Cancer and Me: in isis-k's biggest adventure yet, she realises she is not immortal

Cheated!

From an early age, isis-k realised that life had a nasty habit of throwing googlies at unsuspecting bystanders.
After several years of being bullied at school, she kind of made it her mission to try and offend as few people and tread on as few toes as possible. 

Which is why
a) Her career, though interesting, never hit stratespheric and
b) She kept several pobbles as pets 

She and the weird sisters had many adventures battling the Evil Empress who ruled over a certain area of White City; while avoiding being sunk by the well-known shipping hazard in the Bermuda Triangle : Barry Manilow's nose.

Now I suspect she faces her biggest battle yet. All the tests the lovely doctors have carried out point to a diagnosis which - to quote the original big brother - is doubleplusungood.

No one wants to be told they have Cancer, but that's apparently not a choice I have. The googly has been bowled.

Strange how you meet so many acts of kindness at a time like this, from a London Cabbie being sympathetic when I threw up all over his nice clean Taxi (ok I still had to pay to have it valeted but...he told me to 'be lucky') to all the wonderful friends and neighbours who've done everything from Reflexology to cooking ready meals.

And of course: My Family.

You are wonderful and every day I am more proud.

Prognosis ? Profoundly pessimistic, but I ain't going down without a fight. 

As the truly great Dylan Thomas put it :
'do not go gentle into that good night
Rage rage against the dying of the light'

Peace (and of course - Love)

the gang's all here (with a few new members)

Back in west London, a light went on in Stan Lightbulb's head. He was sitting staring at his bacon and eggs, nursing a cup of hot sugary tea with the love and affection gentlemen usually reserve for pints of beer or football scores, when he realised he had a chance for a comeback.

Stan - as many are probably aware - had been King of Harlesden High Street, Harrow-on-the-Hill and certain fields in Reading, where his tithes were as legendary as the fluorescent sheep (who had appeared some years after Chernobyl, but no-one had thought to question why owing to some fairly heavy infiltration of the local council by the infamous Tchaikovsky gang - who themselves had formed as a reaction to the Mozart Gang from North Kensington).

Anyway - to cut a long story short: Stan had been deposed following a coup staged by one of his henchmen who wanted to establish his own grazing rights and saw an opportunity while Stan was out of the country on business (buying up all the unsold copies of Pink Floyd's Dark Side of the Moon in order to build a new castle). So now Stan wanted to get back to the dizzy heights he had once attained, when word got to him that the ghost of Colonel Ginsoaked (recently deceased, of the eponymous Gordon's Highlanders) was assembling an army to take on the Evil Empress in her hideout in Herne Hill.

picture by shugmonkey

Stan wasn't sure that he really wanted to ally himself with a bunch of soldiers who would not look out of place on the set of Carry on Up the Khyber, but thought that this could be a perfect way of getting back on top: taking on the Evil Empress herself: what could be a better challenge than that?

He wasted no time and while finishing his bacon, eggs and tea, Skyped his old friend Barry White, Texted a few random members of the Bow Street Runners (who were in town for the trial of an Alastair Simm lookalike who had tried to burn down a school he mistakenly thought to be the real St Trinians) and got on the train to Herne Hill...............

Prussians, Polyurethane and Planetary Parleys - continuing adventures in Libraryland

Meanwhile back in the Library, the King of Prussia popped in to inform our brave Librarian that he had been invited to a celebratory dinner to commemorate the old Battle of Waterloo. Dammit if I didn’t find that all our books appear to have been written by the Duke of Wellington, who – bless him –seems to have forgotten that he didn’t win the blessed battle single-handed.

And talking of history books: the dashing young writer (who is so busy being dashing that he has chosen to do several duels using first-rate top-brass as his Seconds, rather than sort out the copyright on his looted artworks) has nearly completed his tome on the history of our venerable institution….yes – you at the back – I said venerable, not any other similar-sounding, yet frankly unsavoury words (the very idea).

So today, I was so put out by the frankly inconvenient congregation of senior members of the Chemicals industry, who have taken up semi-permanent residence in my Library with their fancy bread sticks and fine

wines, that I decided to head off to chair a meeting of Astronauts at Galileo’s old gaff. Unfortunately, too many turned up, so there was no room in the space-ship and we had to settle for Tea in Piccadilly with a semi-functioning Teasmade which hadn’t been used since 1936 and therefore was a tad hard to handle.

Meeting went well though and I learned several new cleaning techniques involving miniature vacuuming apparatus, pipe cleaners and beeswax. All in a day’s work eh!

A hopeless passion...or is it?

This is NOT the 3-legged accordionist - it is his brother

Meanwhile back in Pigalle, the three-legged accordionist had picked himself up and reclaimed his dignity to resume his centuries-old watch on his stool outside the brothel where his love was employed, enchained in servitude by their hunger for survival. She turned tricks for pittance and he maintained vigil for a pious passion. 

The crowds snaked past, some throwing pennies, some hurling abuse, but all oblivious to the true love being demonstrated on the street before their eyes, while inside the paid love which some sought to fend off for a moment, the emptiness of loneliness, as they have for millennia, carried on: the meter ticking, the pennies dropping, tick tock kerchink plop. Love for a sous, ecstasy a Euro or two, pennies for pain that lives inside you.

'Alons-y Alonzo, mon ami' called David Tennant from his distant tenement, 'why not give up and flee this place, and start again with a new refrain?' But the accordionist knew no other way and could only stay, like a true disciple, clinging to a faith, forlorn and fearful.

'I'll toss you for her' sneered the jealous gendarme: 'a toss for a toss-off: fair exchange'. But the accordionist was implacable. Steady and steadfast, he sat on his stool and played a mournful ballad, like the martyrs of old: his expression fixed.

'I have lived for her love, and for her love I will die. This is no passing coquetry'

Gin-soaked rides again. Featuring Hobbits, Fondant Fancies and One Direction

picture by Shugmonkey

Meanwhile back in Tesco's, where Colonel Gin-Soaked of the eponymous Gordon's Highlanders Regiment, had recently repaired in search of Fondant Fancies, a sharp-eyed checkout girl had spotted he'd left the regimental colours and had left her post to run after him accompanied by several Community Policemen. Her actions had fortunately resulted in stopping him in his tracks before he could shoot down Lee Scorseby's airship thereby saving the day ...for the time being. It took several hours for him to argue his way out of the holding cell but when he did he got wind....of the fact that isis-k had had to dash off to help instruct the Weird Sisters.

Never one to miss out on an adventure, Old Gin-Soaked had rounded up his old regiment and there were now one hundred and twenty Gin-Soaked Gordon's Highlanders heading towards Herne Hill in an attempt to ambush the Evil Empress in her hideout, before she could hijack the new Bond Film. Unfortunately, this number of sozzled soldiers was never going to be able to act with ninja-like subtlety and subterfuge, and they had managed to awaken a whole troupe of extras who had been at an audition for the Hobbit Movie before realizing they'd missed out by a couple of years and were now desperately trying to get roles in a new One Direction biopic. The Highlanders were going easy on the out-of-work actors because - no matter how sozzled they were - they were still gentlemen, so had decided to slow them down by laying a trail of Fondant Fancies (being careful to save some for Ernestina the gargoyle, for whom they had to save some as a peace-offering-cum-bribe if you remember...and I'd not be surprised if you didn't as I lost the plot years ago)

Having thus disctracted their foes, the Highlanders headed for Herne Hill crying Scotland Forever as they went. At this point, isis-k wondered whether she should tell them that Sean Connery no longer played James Bond....

in which Librarians save the world

So this time the Weird Sisters determined to settle down to their homework which - if you remember - was set by Agent Fifi of Hebden Bridge and involved tracking down a genuine Bullshit Detector in order to defeat the Evil Empress of Shepherds Bush who was so supremely-versed in corporate bullshit that she had slid with ease into Elstree Studios and was well on her way to hijacking the latest Bond movie.

The Weird Sisters - Mounitchka and Leilitchka - being relatively young in witch terms (less than three millennia) were still reluctant to knuckle down to good old-fashioned studying, something which drove their mother - isis-k to despair on several occasions, particularly when it led to basic errors in spell-making calculus resulting in - for example - Mounitchka accidentally materializing as Chaka Khan instead of the Aga Khan, and attempting to fight the first Anglo-Afghan war armed with nothing but a damned good backing track and a first-class vocal.

Brunhilde by Ferdinand Leeke

So this time, isis-k got her friends on the case: Agent Bary Brown, first rate warlock of the Librarian School  - who had links via his special technical networks, to all sorts of hidden reserves of knowledge; and Brunhilde the Vegan Walkyrie, who had a way with tattoos which - when handled correctly - could come to life and decipher several layers of bullshit. The only trouble was, Barry and Brunhilde appeared to have got locked in the Spaniards Inn with Dick Turpin somewhere around 1736 and didn't look likely to emerge for several days. They had actually ended up there while at a gig a few hundred years later with another Dandy Highwayman called Adam. Such was the power of Brunhilde's tattoos that they had started working on his songs and transported the pair back to Hampstead mid- 'diddley qua qua'.

As is often the case: mum had to step in and sort out the girls' homework and isis-k found herself having to put Lee Scoresby, Colonel Gin-soaked and their fondant-fancy plan on hold, in order to extricate Barry and Brunhilde from the tavern so that they could track down the bullshit detector which would enable Mounictchka, Leilitchka and Agent Fifi to carry out their daring raid on the Evil Empress's hideout ( a cunningly conceived and devilishly disguised fortress hollowed into the contours of Herne Hill).

Finally, Barry and Brunhilde emerged triumphantly form the eighteenth century with the latest model: a BS-D 17 (aka Dr Johnson's 1755 Dictionary) - proving (if proof were needed) that come the Apocalypse, it will be Librarians who save the world

in which the Weird Sisters encounter Scheherazade, Sherbet Dabs and Civil Wars

Aubrey Beardsley

You may remember we left the Weird Sisters doing their homework, which is never a good thing to watch and unsurprisingly, it wasn't long before Leilitchka - the younger of the sisters by one hundred years or so - started reminiscing about some of her past adventures. One story which she had later recounted to Scheherazade (who used it to great effect in one of her books) involved rescuing Iseult, who was trapped behind Fascist lines during the Spanish Civil War. She had joined some Irish Volunteers thinking she'd be helping old ladies cross roads and - at a push - darn a few socks, but had been somewhat shocked to find what it actually involved, having accidentally arrived in town via a portal from the eleventh Century while working on a few love potions with her mother.


Leilitchka had armed herself with some Sherbet Dabs and a Beretta, the latter being loaded with Chewits. Unfortunately (there always seems to be a hitch when the Weird Sisters get involved in rescue missions), the girls had got distracted by a rapper from Belgium who - in a fit of poetic pique - had stolen all the wrappers from the chewy sweets. Now you all know that one of the first rules of artillery is to 'keep your powder dry', but this is obviously tricky when a rapper's stolen the wrappers. So when the Weird Sisters went into battle, they found - somewhat inevitably - that the damp Chewits got stuck in the mechanism, which consequently jammed, so not a shot could be fired. The Sherbet Dabs proved useless in the situation too, so they had to call for help from their old friend and mentor Janka the One-eyed Wonder, Queen and most beautiful of the Bulgarian witches who was honoured to be asked to aid an Irish princess.

Janka flew in with her trusted cat Salem, who had been a shape-shifting salamander working for a giant rat called Putin (poisoning a speciality), before Janka had rescued him, and had had a spell as a lighthouse keeper, so was accustomed to keeping a beady eye and knew all the ins and outs of Health & Safety, a subject upon witches are notoriously lax. The pair set up a diversion in the form of a few conjuring tricks which produced visions of lusty ladies in luxury lingerie, while the Weird Sisters, sneaked in, grabbed Isuelt and whisked her away hidden inside an empty box labelled 'free porn', whose contents they had previously emptied from a height of about thirty feet (just enough to provide a double diversion).

Obviously owing to issues of National Security, the whole incident was covered up by the authorities, so this is very likely the first time you will have read about it. Now Leilitchka - back to your homework!

In which the Weird Sisters discover Corporate Bullshit

Agent Fifi of Hebden Bridge in her favourite belly dance costume which had been tantalizing turtles and a few unwary males for several centuries (well - the costume wasn't doing the tantalizing by itself obviously - her fancy moves had had them gasping in awe for more than a hundred years). Here appearance from the bubbling sea - in a unconscious parody of Botticelli's Birth of Venus had the Weird Sisters confused:

'Where's 00Sparkle?' Mounitchka wailed

'Well that's charming!' responded the luscious agent Fifi 'I make a fabulous entry and all you can do is complain you were expecting someone else' 

Fifi knew how they felt however having once had to work in a undercover theatre box-office when Sarah Bernhardt had failed to turn up following an unfortunate incident with a corgi (of the canine, rather than plumbing variety) and a tray of oranges. '00Sparkle is busy with the new season of Strictly where she has been taken on as adviser for Brucie's wigs in case any of the other contestants need to borrow them. I can assure you I have loads of experience and am more than capable of taking on ...what was it? This Evil Empress of Shepherds Bush? I can defeat her in seconds with a few well practised sashays and the odd shimmy..............plus some black magic and an old Kalashnikov I was given by Alexander the Great: don't ask, it's a long story'

This confused the Weird Sisters who had often fallen asleep in History lessons and were completely unaware of what she was talking about, but they accepted her help and briefed her on the problem: catching up with the Evil Empress before she hijacked the latest Bond film which was about to go into production.

Of course the real problem with the Evil Empress was that she looked totally normal on the outside. it wasn't until she started spouting stuff like:

Our cultural levers 24/7 influence a relevant philosophy. Our multi-source, immersive and new empowerments drive non-deterministic brand images, whilst the community whiteboards a tactical, high-performing, go-to-market and omni-channel visual thinking. The senior support staff promotes our improved, diversifying, engagement within the industry. The standard-setters take a bite out of the best-of-breed performances; nevertheless the project manager drives the competent and/or non-standard measure.*

that she gave the game away, so what was needed in tracking her down was a first class bullshit-detector. Unfortunately Spies-R-Us don't stock them and the local Library had lent all its copies to a local convent whose nuns were doing the rounds of various nightclubs.

So the Weird Sisters had to get out all their old revision texts and settle down to some good old fashioned homework under the watchful eye of Agent Fifi.....

*this paragraph has been compiled with the aid of the Corporate Bullshit Generator. Useless in all situations:

http://cbsg.sourceforge.net/cgi-bin/live

I thank you

Strictly Sparkly (or the importance of finishing your education before casting nasturtiums and spells)

and during all this, what had - you may ask (if you are still awake) - become of the Weird Sisters. Good sense dictates that they should have been studying for their Advanced Transmogrification Diplomas: Leilitchka still had stability issues which had caused serious problems when for example, disguised as a Bluebird, she had sneaked into Taras Bulba's camp to rescue several members of the Militant Mermaid Militia, but the potion she had mixed was not of the correct  strength and just as she flew out, she started turning back into a Weird Sister. The incident had left her with a scar on her right temple and a sense of wounded pride and goes to show the importance - even at a couple of centuries old (she was still young) - of finishing your education.

Anyway. Leilitchka and her older sister Mounitchka were holed up in the Bermuda Triangle where Barry Manilow's nose was still proving hazardous to shipping, trying to prevent the Evil Empress from hijacking the
latest Bond movie on its way to Shepperton. In doing this, they were attempting to summon the spirit of

Agent 00Sparkle, who was proving hard to track down, as she was busy watching re-runs of Strictly Come Dancing. They had decided to go for the failsafe method of holding a Mirror up to Nature...well I say failsafe, but it is in fact extremely hazardous and once you open those portals, all Hell can break loose (quite literally ...and I mean literally literally, not 'literally'...ok - glad we got that sorted).

So they had made a mirror from seaweed and the odd discarded fish-bone and were pointing it towards the sky and singing a selection of Sambas (Sparkle's specialty in the Latin Ballroom section) and eagerly anticipating a grand entrance from Sparkle herself, when to their horror, the sea started bubbling and gurgling and making generally discordant noises and who was to appear but........

Colonel Gin-soaked rides again (with near-disastrous consequences)

isis-k, D'artagnan and Colonel Gin-soaked nipped into Tesco's for  supplies and loaded the balloon (they decided hot-air balloons were less likely to attract unwanted attention from the likes of Captain Grimp the Grouse-hunter who, being notoriously short-sighted, was wont to be found taking pot-shots at witches on their broomsticks because he couldn't actually tell the difference between them and Grouse). Unfortunately there were no BOGOF deals going on Gin-soaked's favourite brand, so they had to nip in to Lidl which slowed them down a tad, but they daren't set of on an adventure such as this unprepared.

pic by Shugmonkey

Up up and away they went, despite the strong gusts of wind blowing from various fringe parties all over Europe and they appeared to be making excellent headway until disaster very nearly struck. Unfortunately, D'artagnan, being a rather dashing sort of chap, had attracted many stalkers over the centuries, largely owing to his portrayal by a certain Alexandre Dumas, whose works kept being turned into films and TV series. Apparently one such stalker had spotted him leaving Lidl's with isis-k and Gin-soaked in tow and hired Texan aeronaut Lee Scoresby (always up for an adventure) to follow. 

Scoresby was an honest chap, but deceived by this stalker, had set off in hot pursuit and was in fact about to open fire in isis-k and her crew. Colonel Gin-soaked of the eponymous Gordon's Highland Regiment,was the worse for wear (permanently) having been knocked off his horse during the Second Afghan War (well obviously it wasn't HIS horse as it wasn't that sort of regiment, but he had managed to borrow one from a medical friend owing to persistent Gout in his legs owing to the Gin consumption).

However, despite all his failings, Gin-soaked could not forget his training and had been on the lookout for snipers ever since they'd come out of Tesco's. He loaded his catapult and was aiming it at Scoresby's airship just as his would-be nemesis was about to open fire. isis-k looked up in horror, realizing that if she didn't act quickly, both balloons were likely to be engulfed in flames. Quick as a flash she opened her bag and got out the Gin still (though she didn't like to this early in the day) and used it to distill the air, thereby stopping everything in its tracks so she could invite both potentially warring parties to sit down at table (which she produced from a rather large pocket in her gown) and discuss their grievances. Such is the way of womanly witches. So Scoresby was soothed by words (and just one or two of the Fondant Fancies they were planning to give to Ernestina) and they joined forces and continued onwards towards England......

A plan to slay the Jabberwock (involving fondant fancies)

When isis-k got to Dartagnion's attic pad, she was surprised to notice that he was clearly 'the worse for wear'. Chasing the Jabberwock had left him with a raging thirst and he'd bumped into old Colonel Gin-soaked of the eponymous Gordon's Highland Regiment, who had got lost on his way back from Gin Lane (penny a pint) and...well, one thing led to another with predictable results. They'd even persuaded the three-legged accordionist to temporarily abandon his stool outside Paris's best brothel and do a quick Fandango. Gin-soaked was slumped on the sofa dribbling and isis-k was unimpressed.

She did what any self-respecting 3,000-year-old witch would do, and made a brew, thus

reviving both the old soldiers and asked them how they thought they were going to fight a mythical beast in that sort of state. They both looked up shame-faced:
'I was going to round up the Gargoyles' Dartagnion stammered, 'but....'

isis-k raised one eyebrow (which took her by surprise, as despite being a pretty damn good witch, she'd never - up to this point - mastered the art of raising an eyebrow in that quizzical, yet insouciant fashion so eloquently employed by her favourite actor Roger Moore, so she took a quick 'selfie' and posted it on Witchtagram)

'First you need to sort out the question of their having been on strike for two hundred years don't you?' isis-k pointed out.

'Well yes, I suppose so' Dartagnion muttered.

'As it happens, I have a plan,' isis-k beamed. 'My friend Janka the One-eyed Wonder (queen and most beautiful of all the Bulgarian witches) once helped out a young gargoyle called Ernestina who is positioned half way up the steeple of a very famous church in the north-east of England. I have absolutely no doubt that Ernestina would act as intermediary for us, as long as we get her some Fondant Fancies. Are you with us Colonel?' she asked, looking over at Gin-Soaked.

'Rather' he replied 'my gin's run out and my sword is rusty. What more motivation do I need?'

So the three of them set off for England (via Tesco's)....

isis-k gets back to her roots and finds new routes for adventures

isis-k woke up and found herself in Paris. She had answered a distress signal sent out by a drug-addicted three-legged accordionist, and while she suspected he was a lost soul, she could not help but answer the call.


It was months since her last adventure, which had found her battling the Evil Empress just off the Bermuda Triangle where Barry Manilow's nose was continuing to prove hazardous to ships that passed in the night (unless any of the crew were named Mandy, in which case it sent them away).
Strange sounds heard in the Bermuda Triangle
Her worse fears about the Evil Empress's global ambitions had been confirmed when the BBC's former headquarters at Television Centre had been swallowed up by a movable portal and reappeared on a small island off Miami. However, she could only fight so many battles and had opted to leave Janka the One-eyed Wonder (Queen of the Bulgarian witches) in command of a legion of Romans borrowed from Claudius, a few flying monkeys (defectors from a Disney sequel) and the Weird Sisters, who were on their Easter holidays and were on the verge of trading in their broomsticks for provisional driving licences. We will come back to them later.

For old time's sake, isis-k wandered into the nearest Absinthe bar to look up her old friend Toulouse Lautrec, who was still trying to catch the Green Fairy (a very old friend of the Weird Sister's from Elementary Elf-school back in the 60s.....(1660s), for they were still relatively young and hence somewhat unpredictable)). She asked Henri about the

accordionist and he sighed:
'Best leave him be, isis, he will snap out of it in another few hundred years. If you are looking for a good cause, go see my friend Dartagnion who is putting together an expedition to catch the Jabberwocky, who is running rampage in the 11th arrondissement, ravishing virgins and roasting unsuspecting urchins. Dartagnion needs some help rounding up the gargoyles, who have been on strike since the Eighteenth Century because they are fed up with having their differentials eroded'.

isis-k didn't need to be asked twice. She picked up her bag, mounted her broomstick and headed straight for Dartagnion's house...

just a fantasy

The three-legged accordionist fell off his stool outside the Paris brothel where he had been entertaining passersby for three hundred years. He was drunk. Lush from life and under the influence, lid-heavy humming ditties to the pimps of Pigalle and the ladies of love-for-a-sous.

He had promised her he'd wait for ever, and  never lost hope as she came and she went with the same refrain: just one more, and then we can leave this place and sever our street servitude. But there was always another lover to please for pennies, as lost in her despair she was dragged by  dejection found in fires too old. Too solid the chains, too weak her desire, too deep the furrows too furious the fire. They'd fallen before - too long ago and were bystanders in their own story, set in cement of shared sorrow.

Move along, Freak snarled the gendarme with kicking malevolence, taunting as he'd done for hundreds of years, envying his boundless devotion to a love so lost it seemed laughable: 
'three-legged and legless' he sung and the crowd joined in chorus mocking and proud. Proud of what? Proud of thin straight white lines they eschewed? Proud of the queue for La Porte Etroite which stays shut in their faces as they strut the obedience with expressionless faces. There but for the grace of the graces. How could they share what he felt? The devotion of Penelope, weaving by day and unpicking by night, the thread that tied him to one pair of eyes and one sorry soul.

Alons-y Allonso the crowd chanted with glee like the Doctor, D. Tennant the Tennent's super-monster from the park-bench of bed-ridden Britain, the Tenant of Wildfell Hall. I drink to you all.
Move on
Allons-y
Nothing to see - c'est fini
It's just a childlike fantasy

In which our brave Librarian sends in the Naval reserves....and the Absinthe

So one battle draws to a close and peace very nearly breaks out...except that here in the Barracks, a truce is never final. It seems that the new CO of the mobile catering corps has torn up the rule-book and inserted his own, in a desperate attempt to make his mark on the battlefield. Thus, when I arrived to check up on my book battalion, I found that Colonel Chez Gerald had dug a trench outside my luxury office suite (aka the broom cupboard, soon to be converted into a disabled loo) and filled it with soggy meringues. Not to be beaten (unlike the egg-whites obviously), I immediately armed myself with several packets of blancmange and built a bridge over the trench to allow both ingress and egress, grabbed a newish edition of Jane's Fighting Ships (second hand on ebay at a very reasonable price) and rounded up the Naval Reserves who were straining at the leash and ready for action.

Seeing himself outsmarted, Chez Gerald decided to pull a fast one and sneakily flogged off some of my very special new editions at a knock-down price the minute my back was turned. This of course kept the punters happy, but left my Brave Boys feeling somewhat depleted. Several in fact are laid up in the Military Hospital complete with bandages and I am reduced to rattling tins in Piccadilly Circus to collect enough money for medical supplies.

Meanwhile in the Indies, Old Colonel Gin-soaked of the Eponymous Gordon's (Highland) Regiment, is stirring up a one-man Indian Mutiny on account of his not having been able to get access to the latest edition of Wisden's Cricket Almanac...well that and the fact that Ocado have failed to deliver his weekly supply of Slimline Tonic. The poor old sod is bereft I tell you: wailing and gnashing teeth - I had to call in the paramedics and get an intravenous infusion of Absinthe set up before he calmed down.

So all business as usual really: don't shoot until you see the eggwhites......

Gawd bless Madame Cyn - a tale of War & Peace, in which our Brave Librarian is caught in the crossfire

Well chaps - it seems like a life time since I've been on the old bush telegraph communing with you all. Long enough to fight a few small wars and re-enact the battle of Trafalgar  several times over, and for Old Colonel Gin-Soaked (of the eponymous Gordon's Highland Regiment) to take an extended holiday. What's afoot you may ask?

(Answer: it's the thing on the end of your leg and  - we have several battalions of foot-soldiers currently awaiting breakfast, which is being provided this week by our new sponsor - Arny's Bunion Corporation - suppliers of footwear to the gentry..... and several small mercenary outfits, thank you for asking)

Anyway. The Catering Corps has lost its Commander owing to an unfortunate incident involving several stale sandwiches and a side of beef (you thought beef didn't take sides didn't you, but let me assure you, that where there are more than two sides, someone is bound to have a beef).

Which brings me to my latest skirmish. A sad tale of a Volunteer corps pitted against an ever ebullient CO against whom they recklessly declared intentions towards hostilities. It was a bloody battle and there are fears relating to collateral damage, but - like many conflicts - it had been simmering away on the margins of the theatre of battle for several years. Several bookshelves, thirteen publishers and three authors were held hostage for 

eighteen months in a series of complex manoeuvres, salvos were fired (both literary and literal), before relations broke down and all-out war was - somewhat inevitably - declared. The Volunteer Corps were clearly outgunned, and comprehensively overrun and five of its leaders fell on their swords, and retreated to camp to lick their wounds and contemplate their next move. I suspect this will involve setting up a charity bookshop dedicated to selling - exclusively - the works of the great literary heroine - Madame Cynthia Payne. Why the woman was never rewarded for Services to the Gentry or made a Regimental Mascot, I will never know, but that's War......and Peace for you eh?

One of our submariners is missing

Well it's been a long time since I put pen to paper (in the virtual sense). apparently since I last did so, I've been awarded a new title...Chairman or something. Well I don't know - I tried (like Caesar in Shakespeare's play) to 'put it by thrice', but the buggers insisted, so now you will all have to address me as Madam Chairman (apparently this is better than being called a Chair - in case someone attempts to sit on you)

Meanwhile after an unusually long truce, the old sods in the Catering Corps have launched a new assault planned for 13 hundred hours today. I am told I will be invaded by several dozen Submariners bearing Champagne rather than Arms. I have put my legions of books on standby and warned them that if attacked by champagne corks they are immediately to retaliate. Fortunately I  have positioned Sun Tzu's Art of War (de luxe French edition) in a key strategic position and if he fails me, not only do I have several volumes featuring heroes of the Battle of Midway, but Nelson is guarding the Left Flank. The buggers are not going to catch me napping.


Oh - and by the way - I've given birth again...to a new online catalogue. Watch this space.......

In which our brave Librarian takes on the Pirates...and a few casual diners

Avast there ye landlubbers for 'tis international Talk like a Pirate Day evidently. Now I personally, am not sure if my brave lads fought two World Wars and several other skirmishes involving an array of enemies ranging from imagined aliens to the far deadlier mosquito, just to dress up as cheap corsairs, but that's the modern way apparently, so let us take a moment to make sure we can identify one of these scoundrels should we come across 'em

Course 'tis unlikely that a real pirate will be presenting a sitting (standing) target like this one, who appears to be performing some sort of sea shanty in front of a captive audience of his victims who he is either torturing to death by singing the wrong lyrics, or entertaining, to distract them from the fact that there is a large plank at the rear of the auditorium which they will be forced to walk, into a crocodile pit once the concert is over.

As for my brave boys, they are still befuddled from attending a lecture on Naval & Military portraits at the National Gallery. Most behaved beautifully, but I had to restrain a couple of the younger recruits from painting moustaches on some of the exhibits apparently on the grounds that someone's grandparents had been victim of a particularly cruel flogging when acting as a Fag at some minor public school or other.

Other than that, it's been rather quiet in the Library...apart from migrating a rather old and creaky catalogue to a nice shiny online version and devising a digitization strategy that is, but, all in a day's work as they say.

And today, as the Library yet again disguises itself as a Dining Room, I am resorting to a few rounds of my favourite sport: firing old rubber stamps and (formerly sticky) labels at passersby in order to distract them from their food and entice them into reading some of my most memorable Military Histories. If that doesn't work I could try Plan B: wandering around with an air of Amazement at the sight of all these wonderful volumes, or Plan C: pretending I have fleas and scratching at the next table. 

If all else fails, it's back to the Pirates.

In which our brave Librarian takes a holiday and ends up in Steinditz

Well it's good to be back chaps, had the most horrendous experience while on shore leave. Thought it would be a good time, since most of the lads had upped and left for the summer, to take misself off to Hungary having heard they'd switched sides and joined the Allies. 

All was going well: visiting the cultural hotspots which - incidentally - included a gathering of the great unwashed at somewhere cunningly entitled Sziget which - it turns - out is a place where you can watch popular music combos from all over the entire globe for 24-hours-a-day for an entire week. Those Magyars know how to party I can tell you. They are a pretty hardcore bunch indeed: when I popped into the local druggist for a packet of Ibuprofen for my old War Wound, they bunged a pack of the hard stuff over the counter: 800mg? I was flying for days....without a parachute.

Anyway, as I said all seemed to be going well so I took the chaps off to Lake Balaton for some R&R (Rest and Recreation to you - none of that Rock-n-Roll nonsense - I decided they'd had enough long-haired layabouts for one detail). Trouble is, my intel was obviously faulty and what we took for the local branch of Butlin's was in fact, the local Prison Camp known to many as Stalag Steinditz, and ruled over by a sadistic blonde commonly known as Commandant Basella  Fawlty. Basella presides over a ruthless regime with the normal Nazi mania for law and order. Dammit, it took as two days to dig an escape tunnel (under the immaculate - yet forbidden paradise of the Swimming Pool) to the Beach at Balaton. And even then we had a close encounter with some of her Gestapo friends at the local museum of 'Nostalgia': 

Hungary's a dangerous place let me tell you.

Anyway, once the escape route had been secured, all was plain sailing: I even took the lads to see a Concert Party in the local town square where there was a bunch of soldiers performing a belly dance routine. Most convincing bunch of drag-artists I've seen this side of Thailand let me tell you - damn near fell for one misself. Anyway, the lads came back refreshed and ready to do battle with the new OPAC when it's fully operational. Only one misshap at Security at Budapest where they seized some of our ammo: a giant green water pistol (the very same one that those cunning Magyars had searched on the way into the aforementioned tribal gathering, in case my boys had been using it to smuggle alcohol). You can't pull the wool over their eyes (even if their sheepdog have Dreadlocks).


More adventures in Library-land soon eh chaps

In which our brave Librarian joins Foreign Legion

So things are getting quiet at the barracks as several generals disappear for the summer and leave me in charge of the Mess. I take full advantage of this opportunity by moving things around in the hope that no-one will be able to find anything on their return (particularly my secret munitions dump, which

consists largely of stale bread rolls, marmalade, the odd stapler and a large quantity of Book Plates)

Had a visit from the Major yesterday who - as ever - had several tales to tell, ranging from the time his Good Lady Wife taught Mountbatten to do the Twist, to his role as De Gaulle's chaperone during his sojourn around the corner to the barracks as head of the Free French Forces. Apparently it was all Churchill's idea, his comment being:
'The Major speaks no French, De Gaulle refuses to speak English, they'll get on famously'.
Needless to say, the Major wasted no time in chasing the lovely French ladies in their white skirts and doing his bit for the old Entente Cordiale which, it turns out, even Churchill's favourite bette noir (to continue the French theme) Nancy Astor helped out, by lending the barracks to group of Free French supporters to hold their meetings under the guise of the Petit Club Francais (I suspect much wine was quaffed and cheese eaten).

The Major also admitted that the roof of Liverpool Railway Station still leaks owing to an incident involving himself, several rookies and a revolver, which he assumed contained blanks (but that's for another day) and that he spent several evenings partying the night away with a certain matinee idol to whom he bore a striking resemblance, and that he still, despite his ninety-plus years, continues to frequent the illustrious night clubs of London where, according to one barman, he probably pretends to faint in the hope of being given the kiss of life by the young ladies.

But back to the French:
The Kepi Blanc seem to have left a large number of recruiting posters lying around in the barracks and rather foolishly I filled one in for a bit of a laugh (I have fond memories of them from my time in Paris where they told me they could smuggle large amounts of dubious substances and other equipment for me if the price - ie marriage - was right and where I learned that they are all obsessed with Edith Piaf and stand to attention when her songs are played on the radio).

Anyway, to cut a long story short: I have signed up for the old Legion Etrangere as it seems from the recruitment magazine, that you can learn the Huyla there. I may be gone some time. Toodle pip.