Professor Marigolds is often seen striding through the village wearing robust tweeds with her glasses perched on the end of her nose.
She’s retired now of course, but not so long ago she was a well respected scientist working for the War Office, concentrating on the theory that flavoured crisps could be used as a chemical weapon: after all nobody would notice anything strange about the chemical taste. She might have had a point.
Of course I didn’t know who she was when we first moved to the Cliff Top Residence and made the mistake of crunching some crisps on the way back from the Post Office & General Stores, where I had been buying some clothes pegs for Lo, she is a terrible Goddess. Actually it was only one peg, which turned out not to be needed when my undercrackers were discovered under the sofa and safely retrieved by some men from the council wearing rubber suits and breathing apparatus.
I digress.
I was happily chomping away on my aardvark and honey flavoured treat when Professor Marigolds suddenly jumped out from behind a bush and yelled at me to stop. Before I knew what was happening she’d snapped on some rubber gloves, torn my packet of crisps from my grasp, forced a rubber tube down my throat and started pouring something green from a bottle into the funnel that was attached to the end.
“I think we’d better make sure. We can’t be too careful.”
At this point I was pushed to the ground, my kilt raised above my waist and the process repeated but in a slightly different way.
“You should be all right now. Don’t worry.”
She took off her gloves and piled them up in the gutter with the remaining crisps and the rest of her equipment, produced a bottle of petrol, set fire to the lot and then returned to her hiding place behind the bush.
Up ’til now I’ve kept this story secret from the TG because I didn’t think she’d believe me, but since I was interrogated the other day about why I never buy crisps any more, I thought I’d better come clean.