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THE

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ENISOC

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CHRISTMAS

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COMPENDIUM

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2005

 

Contents

• Wicked Potato 1

• Anarchy

• Where you live

• Wicked Potato 2

• Hats

• Chocolate

• Riddle

• Wicked Potato 3

• Car games

• Wicked Potato 4

• Water

 

THE VERY WICKED POTATO.

 

 

IN THE bottom of the kitchen cupboard where it was warm and dry, something moved. It was a strange something, like a very small brown-yellow sausage with too many eyes and a fringe of little hairy legs. And unlike all the other little potatoes around it in the pink plastic basket, it had very definite ideas about where it was going in life.

           

            These ideas did not involve being peeled, cooked and eaten, which is why it was moving.

 

            With a disconcertingly rapid scuttle it crossed the bottom of the basket, scaled a somnolent mound of less adventurous potatoes, and leapt for the rim. It hung on, scrabbling for a foothold, hauled itself up and over and tumbled onto newspaper.

           

            The potato picked itself up with great dignity, glowered at the basket in case any of the others were laughing, and realised that none of them knew or cared that it had escaped. This was a disappointment. Performing an innovative feat of any description is far more rewarding with a properly appreciative audience. Feeling rather let down, the potato waved several legs rudely at the pink plastic basket. Potatoes which were content to be mere vegetables deserved to be eaten.

 

 Thus abandoning the others to their fate, the potato turned and looked around. For a second it felt slightly afraid. The cupboard was bigger than it had imagined, and darker, too. What might be hiding behind the shoebrushes, waiting…? With a shiver, it stamped hard on a crease in the newspaper, and something small shot away with a squeak of terror.  The potato ran after it and saw the pale gleaming body of a silverfish vanish into a crevice. There was a frenzy of squeaking, and several other silverfish put out their heads to look at the newcomer. Grinning unpleasantly, the potato waved most of its legs and growled: this time all the silverfish vanished and there was silence.

 

‘That dealt with THEM.’ the potato said loudly to anything that might be listening, swaggered over to a shoebrush and sat down. The silverfish might be able to squeeze through cracks, but no potato could leave the cupboard except through the door, which was closed. It considered, aware that at any moment someone might decide to remove vegetables for the next meal. Dare it risk a wild dash for freedom as the door opened? It could carefully sidle out if the door were to be left ajar –but what if it wasn’t? Could it even disguise itself and hope to hide among the shoebrushes until someone decided to clean their shoes? It studied the available cover: a heap of cloths, brushes and tins of polish overflowing from another plastic basket which looked as though it had not been disturbed for some time. There was a spider’s web between a tin of tan polish and a packet of brown laces. The potato strolled round the heap and stopped abruptly as it saw the shoe-horn. Its escape-plan was perfect: nothing could go wrong. All it had to do was to wait, and potatoes are good at waiting.

 

Eventually the footsteps outside the cupboard came closer and light flooded in as the door was pulled open. Blinded by the glare, the potato heaved at the shoehorn and felt it begin to slide, held its breath as the length of aluminium landed squarely in the gap by the hinge. The pink basket was considerably emptier: the door began to close but the shoe-horn was jammed in the gap and it remained partly open.

           

            So far, so good. The potato held its breath, waiting for the footsteps to move away.  What would be outside the cupboard? It would be light out there, of course, and potatoes are not at all at home in the light. Where could it hide? Dare it wait? Would someone come back and move the shoehorn before dark?

 

            The potato poised itself at the edge of the cupboard, ready to dive out if anyone seemed likely to interfere, and waited. Once it thought it heard the whisper of silverfish, and growled softly: it heard nothing more.

 

At last dusk came. The potato slid over the edge and fell onto dusty vinyl. Light and noise came from a doorway: it turned away and set off along the plinth. It was not a pleasant journey. Among the dust there were a few dried peas which rolled away like footballs, and a puddle of something which the potato trod in by mistake, so that it left a trail of sticky, dusty footprints as it moved along.

           

This is no good, thought the potato. I shall be discovered, and peeled, and… No, thank you. Not now, when I’ve got this far… I can’t reach the sink to wash it off, so I must find the doormat.

 

Leaving a trail of sticky footprints, it marched boldly across the floor and was laboriously wiping its feet, one at a time, on the doormat, when it heard something else pitter-pattering across the vinyl.

           

The potato spun round and saw what at first seemed to be another, larger potato. This one had two twitching furry ears and a long tail. It stopped and stared for a long time. The potato wiped another three feet.

 

‘What are you?’ asked the potato, at last, resenting the stare.

 

‘A mouse, of course.’ The mouse still stared. ‘What on earth are you? I thought you were a potato, but I’ve never seen one move before, and I’ve eaten dozens-‘           

                       

‘I,’ the potato said, thinking very fast, ‘am a Cornish Mouse-eating Mid, and I am really surprised that something as small as you claims to be a mouse, because all the ones I’ve eaten were much bigger…’

 

The mouse didn’t wait to hear any more. It turned tail and ran, diving down a hole where the skirting board met the plinth of a cupboard. The potato wiped its last foot and went after it. Down in the hole, the mouse was breathlessly reporting that outside there was a terrible Mouse-eating Mid from Cornwall, and wasn’t that where the giants came from, and it’d already eaten millions of other mice, and it was enormous, with fangs like a cat’s, only far worse…

 

The potato grinned to itself and coughed.  ‘Hallo, Mice.’ it said, in a deep and ferocious voice. ‘I think I shall come in and… visit … you. For dinner.’

 

It stood at the entrance to the mouse-hole until the last squeaking, scurrying mouse had fled through the network of tunnels inside the walls of the old house, then went inside.  It was a very spacious mouse-hole, and one corner was nearly filled with chewed paper and cloth where the mice had slept. The potato went all round the mouse-hole, making sure it had found all the entrances and exits,  and piled nice crinkly bits of paper in front of each so that if the mice returned it would hear them. It had no wish to be ambushed. It might wake up and find it was being nibbled.

           

When it had finished moving the paper around it realised that it was very tired. The hole was dark but not quite damp enough to be comfortable. Ah well, thought the potato, tomorrow I shall find a better place to live. This will do for tonight.

 

 It remembered how the mice had run away, and how it had scared the silverfish.

 

‘This is fun,’ it said to itself. ‘I’m far too clever to be eaten. I was grown to have adventures. I  mean to be a very wicked potato, the wickedest in the whole world. Maybe one day I shall even scare the people out of the house, so I can sleep in whichever basket I choose and never be eaten…’

           

And then, immensely proud of itself, the very wicked potato fell asleep.

 

 

 

*      *      *     *     *     *     *

 

ANARCHIC THINGS TO DO

THAT NO ONE CAN REALLY COMPLAIN ABOUT

 

1)  Eat in alphabetical order: cabbage, then potato, then sausage. Yes, this does mean the ketchup comes before the potato...

 

HOW MUCH DO YOU KNOW

ABOUT WHERE YOU LIVE?

 

By the end of this you’ll probably know more than any of your friends. (They may not care, but that’s their loss.)

 

Which county do you live in ? Has it always been called that? Which parish do you live in? Who’s the patron saint of the parish church? Why? Are there any chapelries in your parish?- these are extra churches built when the population increased. Each ‘chapel’ is responsible for a bit of the main parish. ( Nonconformist chapels are different: they don’t have parishes .)Are there any team ministries?- these are like chapelries in reverse: the church populations are too small to support a vicar each so several churches will share one between them. Is the parish church always the oldest church in a parish?

 

Try to find a map showing all the parishes in your county. (There should be one available from the local Record Office.) Photocopy it a couple of times, (it’s for your own private use so it should be ok according to the copyright laws), and put one copy somewhere safe. Now you can do several things:

1)      Make several dozen slips of paper. Colour in the parishes. Using the slips, write down the name of each parish as you colour it. If no two parishes that touch each other are the same colour, what’s the least number of colours you need? (This is Maths, but don’t tell anyone.)  When you’ve finished, sort all the slips into alphabetical order and make a list. Do you have parish names beginning with each letter of the alphabet? Which ones are missing? Can you find all the missing letters in the names? You can for Staffordshire...

 

2)      Rule squares onto a second copy of the map. Letter the rows and number the columns. Now you can use your list to make a ‘finding aid’, so that you can find each parish quickly. Which parish/es is/are in A1? C6? D4?  Where is your home?

 

3)      Look at the parish boundaries. A very straight boundary may be a Roman road. A very wiggly one may be a river. Compare the parish map with an O.S. map of the same bit. Rivers are convenient boundaries because everyone can see them. However, they move... Find out what an oxbow lake is, if you didn’t know, and consider what two parishes might do if the original course of the river was their boundary.

 

4)      Go back to the coloured map. Stick it onto a sheet of thin card and, very carefully, cut round groups of parishes to make a jigsaw. Don’t make the pieces too small.

The pieces do tend to go curly, and you’ll need to make it up on a tablecloth or carpet or the bits’ll slide all over the place, but it’s amazing how many people have lived somewhere all their lives and don’t know how their county fits together...

                                          *          *           *          *          *

 

The Very Wicked Potato’s next adventure

 

 

‘I am a Very Wicked Potato.’ the potato said gleefully to itself as it sat in the mouse-hole and listened to the people moving about in the kitchen. ‘I escaped from the basket in the cupboard so the people wouldn’t eat me; I chased the mice away so they wouldn’t eat me either. I’ve found this mouse-hole which is just right: dry and cool and dark, and I shall live here and be as wicked as I want, and NEVER get eaten!’

            It glared into the corners of the hole but the mice showed no sign of coming back. Outside in the kitchen people went to and fro, and once someone dropped a spoon which clattered against the skirting board. The potato dozed.

Outside, the sun shone through the kitchen window. The room grew warmer and the potato woke up feeling too hot. It pulled some paper aside and tried to squeeze into a narrow tunnel which the mice had made, deep under the floor of the house where it was cooler, but the edges of the joists were rough where they had been gnawed, and scratched the potato’s skin. It gave up and sat panting despondently. There was no point escaping from the vegetable basket if you were going to be peeled or cooked on your way to freedom.

At last the sun moved away from the kitchen window and the room began to cool down. Then the people came back and cooked a meal, but eventually they went away and the potato ventured out onto the floor. Maybe there would be another mouse-hole in a room on the other side of the house.

The people had left the door ajar. Beyond the kitchen was a vast expanse of tiles with a carpet runner down the centre. The potato stood still, enjoying the draught from under another door, but then it heard people moving and scuttled behind a curtain. A door opened and footsteps crossed the tiles; a door closed.

The potato felt uneasy, as though it was being watched. It turned slowly round, peering with all its eyes into the folds of the curtain which went up towards the ceiling- and far above, it saw ten frightened eyes.      

‘Er- hallo.’ the spider began, letting go by mistake and falling with a gasp of horror before managing to haul itself back to safety. ‘Pardon me, Ma’am, but I really don’t think we’re suited-‘

The potato stared in disbelief. ‘Do I LOOK like a lady spider?’ it protested.

‘You don’t sound like one…’ The spider came down cautiously on a thread for a closer look, landed on the curtain just above the potato and settled comfortably. ‘No, you aren’t. So what are you, then? ‘

‘I’m a Very Wicked Potato.’ the potato said impressively. ’So why aren’t you afraid of me?’

‘Can’t possibly be as bad as a lady spider.’ The spider waved some of its legs in emphasis. ‘Lure you within reach, then- chomp! Doesn’t bear thinking about!’

‘Rather like mice.’ the potato commiserated. ‘I still don’t understand how you could mistake me for a spider: I have more than enough legs, but you’re so much more…athletic.’

‘I don’t see very well.’ the spider explained, ‘but I felt you tapping on the curtain. I couldn’t quite make out what you were saying, but I assumed that was because you were a lady. I’m very glad you aren’t… Have you lived here long?’

‘I don’t live here. I came out of the kitchen and I’m looking for a cool dry dark place. A mouse-hole in a room that doesn’t get hot would be ideal.’

The spider considered. ‘There’s a room that isn’t used much. They put things on the table sometimes, but I think it’d suit you. I don’t know if there is a mouse-hole: there’s a stag’s head and a chandelier and several pictures. Spiders know more about ceilings than floors, you see.’                                           

The potato said eagerly that it sounded ideal. Pleased, the spider dropped lightly onto the tiles and ran towards a door which was slightly ajar. The potato scuttled after it, wriggled through the gap and found itself on carpet. The room was gloomy because the curtains were half-closed, with a huge table and eight chairs in the middle of the floor and pictures all round the walls.  The spider was scampering busily along the skirting-board, disappearing behind tables and boxes and a sideboard, popping out and swinging on the brass fender round the fireplace, then swarming effortlessly up a toasting-fork and sliding down the poker.         

‘There’s only one mouse-hole, in the corner behind the sideboard, and it’s quite damp… Do you want to explore? If you need me I’ll be up here-‘ Without waiting for thanks the spider raced off up the wallpaper, and soon the potato saw him dangling from one of the stag’s antlers. 

It was wonderfully cool and dark under the sideboard. The potato could almost feel itself growing. It stood in the entrance to the mouse-hole and called cheerfully, ‘Anyone in?’

Nothing answered. The potato ventured in and found that the hole seemed completely unoccupied. There was a  passageway leading off into the wall but something seemed to have fallen and blocked it. 

‘Perfect.’ The potato said aloud. Then he ran out, under the sideboard and into the room. The spider had strung a tightrope between the stag’s antlers and was walking along it upside down.         

‘It’s perfect. Thank you!’ the potato shouted.

‘Good.’ The spider paused and waved several legs. ‘I might stay here too: there looks to be good eating round by that window…’

Feeling very tired, the potato went back into its hole and fell asleep.

 

It woke with a start. The room was very dark now, but the potato was sure that there was someone else in the mouse-hole. At least it wasn’t a mouse: it was far too small for that. So what was it? The potato remembered the scufflings and whisperings in the kitchen cupboard.

‘I know you’re there, silverfish.’ it snarled.

There was a very small gasp, then something spoke.

‘Who’re you calling a silverfish?’ it demanded belligerently in a high-pitched squeak.’I’m –I’m Ogygopsis Klotzi! So you’d better watch out, whatever YOU are!’

            ‘I’, said the potato, rather amused, ‘am a Very Wicked Potato. I’ve escaped from the people in the kitchen, frightened a family of mice, and I don’t intend to give this hole up for anyone! –WHAT did you say you were?’

            ‘Ogygopsis Klotzi: that’s my name. I’m descended from the very first, famous Ogygopsis Klotzi who lived in the sea thousands and thousands of years ago: he was a trilobite.’

        

‘What’s a trilobite?’ the potato asked.

            ‘I think it was something like a pirate. So I’m trying to be one too. Only Mum keeps interrupting.’ The pirate sighed. ‘You should see me swinging on the curtains shouting ‘Aha!’  And all Mum says is, ‘Remember to curl up if you fall off, you silly woodlouse, or you’ll hurt yourself-‘  It sighed again.  ‘As if there wasn’t CARPET…’

The potato, recognising a kindred spirit in its exotically –named acquaintance, stretched lazily. ‘Well, if you don’t disturb me when I’m asleep, I’ve no objection to your visiting.’ It smiled. ‘It sounds as though we should make a formidable team! Have you found any treasure yet, pirate?’

The woodlouse squeaked with excitement. ‘Yes, lots, but it’s too big for me to move. If only you could help- do you think you could climb up the curtain? It’s all on the windowsill-‘

 

  The conspirators sidled out from under the sideboard and picked their way along the skirting board to the nearest curtain. Unlike the curtain in the hall, this one had a fancy raised pattern on it which made it easy for the potato to climb. The woodlouse scrambled up too, talking excitedly about the treasure, and to the potato’s surprise there it was: shiny metal things gleaming in the moonlight. The woodlouse tugged at a silvery disc but was far too small to move it.

‘We need to take something that’ll be easy to move on the carpet.’ The potato sized up the treasure. ‘This should roll…Stand back!’ It shoved at a hollow domed thing almost as big as itself, and they held their breaths as it fell. It bounced and landed under a chair.

‘Oh, wow!’ The woodlouse took a running dive after it, curling up in the air and landing as lightly as the spider.  Muttering crossly about excitable arthropods, the potato began to climb carefully back down the curtain, but by the time they were rolling the thimble under the sideboard it were already considering which of the items on the sill would be best to take in their next raid. They trundled the thimble into the hole and sat admiring it in the first light of dawn.

‘I’d better go home.’ Ogygopsis Klotzi said, at last. ‘Can I come back tonight?’

‘Of course.’ The potato winked at the little woodlouse. ‘We’ve got treasure to collect! I thought we might try for that round glass thing with the sparkly end, if it doesn’t break when it lands… What do you think?’

 Ogygopsis Klotzi jumped up and down. ‘I can’t wait! Goodbye, Potato-‘

The potato gazed at the thimble with satisfaction and settled down to sleep, dreaming of a certain handsome but very wicked potato leaping from fold to fold of the curtain with the grace of a spider, laden with shining treasures.

 

*            *            *            *          *

 

A company called Innocent (who make smoothies) encouraged everyone to knit little bobble-hats in September. Enisoc didn’t find out about this until November 30^th, and the last day to send them in was December 1, which was rather a shame. Hope they do it again next year!  The hats were sent out on bottles of fruit smoothies sold in Waitrose and a cafe called EAT, and for each bottle sold, 50p was donated to a charity for the elderly.  The instructions on their web page began ‘turn on Radio 4’... (see www.innocentdrinks.co.uk/supergran).

Cast on 29 or so stitches in double knitting wool on size 10 needles (or similar). Knit about twelve rows. Then either thread the wool through each stitch and pull up to gather the top, or knit two together every fourth stitch, then every third and so until you’re down to about ten stitches,then thread through as before. This helps to make the top neater. Sew it up and make a bobble or a tassel to go on top.  Because they’re so tiny, even a new knitter can finish one in an evening. More advanced knitters can try fair-isle patterns or stripes in football colours, and when it’s done you can put felt flowers on it, or beads, or... almost anything, really.

And then you can put it on a bottle of something to cheer it up. Milk bottles, bubble-bath bottles, even smoothie bottles. If you give it to someone as a present (complete with bottle), they can keep the hat to remind them how artistic you are.

 

CHOCOLATE

Whenever  and wherever Enisoc members get together, meetings seem to involve at least one of four staple ingredients. These are: socks, custard, water and chocolate. A good excuse to eat chocolate- as if you needed one- is a competition which we found at the Warley Model Railway Exhibition at the NEC.  ‘The World of Model Railways’ at Meadow St., Mevagissey, (Cornwall) has a competition for a diorama made in an empty Ferrero Rocher box. Any size box, theme to be railway related. Categories: under 11, 11-15, 16-20. 21 and over, and Trade. The competiton closes on March 31  and to enter you have to write to them for an entry form... and then you have to send it through the post, or go down to Cornwall with it, which may put rather a lot of people off.

            However,  no sense wasting an excuse to eat chocolate!

            Why not get together with a few other chocolate lovers and have your own competition?  If you make a particularly good diorama, send a photo to the email address on the front page of this website, and we’ll send you something silly...

 

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

Riddle:  what may be eaten if it’s red, white or blue, but never if it’s green?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

THE VERY WICKED POTATO

GETS POSTED

 

IT was pleasantly cool in the hole behind the sideboard. The Very Wicked Potato opened first one eye, then two more, then all the rest. It stretched its legs and looked across at the gleaming mound of treasure. There was a thimble, a cut-glass stopper and a dozen glass beads, but in the twilight it was a hoard any pirate could be proud of, especially the beads which winked and twinkled like diamonds.

 

The Potato grinned to itself, remembering how it had woken one evening to find the carpet outside strewn with shiny balls as though there had been a hailstorm, with Ogygopsis Klotzi scurrying around squeaking rapturously and demanding that he should come out and play football. Unfortunately, the beads were too hard and heavy, and the little woodlouse was soon hopping up and down holding his bruised feet. They had worked hard that night, collecting every one of the beads and arranging them where the small amount of light which entered the mousehole would show them off to the best advantage.

 

There was a very faint rustling at the bottom of the curtains. The Potato went to the mouth of the hole and looked out. He’d not seen his friend for at least two days, and although at first the peace had been rather pleasant, he had begun to feel lonely.

 

‘Is that you, Ogygopsis Klotzi?’ he called to whatever it was under the curtains, and went to find out.

 

To his surprise it was a bigger woodlouse. She looked up at him. ‘You must be the Very Wicked Potato.’ she began. ‘My son’s told me all about you.’

 

‘Pleased to meet you.’ the potato said politely, wondering whether she objected to their pirate raids on the ornaments high above them on the windowsill. ‘What can I do for you?’

 

Mrs Klotzi’s antennae waved anxiously. ‘He’s missing: he went out three days ago, when there was all that paper on the floor, and he didn’t come back. I hoped he was staying with you-‘

 

‘He isn’t.’ the Potato said sadly. ‘He didn’t say where he was going?- I see... Well, Mrs Klotzi, we must find him. I’m sure he’s safe. He’s probably fallen into a teapot or something, and can’t get out.’

 

High above him in the curtains he could see a spider dangling by a thread. The spider shook its head and began to descend at top speed. It landed neatly beside them and said shyly, ‘He’s not fallen into anything: I’ve looked. I think he’s been posted.’

 

‘Posted?’ the potato echoed. ‘What’s that?’

‘The People were talking about it.’ the spider explained. ‘They put brown paper down on the floor, and then they put a big box on it, covered in paper with pictures on it, and then the blue jumper she’s been knitting, and then they fastened the paper round the box and the blue knitting. For someone who can knit like that,’ the spider added sternly,’you’d think she’d be able to make a parcel more neatly. If I wrapped a fly that badly –‘

 

‘Yes, but what about the posting?’ the Potato insisted.

 

‘I was coming to that.’ The spider had not appreciated the interruption: it regarded itself as a connoisseur of knitting and parcel-wrapping. It stood on tiptoes and continued impressively. ‘They wrote on the paper, and then the tall one said.”I’ll get that posted tomorrow.” And while they were wrapping it, I’m sure I saw Ogygopsis Klotzi trying to climb up the box.’

 

Mrs Klotzi’s antennae waved even more anxiously, and her voice rose in a despairing squeak. ‘Oh dear, he’s always been interested in everything, and now he’s been posted-‘

 

‘Madam,’ the Very Wicked Potato said grandly, ‘I will rescue him. Leave it to me.’

‘To us.’ the spider corrected, bouncing up and down on his thread in excitement. ‘ Leave it to us... She’s knitting a matching jumper for the little brother, and from the look of it this afternoon, she’d nearly finished!’

 

                                                           *       *       *

‘Are you sure this is going to work?’ the Potato asked, stepping off the smooth slippery sheet of brown paper onto the blue jumper and immediately getting its legs tangled in the wool. ‘It’s going to be very dry in here when they fasten the paper...’

 

The spider looked worried. ‘I know. I hope young Klotzi’s all right. Woodlice need damp, cool places...’

 

‘Don’t worry his Mum.’ The Potato burrowed under a fold. ‘Goodbye. I’ll tell you all about it when we get back...’

 

The spider crawled closer.  His voice sounded muffled. ‘Good luck. I think you’re really brave...’

 

                                                          *        *        *

 

Being posted was very boring. Sometimes the parcel was moved about, sometimes it was dropped, and for a very long time it vibrated gently because it was in a lorry going up a motorway. The Potato slept through most of it, which is how potatoes usually pass the time. When it occasionally woke it had no idea where it was, or how much time had passed since the paper had been fastened round the blue jumper. There were noises outside, sometimes nearby, sometimes far away. Sometimes it was hot, sometimes it was cold. But mostly it was so very, very boring that the Potato was quite taken by surprise when someone turned the parcel over and began to take off the paper.

Light flooded in. The Potato blinked, and then before it realised the danger the jumper was shaken out and the Potato found itself falling. It landed on carpet, bounced, and looked round for somewhere to hide. Large feet came closer, and it leapt for a dark space under the edge of something, crawled in out of sight and lay still, feeling bruised.

 

People were talking excitedly in the room outside, but the Potato took no notice, wondering how to find out where one small woodlouse had got to. It looked around and found that it was in the space under a cupboard, along with peas, a crayon and a lot of fluff.  A piece of the plinth had come loose, and no-one had put it back: the Potato was grateful, because outside in the light the feet were still trampling to and fro.

 

‘I shall have to find a spider.’ it announced boldly. ‘Spiders see everything that goes on...’

 

A quiet chuckle came from the darkness beyond, and the Potato realised that it could see eyes gleaming. Several eyes. The sort of eyes that went with eight legs...

 

‘Hallo.’ the Potato said firmly, before it had time to think about being scared. ‘I have come to rescue my friend. Small, rather excitable arthropod, named Ogygopsis Klotzi.’

 

‘Ah.’ The spider came forward slowly. It was dark and hairy, and for a few seconds it stood quite still, studying the visitor. ‘The woodlouse who arrived on Thursday.  I sent him out by the hole under the windowsill to stay with  friends.  I am Lycosa: who are you?’                                                                        

                                                                                                                                                                                                                             

 

‘I am a Cornish Mid.’ the Potato said solemnly. ‘And I am a Very Wicked Potato. I arranged for myself to be Posted, in order to find young Klotzi: I came with a piece of knitting. And I have no idea how we shall get back again, but I’m sure we can manage something...’

 

The spider chuckled again. ‘I’m sure we shall. Now then: I very much doubt you’ll fit through the hole under the windowsill, so I shall attempt to bring your friend to you here. I may be gone some time...’

 

Lycosa turned and ran like lightning. The Potato could hear his feet rustling up the wall in the darkness. It made itself comfortable in a cool damp corner and waited.

 

It was growing light in the kitchen when Lycosa returned. The Potato heard him talking in the distance, and stood up, brushing dust off itself.

‘Hallo, Lycosa: thank you for finding him- and what have you been up to, Ogygopsis Klotzi? Your mother’s been very worried-‘

 

‘I didn’t do it on purpose!’ the little woodlouse protested. ‘I was trying to climb up to see what it was, and I got wrapped up by mistake- but it’s been great fun, Oniscus says I’m to come back and stay for longer next time, they live under the doorstep-‘

 

Lycosa coughed. ‘May I suggest you continue your travellers’ tales on the way home? It is already dawn and the family will be leaving at nine. The children are to wear their jumpers so that Auntie can see how well they fit, and they are taking a box of runner beans and lettuces as a present. It seems logical that if you conceal yourselves in the box of vegetables, you will be transported back to the house you came from. This box is currently on the floor in the porch, but if you are ready to slip through the door when they open it to collect the newspaper, you should be able to reach it quite easily.’

 

The Potato made the complicated semaphore-signal which spiders use to say thank-you, and Lycosa  shook his head. ‘No trouble at all, my friend. I enjoy a challenge... There! Did you hear the letter-box? That was the newspaper. We must hurry-‘

 

They ran across the kitchen floor, through the half-open door, down the hall and stopped by the stairs for a rest. Someone was moving about on the landing above them: they ran on,  pressing into the shadows by the telephone table as someone came downstairs and unlocked the front door. A newspaper lay on the tiled floor of the porch.

 

‘Run!’ Lycosa ordered, and grinned. ‘Good luck; have a safe journey...’

 

The Potato held one of Ogygopsis Klotzi’s front legs and they ran across the doorstep. The box was almost touching the step: they jumped, and landed safely on a lettuce. The Potato got up slowly, but his friend was jumping up and down, waving to Lycosa. The front door closed, and they were alone again.

 

‘Yes, you can tell me all about it.’ the Potato said cheerfully, burrowing down between runner beans to a damp piece of newspaper at the bottom of the box. ‘And I’ll tell you which bits you’d better not tell your Mum when you get back. Not if you want her to let you go visiting again...’

 

 

*     *     *     *     *     *

           

 

GAMES TO PLAY IN A CAR...

 

Pub Cricket: The first player looks out for pubs and counts the number of legs. King’s head, no legs: out for a duck. Queen Victoria, two legs (even if only head shown on sign). Hare and hounds, 4 for hare, 8 for hounds, unless specific number of hounds shown on sign. As soon as a player sees something without legs, he/she is out and the next starts. This game can get complicated if people start insisting that The Royal Oak was really an Ent and therefore has two legs... Driver’s decision is final.

 

 

Number-plates: collect all numbers from 1 to 999. Or 999 to 1. This game is getting harder, as modern plates have only two numbers... So try multiplying the numbers on the plate. 240 = 0, 241 =8, 249 =72 and so on. As for the letters, either find a word (in English, preferably, and in a dictionary...) containing the letters in the same order, (UXR =Uttoxeter) or a phrase (=Unpleasant xylophone racket).

 

Car snooker: For those with good memories, or a list... First player starts looking at cars. If you pass/are passed by a red one, you have one point. Then you collect colours, with a red between each colour. Ignore vans,trucks and buses. Decide how silver is classified beforehand, also maroon and turquoise, as feelings can run high if someone is making a good break and a silver car appears in the rear-view mirror...

Yellow scores 2, green 3, blue 4, brown 5, pink (or purple) 6, black 7

 If you see two reds together you are out. If you see a white car, you are out. (The driver must be above suspicion of deliberately overtaking in order to adjust the scores.)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

THE LEMUR AND THE VERY WICKED POTATO  

 

 

LONGTEMPS was a lemur from the Natural History Museum. He was black and white and furry, with very long arms and legs, and a very long tail. He lay in the hammock at the end of the garden and looked up at the house. Part of the wall was green and rustling with the leaves of a creeper which reached nearly to the window of his owner’s room. Part of the wall was hot and orange, with little birds flying up to pick insects from cracks between the bricks.

 

            Longtemps watched the birds lazily. The hammock swung as the wind blew, and the leaves in all the gardens whispered together. There were leaves on trees, leaves on the creeper, big broad floppy leaves on rhubarb and long narrow sharp leaves on next door’s pampas grass, and in the flowerbed under the windows there were rosebushes with reddish leaves and a big clump of ferns which stuck out over the path.

 

 Behind the ferns and among the creeper Longtemps noticed another sort of leaf. It looked rather like the cherry leaves above him. He looked carefully at the wall and saw sturdy gnarled branches and more of the leaves: it was an old fruit tree which had been trained against the wall, its branches spread out to catch the sun’s warmth. He couldn’t see any fruit on it, but as he lay in the hammock he imagined plump juicy pears or golden peaches with their soft furry skins, and people in old-fashioned clothes coming out into the garden to pick them.

 

All at once he felt cold. The sun had gone in and there were long mysterious shadows across the grass. A light went on in the house and Longtemps realised that it was growing late in the evening. He had been forgotten.

           

At first this did not worry him. In Madagascar, wild lemurs stay out all night and build nests in the trees; he had his hammock, and because he wasn’t a real lemur he wasn’t afraid of owls or cats: they would not be interested in eating him. He had almost decided to climb up the tree and try to make a nest when he remembered that by morning the garden would be wet with dew, and so would he. He looked at his smooth glossy black and white fur and decided that he did not want to get wet.

 

Longtemps stretched a long, furry, black and white arm towards a branch and swung gracefully out of the hammock. By swinging from branch to branch, from tree to tree, he managed to get most of the way to the house without coming down to the ground.  He looked up at the windows. Yes, Robert’s window was slightly open, and he would be able to run up the creeper and squeeze in. He dropped onto the lawn and went towards the house.

 

As he came closer to the clump of ferns he thought he heard something move. He looked around nervously, but there was nothing to be seen in the half-light.  He went round the edge of the ferns towards the creeper and something grabbed his ankle.

 

‘Your money or your life!’ something growled, holding on firmly as Longtemps tried to kick himself free.

 

  ‘I- I haven’t got any money.’ The lemur sat down, shaken, and saw his attacker for the first time. It was a small dark shape which seemed to have lots of small hairy legs, but despite its size it seemed very determined. ‘I don’t think,’ the lemur added, rather worried, ‘that I have a life, either. I mean, I’m not a real lemur. You can’t eat me…’

‘All right, all right.’ growled the small thing with legs. ‘No money at all? No jewels, or paperclips, or milk bottle tops? ‘

                                                           

Longtemps stared. The creature seemed to have far too many eyes as well as far too many legs, and it was still holding on to him.

 

‘Look!’ the creature said proudly, pulling aside a frond of the fern. A small pile of objects gleamed faintly in the light from high above them. ‘This was my first thing, and it’s the best one: I ambushed a magpie for it.’

           

Longtemps looked at the diamond ring with awe.

 

‘It’s lovely.’ he said truthfully. ‘- If it’s shiny things you want, I can get you one quite easily, if you let me move over that way a little. See the tag on the wires the creeper climbs up? That shines where it’s been polished by rubbing on that branch. Would you like that?’

           

The creature considered. ‘You can get it off the wire?’

           

Longtemps shrugged. ‘I can try…’

 

Fortunately, the lemur’s nimble paws had no difficulties in undoing the tag. He dropped the shiny piece of metal down to the waiting creature and felt his ankle released.

Longtemps sprang up and began to climb the creeper, up and up, all the way up to the window of his owner’s bedroom. He scrambled across the sill and squeezed under the sash, then looked back at the flowerbed below and the big clump of ferns.  He wondered what the strange creature was, and where it had come from, and where the magpie had found the ring.

 

            He swung off the windowsill onto a chair and across to Robert’s bed. His owner was asleep. Longtemps perched on the pillow and began to whisper.

           

            ‘Go and look in the ferns. Go and look in the ferns…’

 

            When Robert woke up next morning, Longtemps was asleep on the pillow beside him.

            ‘I had a really strange dream.’ Robert told him as he got dressed. ‘All about something in the garden. I think I’ll go and see. Coming?’ He picked Longtemps up and hung him round his neck, and went downstairs.

 

            In the back garden  the grass was still shining with dew and there were some big glossy black slugs crawling  around in a patch of marigolds. Robert stopped by the ferns and moved some of the fronds aside.

 

            ‘My dream might be coming true.’ Robert stepped back and looked around. ‘There’s something shiny in there, but there’s something that looks sort of hairy, too, and I don’t want to put my hand in… Here’s a stick.’

           

            He pushed the stick carefully into the ferns and prodded at the pile of shiny things,  and drew one out.

 

            ‘It is a ring, just like the one in the dream I had. I’ll see if Mum knows anyone who’s lost one. It might belong to a smart lady with a sports car who’d let me have a ride in it, or a rich old lady who thought it was lost for ever and she’d cry all over me… Yuck! It might even belong to the Queen. Would they let me take it back to her myself ? I’d go up to the gates at Buckingham Palace and ask the sentries to let me in… Or would I have to send it by post?’

           

            He wandered back indoors admiring the ring.  Longtemps thought of the hairy creature in the ferns and felt sorry for it. It had been so proud of its treasure…

 

            As though by accident he slipped off Robert’s shoulders and fell onto the kitchen table. He heard Robert going upstairs two at a time to find his mum. Very quickly, Longtemps reached for the vase on the windowsill and tipped it onto the table. Buttons fell out, paperclips and used stamps and a penny and a plastic spider out of a cracker, and a hair-slide with diamante flowers on it. Longtemps picked out the penny, the paperclips and the hair-slide, pushed the rest back into the vase and replaced it, and leapt up to the open top section of the window. He threw them out into the flowerbed; the hair-slide first, then the penny and paperclips.  He hoped no one would find them before the strange hairy creature did.

           

            He flopped back onto the table as Robert’s mum came downstairs, talking about Mrs Hopkins up the road who’d lost a ring last week. There were three or four milk bottle tops on the draining board.

 

            Longtemps thought about showering lots of silvery discs out of the window one evening, and what a pleasant surprise it would be for the strange hairy creature. Robert picked him up and fastened him round his neck again.

           

            ‘I’m going to take the ring to Mrs. Hopkins. Coming?’