UFO:  did you ever learn to lip read?”

“I did, Boss.” EvilRoboSecGua replied. “Do you want me to translate what Fanny Gander is mouthing silently to our CCTV camera?”

Of course RoboSecGua replied in the affirmative, and then waited for the translation.

“I have become disorientated – bordering on hysterical.” EvilRoboSecGua spoke Fanny’s words for her. “I have also been holding my breath quite a lot too. I didn’t want to walk all the way from Lemon Stone in my personal deflector bubble; it’s too cumbersome. Sorry, but I appear to have forgotten the way in. Can someone allow me ingress?”

RoboSecGua addressed its junior operative. “Can we?” It inquired.

“The female earplug is standing upon a maintenance hatch.” The subordinate replied. “Should I open it?”

“Affirmative.” RoboSecGua answered. “Do it this instant.”

A split second later, Fanny found herself inside the Museum of Future Technology…

© Paul Trevor Nolan 2023

 

Earplug Adventures Wallpaper: Youngsters on the Ice

This post first appeared in a blog so vile that it’s name eludes me. Now it appears once more, resplendent upon a site of unequalled brilliance.

Young earplug friends, Fulham Peach, Crudlove Twang, Fledgling McCormack, and Spodney Gridlock are accidentally drawn into the mountains by Buttox Barkingwell’s psychic siren song. From Plunging Into Peril. Fascinating factoid: Although the falling snow in the foreground was added in post-production, the apparent (but fabulousy convincing) snow in the background was actually salty corrosion on a sheet of bare aluminium. The snowy ground was originally a broken ceiling tile from an abandoned office building. It was a tricky shot to get because the aluminium was riveted to a bicycle shed, so I needed to balance the ‘ground’ on my knee whilst standing upon one foot and using my hands to operate the camera. I think they call it multi-tasking – or perhaps a circus act.

Northern Mist: An Earplug Adventure (part eleven)

Without further ado, it’s on with the tale…

It was Fanny’s good fortune that the sleet only fell at higher elevations. By the time that she reached the access tunnel that led from the old quarter to the region of Lemon Stone that contained the artisan quarter, her personal deflector bubble had shed its fine mantle of moisture..

So it was with great relief, shortly after exiting the tunnel, that Fanny could shuck off her protection at the front door of her hovel and enter the sanctuary of her kitchen… 

However, despite a thorough rummage through the cupboard under the sink and a good old delve into the odds ‘n’ sods she kept in an old suitcase beneath the stairs, she could find nothing with which to create a potion that would counteract Zinc’s futuristic fog.

“Oh bum!” she yelled despairingly.

However Fanny was not the type to accept defeat so easily. Her mind wandered – or perhaps ‘raced’ – back to her most recent visit to the Museum of Future Technology – in particular the drop-in to the proto-Skanki Kaffe.

“Ooh,” she sighed as her thoughts began to coalesce into a plan. “Those baristas have access to all sorts of concoctions and coffee machines: surely I can put those to good use. Ah-ha, and there’s a branch of the Café Puke on the Rincon del Excremento – not more than ten minutes from here!”

Ten minutes later Fanny let herself into the darkened café…

She was grateful that Lemon Stoners were lazy sods and didn’t get up until after half-past ten in the morning: it meant that the mist had struck before the café had opened. There would be no inert earplugs littering the place with sightless stares that would inevitably break Fanny’s concentration upon her monumental task.

Flicking on the lights also activated the air-conditioning. Soon the wisps of poison that had penetrated the worn door seals were extracted and Fanny could set about finding the items she required…

However, having completed her search, she felt no confidence in her ability to conjure up the necessary antidote. There were still one or two ingredients that would make success more certain. Then, once again she recalled her thoughts concerning the rival cafes inside the Museum of Future Technology. More specifically she recalled the different ways in which the Café Puke and Skanki Kaffe remove the caffeine from their respective coffee granules. For the briefest of moments despair almost overwhelmed the artistic earplug. Would she really have to trudge all the way back down to the partially-completed Skanki Kaffe inside the museum – in the forlorn hope that the barista’s equipment and ingredients had been stocked in the storeroom prematurely? Surely not! However, as her eyes swung from the customer area to the front door, she noticed the day’s mail that had fallen from the letter box and had been casually kicked to one side. Amongst the confetti of communications lay several flyers and advertisements. One of them featured the Skanki Kaffe. This was the breakthrough that Fanny had been unconsciously praying for. The flyer included an address: Plaza de Aromas.

Within a mere five minutes the green female earplug stood inside the soon-to-open Skanki Kaffe…

Because the doors were new and had opened and shut a mere handful of times, the Northern Mist had made no encroachment into the establishment.

“Oh goodie,” Fanny said as she cast off her personal deflection bubble, “I can now operate without impediment and restraint. Where’s the storeroom?”  

Chapter Four

In the time-honoured way for heroic earplugs, the Skanki Kaffe had supplied the very ingredients Fanny needed most desperately. No sooner had her eyes alighted upon them, as they nestled cosily upon the storeroom shelf, when she snatched them up; dashed from the building; and raced to the artisan quarter…

Following the briefest of tinkles in her rudimentary downstairs loo, Fanny set to work at her bench with a mortar and pestle…

The work, though not particularly demanding in a physical sense, was long and mentally arduous. Trial and error was Fanny’s greatest ally. As the hours passed by inexorably, Fanny grew weary; but she would not break from her task. She would either discover the cure, or collapse trying. However, as daylight returned to the mountaintop citadel, the zillionth test in her crucible proved the value of the time and effort she had put into the task. The concoction sparked and flamed…

“Flipping heck,” she exclaimed with delight, “I’ve only gone and bloody done it!”

©Paul Trevor Nolan 2023

Northern Mist: An Earplug Adventure (part ten)

Part Nine went down like a lead balloon, so let’s not waste any more time with that literary pile of junk and forget all about it by going straight to Part Ten, which, I should mention is much better…

Fanny continued to follow the route supplied by her RoboSecGua device for several minutes until she paused to regard the view and take stock. With the citadel behind her, the only building visible to her in the darkening air was the Northern Watchtower. So she screwed up her eyes and squinted at it. Was that smoke emerging from the viewing platform?

Or was it the fake Northern Mist? Her device suggested she get closer. So she endeavoured to do just that. However, as she picked her way carefully along a narrow path, she discovered a Precipitous Ledge Walker, who had been indulging in a morning bowl of muesli when she was overcome and rendered inert…

Fanny had forgotten how hungry she felt, having missed her tea. She was almost tempted to consume the rapidly coagulating cereal / milk amalgam; but quickly reasoned that it had spent several hours open to the effects of the mist, and would probably be heavily contaminated. She didn’t like sultanas either; so, despite her rumbling stomach, she passed on by.

A while later – Fanny couldn’t calculate how long precisely because of fatigue and boredom – the green-faced earplug arrived beside the watch tower…

She wasn’t sure, but it appeared to her that the quantity of smoke / mist that climbed into the surrounding air from the viewing platform seemed to be lessening. Then she spotted an alleyway that would lead her to the outpost’s living quarters. Naturally she followed it…

Aware that she might be detected, she crept slowly and silently to the nearest window. Taking a chance, she sucked in a huge lung full of air, and removed her personal deflector bubble. Having done so she pressed her face to the glass…

What she saw shouldn’t have surprised her: everyone knew that Mister Zinc and his biological android Blue had been banished to this lonely spot where they were tasked to keep watch for travellers on their way to Lemon Stone from the wild lands beyond the mountains. As a result she wasn’t even slightly surprised. However she was startled that they should have a table from the Café Puke as furniture. Even more so by the glasses of Bilge White that rested daintily upon the cheap melamine table top. But what caused most concern was the conversation that took place between the megalomaniac and his partner:

“Oh Zinkipoo,” Blue said as she eyed the coffee before her, “I’ve just prodded the goo upstairs: I think the last few grams of poison stuff have pretty much been exhausted.”

“That’s fine,” Mister Zinc replied in his emotionless tone, “I anticipate that it has succeeded in its task. By now everyone inside the Museum of Future Technology will have been neutralized: tomorrow, just after breakfast, we’ll wander down there and assume control. I’m really looking forward to kicking Cushions Smethwyke and her gang of curators out through the sewage outlet. And as regards to any Earplug Brothers still at home…well I wouldn’t want to be one of them when I’ve finished with them.”

“It was a lovely plan you had, Zinky.” Blue replied. “How did you ever find that disaffected barista who had stolen those plans from the future?”

“I was collecting used cigarette butts in the marketplace.” Zinc answered without a qualm or shame over his loss of status in earplug society, “I encountered a ‘new’ earplug in town whom I considered was acting furtively. I asked what he was doing in Lemon Stone. He told me he was looking for a buyer for something really illicit. I took an interest. He told me what he had. I also took an instant dislike to him; so rather than pay him with money I didn’t have, I punched him in the head and stole it from his satchel.”

“Inspired,” Blue gushed. “And to think; we had all the primary ingredients we required in that delivery to the Café Puke that mysteriously disappeared from their storeroom last week.”

Mr Zinc almost chuckled at this. “Indeed,” he said, “who would have imagined that Stasis Melons, suspended in Parma Violet Glycerine, set on an insulating layer of Pistachio Custard…

…and heated by a halogen bulb could wreak such havoc amongst our enemies?”

Outside Fanny almost stood aghast. Fortunately, in order to follow the conversation further she recovered her decorum and quickly dashed to the next window…

…where Mr Zinc now regarded his own cup of coffee.

“To think,” he said to Blue, as she joined him, “this time tomorrow I will rule the Museum of Future Technology. And when I do, the whole Galaxy is gonna find out!”

Fanny need not hear another word. She quickly stole away; replaced her personal deflector bubble upon her head; and made best speed down the alleyway…

Shortly, having consumed their Bilge Whites, Mr Zinc and Blue resumed their duties in the watchtower…

“Ah, drizzle,” Mr Zinc said with a sigh. “You can always tell its Summer time up here: gentle precipitation accompanied by low clouds and thunderstorms.”

But Blue wasn’t so sure: Zinc’s ‘drizzle’ looked rather more like sleet to her. “Hmmm.” She said in a non-committal tone.

© Paul Trevor Nolan 2023

Northern Mist: An Earplug Adventure (part nine)

In Part Nine we watch as Fanny Gander goes forth upon her mission to save the Museum of Future Technology. Yet another name is about to be added to the pantheon of heroic earplugs. Well we hope so anyway…

However, when she calculated the sheer distance involved, that resolve waned slightly…

“Oh flipping heck.” She said, “I can’t even see the mountains. Oh, but wait a minute: it’s that bloody fake Northern Mist: it’s hiding them from view. Maybe it’s not so far after all.”

But all too quickly Fanny realised that the return journey to Lemon Stone would require that she walk up the mountain. Up being the significant word. Whereas she had walked down from Lemon Stone with relative ease, the reverse course would be quite the…er…reverse. And so it proved to be…

“At least I can breathe on the way back up.” She gasped. “All I need to take into account is the reduced oxygen levels at higher altitude.”

Soon any potential cameras that tried to follow her journey watched as she traversed a high ledge through a thickening fog. Had anyone watching been conscious they would have sucked in their breath, clutched their buttocks and whimpered:

“Oh Fanny – take care. One misstep…”

Night was having a bloody good go at falling when Fanny finally reached the plateau from where she could see the distant citadel standing proud before her…

“Fifteen minutes ought to do it.” She said confidently. “I’m so glad I found that small vial of my strength and endurance potion in my back pocket. These last few steps would have killed me otherwise. Moreover, all this exertion, and the resultant sweatiness has entirely dried up my bladder. It’s great; not taking clandestine tinkles beside the mountain path every five minutes.”

She didn’t know it, of course, but Fanny had another reason to be grateful that her bladder made no demands upon her modesty. She was being followed by the Council of Zombies in the Museum of Future Technology on a futuristic three-dee projector…

Zombies, not really being strictly ‘alive’ were naturally immune to the fake Northern Mist. They weren’t aware of the fact, so they had locked themselves off from the rest of the museum by sequestering the meeting room of the Sewage Workers Union, the doors of which came, of course hermetically sealed.

“Go for it, Fanny!” One of them would have yelled. But because he didn’t breathe, the best he could do was a torpid croak. “Kick ass.”

Chapter Three

Fanny’s estimate of fifteen minutes proved extremely accurate as finally she climbed the shallow ramp that led to the outer wall of the citadel…

As she looked along the length of the dark stone construction, she said:

“What dim-wit architect decided to build the gate almost a hundred metres from the access ramp? Am I ever gonna get where I need to be?”

Worse still, when she finally reached the gate, she found it too low to fit her overly-tall personal deflector bubble under…

So she felt compelled to travel farther to a freight entrance, inside which she discovered several fallen and non-responsive earplugs…

Her breath caught in her throat. “By the Saint of All Earplugs, in a pathetic attempt to negate the Northern Mist, these two desperate chefs were forced to breathe sewer gas – for all the good it did them. Stupid chefs; they would have been better off breathing oven gas!”

Farther inside the citadel, the situation appeared no better…

“Oh,” Fanny wailed, “I feel like I’m the last girl in the world. This is so depressing. Really, I’m not sure I’m suited to this sort of malarkey – not psychologically anyway. Physically I’m nice and fit and loaded with potions; but my ego and self-confidence could do with a boost.”

Then, as if on cue the detector that the RoboSecGuas had given her chimed pleasantly.

“Ooh,” she said – her mood brightening, “that sounds rather more interesting.” To the voice-controlled device, she said: “Give me a heading. Which way do I go?”

To which the hastily-designed gizmo replied: “proceed one hundred and fifteen metres in a westerly direction.”

Naturally the female artisan knew next to nothing about compass headings; so she tried a random direction. The device responded with:

“Please turn around and retrace your steps two and three-quarter metres; turn through sixty-seven degrees and proceed one hundred and fifteen metres in a westerly direction.”

Fanny was impressed. “Very intuitive.” She said admiringly. “Those security robots sure know their stuff.

By chance Fanny’s route took her past several competing artisan outlets…

“Emily Dumbleton,” she scoffed, “Emily Dumbass more like. She calls herself an artisan; huh. Specialisation: Brussels Sprouts. More like a fartisan to me!”

Any further denigration of her fellow artisans was cut short when Fanny entered a long tunnel she recognised would take her out of the citadel at its northern end…

“The only problem I have with the oldest quarter of Lemon Stone,” her voice echoed off the cold stone walls, “is that it’s a bit…um…up-and-downy.”

Very few of her friends and colleagues were aware that Fanny had a dislike for uneven surfaces. She particularly loathed stairs. And even more particularly stone staircases. So it was very unfortunate indeed that shortly after exiting the link tunnel she found herself going arse-over-head down them…

More fortunately she was protected, to a certain extent by her personal deflector bubble, although the final landing could have been better…

For a few moments Fanny and her device became separated. Whether it was the effects of the gas, or the knock on her noggin, she began to hallucinate. She could have sworn she saw Magnuss and Hair-Trigger Earplug performing a popular mariachi number in an alcove, whilst fabulously lit from above by a diffuse glow that shone brightly from the Angel with a Huge Nose’s angelic bottom…

“Magnuss,” she croaked, “I’m one of your greatest fans. Hair-Trigger; you’re an inspiration to all females who long to become bounty hunters.”

Then good sense regained control of her tongue:

“Oh, you silly artisan,” she said in her best chastising voice, “Magnuss and Hair-Trigger are piloting the Tankerville Norris upon some distant uncharted world, where, more than likely they’re coming under heavy fire from a superior alien attack craft…

With that she reattached her personal deflector bubble, and made off in a direction that took her away from Lemon Stone…

© Paul Trevor Nolan 2023

If you would like to read a complete Earplug Adventure, please click here. https://hamsterbritain.wordpress.com/all-earplug-adventures-in-pdf-format-unexpurgated-free/

Sorry To See You Go ‘Triple Threat’.

Sad to say, this fabulous e-book…

…is no longer available in serial form on this blog. Boo! Lack of space, I’m afraid. BUT it remains available as a complete story (in PDF form) right HERE. So if you fancy  owning your own copy, or just want to read it now, click away.

Northern Mist: An Earplug Adventure (part eight)

 In this episode,  a seemingly insignificant scene appears that could easily be missed. It will become significant later in this briefer-than-usual story. See if you can spot it. 

As she went about the museum, Fanny couldn’t help but feel sad…

…Only hours previous the huge building had been a cauldron of silicon activity. How quickly the mighty edifice and its multifarious defences had been brought to its knees.

“I was going to come here shopping at the week-end too.” She said in a dejected tone. “By kite.”

The word ‘kite’ when she spoke it, reminded her of a similar word – ‘bite’. This in turn caused her to think of the museum’s best-known primitive silicon life-form, that being Nature Beast. “Heck,” she roared inside her tiny insulated world, “if anyone can fight off the Northern Mist, it’ll be Nature Beast: he resists technology like similar magnetic poles reject each other!” So, turning on her heel, she made straight for the control room of TWIT…

However, upon entering, all thoughts of Nature Beast’s heroic resistance to the mist were cast aside. His commanding officer, Major Flaccid seemed to be staring straight at her from inside a personal deflector bubble of his own…

But when she spoke to him, all she received in response was his usual intense stare. Then she realised that the bubble was full of mist.

“Oh, you silly sod,” she said to the still form before her, “you’re supposed to get inside the bubble before the mist gets you. You were too slow, you dull-witted oik!”

Then she spotted Nature Beast’s lower half. His upper half was hidden by the control room lavatory. Obviously he’d fallen into it – probably trying to escape into the sewer via the u-bend.

“There’s no helping the truly stupid.” She said with a sigh.

Thereafter she went straight to the security suite and presented the RoboSecGuas with the samples they required…

The tests were begun with alacrity. The results came thick and fast.

“Well we’ve traced the chemical composition of the mist to a region in the mountains very close to Lemon Stone.” The senior RoboSecGua informed Fanny. “The combination of elements exactly matches that of a gas that will be developed in the not too distant future – the plans for which were sent back here from the future, for safe keeping. The self-same plans that were stolen from the museum, by a disaffected barista in the Café Puke organisation, not more than two weeks ago. The barista was arrested and threatened with a good kick up the arse; but he still refuses to give us the identity of the earplug to who he sold the aforementioned plans.”

“We’ve cobbled together a detector of sorts.” EvilRoboSecGua chimed in. “Your task – on your way home, I might add – is to use the detector to trace the origin of the erroneously-named ‘Northern Mist’. Once you’ve done that, just give us a call, and we’ll come running to capture the potential megalomaniac.”

Fanny was no security expert, but it sounded like a good plan to her. So, five minutes later, and with the detector in her pocket, and with a spring in her step, she set out once more…

Moreover, she was elated at the thought that she felt no desire to visit the adjacent lavatory too. But she tried to hide the fact by keeping a straight face in front of the RoboSecGua that saw her off.

During her brief passage through the museum towards her pedestrian exit of choice, Fanny dropped by the almost-complete Skanki Kaffe…

“How interesting.” She said to herself as she poked an inquisitive nose in through the foyer, “I’ve heard they use an entirely different way to make decaffeinated coffee. Their Desalinated is nothing like Café Puke’s Defecated: its pure coincidence that they just happen to taste alike. Oh, well nothing happening here: best be moving on.”

Thereafter she followed a route supplied by the RoboSecGuas that would cut at least an hour from her journey time…

It was a complicated route, and Fanny might have become lost at any juncture; but the members of the security suite were following her on CCTV, and called out to her via the public address system every time she took a wrong turn…

So, before too long Fanny found herself standing upon the verdant pastures that led from the museum to the foothills…

“Right,” she said resolutely, “the only way is up.”

© Paul Trevor Nolan 2023

Northern Mist: An Earplug Adventure (part seven)

Whilst Part Five made a remarkable recovery, Part Six appears to have foundered upon a literary and photographic reef. Oh dear. The obvious course of action is…er…obvious: post Part Seven!

Fanny was about to slink off towards the door when the first junior RoboSecGua spoke up:

“Oi-oi,” it said in a tone guaranteed to get everyone’s attention, “I’m receiving a plethora of garbled messages from all over the museum. Something really strange is occurring. It seems that earplugs are falling victim to something inexplicable. They are becoming inert and collapsing into a state of suspended animation!”

Fanny and the two senior RoboSecGuas turned immediately to the main view screen…

…which filled an entire wall and produced spectacular pictures in high definition…

EvilRoboSecGua found its voice first: “It appears that I owe you an apology, Miss…um…?”

“Gander.” Fanny replied as she gazed at the swirling fog outside. “Fanny Gander.”

The senior RoboSecGua finally spoke:

“Tell us what you know of the Northern Mist, Fanny. I have a ghastly cyber-feeling that the Museum of Future Technology faces the most grave danger in its entire history.”

Chapter Two

It seemed, to Fanny at least that fate had interceded upon the Museum of Future Technology’s behalf. Of all the people, she reasoned, who might have made their way to the only place inside the vast emporium of doo-dahs and widgets from eras more advanced than the current day, it was she: Fanny Gander; a creator of potions, one of which had given her the ability to shrug off the effects of the Northern Mist…

“It helped that I can hold my breath really well too!” She concluded as she divested herself of her thoughts and ruminations to the listening RoboSecGua squad inside the security suite.

“For sure – for sure.” The senior RoboSecGua replied. “However it is certain that your breath will not hold out indefinitely. If you are to go outside and investigate the origins of this cursed fog, you will require a personal deflector bubble. Oh look, my subordinate has just dug one out of the cupboard for you.” 

Naturally, being an earplug of a simpler culture with an upbringing that placed greater importance upon mosses rather than superconductors: insect juices above microchips, Fanny didn’t have the first idea what a personal deflector bubble was; but she had an uncanny feeling  she was about to find out.

“You wear it like a hat.” The RoboSecGua explained.

“A very large hat.” EvilRoboSecGua added. “An ill-fitting one at that. Try it on.”

Moments later…

“Hmmm, I see what you mean.” Fanny said cautiously. “What does it do?”

“It protects you from your immediate environment.” RoboSecGua replied. “It allows you to perambulate, whilst keeping nasty stuff from affecting you. For example, it filters the air, so you won’t need to hold your breath. You can interact with the outside world, by drawing objects inside with you by means of…well I don’t really need to tell you all the technological stuff: you’re a comparative savage with little understanding of advanced machinery. Suffice to say, it will allow you to go about the Museum of Future Technology; take samples of the gas, and maybe some blood samples from its victims; then return them here for analysis.”

Fanny wasn’t entirely sure she liked being called a ‘savage’, but she allowed herself to be ushered towards the door…

“Okay,” she said as her eyes blinked at the relative brilliance of the brighter exterior lights, “I’ll get your samples for you.”

However, as the RoboSecGuas crowded in the door to wave farewell…

…she did wonder why one of them couldn’t perform the task: they didn’t breathe; surely the Northern Mist could have no effect on them. But she’d already agreed to act upon their behalf (and never went back on her word), so quickly moved to the one location that she was certain she would find both gas and blood samples: the Café Puke…

Little did she know, but the filtration system in her personal deflector bubble had already begun taking air samples. It continued to do so as she entered the café…

Her first reaction was one of horror: after all she had never seen so many earplugs in a state of suspended animation. In fact the only other time she could recall anything similar was when she visited an ethical circus in which the use of animals had been banned. The audience had grown so bored that some of them had self-induced a state of suspended animation. But this was far worse; and it would require a great deal more than a quick kick in the shins to awaken the earplugs that littered the polka dot floor here. However, she quickly pulled herself together and began extracting blood samples…

“Sorry,” she would say to the somnolent victims, “I don’t have any sticky plasters, and I can’t press on the wound, coz my hands are inside my personal deflector bubble.”

However, and despite her lack of dexterity as a phlebotomist, Fanny was quickly finished and gladly upon her way from the virtual mausoleum…

© Paul Trevor Nolan 2023

“foundered upon a literary and photographic reef.” Honestly, to use another maritime  term, I do write some utter ‘bilge’ sometimes. However, if it wasn’t for the ‘bilge’, it wouldn’t really be me, would it? Long-live bilge!

Northern Mist: An Earplug Adventure (part six)

Part Five didn’t exactly grab the general populace by the throat and shake them until they appreciated its brilliance, which is a shame because it was fabulous in every way. So let’s hope part six does somewhat better…

Because all public places must be wired into the alert apparatus, the Café Pukes also initiated a serious alert status…

…only, in their case it was known as Alerta Roco.

“What the heck?” One aggrieved customer grumbled, “I’ve just put three sweeteners in this drink. I’m not running off now; I’m gonna finish it.”

However he needn’t have worried. Alerta Roco always resulted in the same thing: the doors locked automatically, sealing everyone inside from any exterior threat…

But over in the yet-to-be-finished Skanki Kaffe emporium, horror reigned when everybody working on the fine details, like gurgly coffee dispensers, granite countertops and futuristic urinals, went completely wonky…

However, in comparison, they got off lightly. Margret Greenhorn and her famous Greenhorn Girls dancing troupe were overcome so quickly that they fell and accidentally showed their knickers to a museum Robot Guide…

Only Margret remained conscious long enough to gag in a most unladylike fashion.

Fortunately for Fanny Gander, who had made her way deeper into the museum, the mist had abated slightly. She could now draw breath and think intelligently. After a quick trip to the loo, she sought and found the Security Suite…

“Oh cripes,” she whispered unnecessarily, “this door is bound to have a combination lock. I don’t know what the number is.”

Meanwhile the Robot Guide was getting its own (metaphorical) knickers in a twist…

“Hey, guys,” it said in its customary cheerful manner, “what’s eatin’ ya? Talking of eating; you want me to show you the way to a nearby restaurant?”

Also meanwhile, the maintenance workers could only watch their screens in dismay as the great edifice emptied of customers…

“Where’d they go?” Rikki demanded. “Why is everything so inert?”

Rikki would have asked several more questions had he known that the seals on several Café Pukes had inexplicably failed, and now their occupants could also be considered inert…

Upon the walkway, the Robot Guide had similar cybernetic thoughts. It didn’t ‘do’ inert. So, as quickly as its caterpillar treads could carry it, the servomechanism raced off for help…

Fanny had no such concerns: she’d not seen nor heard a soul. Her particular problem was one of access to the Security Suite. Fortunately her younger brother had once been a professional ‘hacker’: so drawing upon the knowledge she gained from the few lessons he’d given her, she punched in 1234. In a second the door swung open…

…and she let herself in.

Once inside, darkness greeted Fanny’s eyes…

Naturally she fumbled for a light switch behind the door. She was rewarded by the sudden brightening of the surprisingly small room…

She was, however, somewhat disappointed to find it unoccupied.

“Hello?” She tried timidly. But when this elicited no response she increased her volume by seven hundred percent. “Oi, where the flipping heck are you? There’s a disaster in the making, don’t you know!

This had the desired effect. An interior door burst open, and three RoboSecGuas rolled in. Whilst the most junior Robot Security Guard drove straight to the com-panel, Fanny found herself addressed by the senior RoboSecGua, and its first officer, EvilRoboSecGua…

“I let myself in.” Fanny replied to the stereo question: “How the flip did you get in here?”

She answered the subsequent inquiry thus:

“I’m here with some important information. Your robot security guard on loan to Lemon Stone told me to come here and warn you. This fabulous establishment is being assailed by the legendary Northern Mist!”

“That’s silly, that is.” EvilRoboSecGua replied. “If it’s legendary, how can it exist here and now?

“Yeah,” the senior RoboSecGua took up the metaphorical reins. “Something that’s legendary is just that: of legend. It doesn’t actually exist in the modern era. Legends are all about old stuff set a long time ago. I thought everyone knew that.” 

The cool logic of the cybernetic devices gave Fanny reason to pause and question her rationality. Especially so when a fourth RoboSecGua entered the room;

…regarded a wall-mounted screen that displayed the mist; and said:

“Cor, that’s a right pea-souper out there. It fair gives me the collywobbles. That’ll keep people in their apartments for sure. I wonder what went wrong with the weather controller.”

“Um,” she finally replied to the senior RoboSecGua, “well it is behaving rather like the legendary Northern Mist. But, of course, that doesn’t mean that it actually is the Northern Mist. Come to think about it, I haven’t seen anyone rendered inert and sent into suspended animation with my own eyes. In fact I haven’t heard anyone scream that either. Oh dear, I do believe I’ve wasted a long and arduous journey here. Well if I haven’t broken any laws, perhaps I’d better be on my way: I haven’t had time for my tea yet.”

“You were sent on a fool’s errand.” EvilRoboSecGua replied. “It’s not your fault: you can be on your way without fear of receiving a nasty summons from the courts through your letter box. You do have letter boxes in Lemon Stone, I presume? I mean, you don’t live in caves or something? Thank you for your misguided and worthless assistance: now sod off.”

© Paul Trevor Nolan 2023

Earplug Adventures Wallpaper: Eject With Alacrity!

The ancient alien lifeboat flees the Drunkard’s Vomit with only seconds to spare before the auto-destruct sequence begins. From Climatic Calamity. Fascinating factoid: Apart from the fact that both vessels are made from products found in Tooty’s bathroom – yes that distant airless planetoid really is a chocolate covered digestive biscuit…from the Waitrose Essential range. Tooty doesn’t use just any old chocolate covered digestive you know!

Earplug Adventures © Paul Trevor Nolan