A Warming to the Curious

First of all a few words to silence persistent and ill mannered rumours in wild circulation as of lately: no, the box was not delivered by the goat whose name must not be mentioned (because quite frankly nobody can be bothered to remember what he is called), and no, we have not indulged in the ceremonial sacrifice of any root vegetables in order to gain access to the insights outlined below.

When the man in the costume first appeared at the door of head office, we all pretended not to notice, at least until the noises became too hard to ignore. Upon being asked what in heaven’s name he thought he was up to he gave to understand that he had been summoned, and that he came bearing an important message. Since no one would admit to doing any summoning that particular afternoon we told him in no uncertain terms that he had the wrong address and asked him to kindly remove himself from our doorstep, or we would tell his mother. Muttering terrible incantations under his breath he stumbled through our front garden, almost knocking over the postman and two ceramic badgers, but by the gate he hesitated, turned round, and with a pathetic snarl threw something vaguely in the direction of the house, before storming off down the street, seething with obscure intentions.

A small brown package lay at the foot of the steps. Once Oatmeal, junior pipe cleaner and comparatively replaceable, had been entrusted with opening it, and lived, the rest of us gathered around. What we found inside left us alarmed, confused and eagerly awaiting the 5 o’clock cocktail trolley.

One image speaks louder than a thousand aunts, as the rusty old proverb goes, and the images contained within the grubby envelope so carelessly left to us were certainly among the more verbose of the species. “Belgium!” a minor member of the inner circle exclaimed whilst rolling on the floor in affected paroxysms. Strange notions floated through our tired brains: Who were the extraordinarily individuals so meticulously documented on the absurd photographs now laid out before us? What, if anything, were they up to, and to what purpose? A strange initiation ritual involving the invisible bassoon of Üngkmargh-umm-Grodd? The capture and preparation of small, hairless mammals with a mind to feeding the unsuspecting masses? A thing of wild and terrifying beauty, available in discreet wrapper at favourable prices, guaranteed to raise eyebrows and more? So many questions, and to what end?

Always back to the Society. Great grandmother had a hand in it, as did the inimitable Gerald, descended from hamsters and augmented minor chords. If anyone entertained the comforting idea that the order had been fossilised into the moth eaten stuff of dubious legend, here was unfortunate but incontrovertible evidence to the contrary. The Exploding Breakfast Society, those odorous mischief makers of musical malady, loom large, forever and once more. See enclosed imagery, if these wretched lines do not set your poor old nut ablaze with prolonged misgivings and speculations.

 

The sacred dome of the humming artichoke?

In search of the dreaded seventeenth inversion.

Tension.

Further, but the system remains in place.

Meanwhile...

The decisive moment.

Gathering the "evidence".