<\/p>\n No one was actually dead. The police and ambulance crews had dragged the badly-injured walking party well away from the scene of crime, and were in the process of counting limbs, many of which were still attached. Thick spatters of blood, now congealing under the midday sun, decorated the hedgerows; someone\u2019s ear hung off a yew tree. It had a nice ear-ring in it \u2013 the ear, not the tree. <\/span><\/span><\/p>\n \u201cIt\u2019s a public footpath,\u201d said Sandra, frowning as she fished a torn woolly hat out of the horse trough. The hat, almost bitten through, had an animal welfare badge on it. Sandra wondered if that was what writers called irony.<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n Mr Bubbles moved his weight uneasily from hoof to hoof.<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n \u201cThey looked at my turnip.\u201d A pitch-black fire danced in the pony\u2019s great eyes.<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n \u201cThey were passing by! They\u2019re on a walking tour.\u201d She noticed two policewoman trying to construct temporary stretchers out of runner-bean poles. \u201cWell, they were on a walking tour.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n The pony glared at the nearest conscious rambler, and rolled a large, mottled root vegetable lovingly back into the shade of the barn. He sighed, admiring the plump curves of the vegetable\u2019s sides, the almost coy blush of purple near the top\u2026<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n \u201cMY turnip,\u201d muttered Mr Bubbles.<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n <\/p>\n Sandra\u2019s cousin Mary had come to stay once more, and the farmhouse above St Botolph\u2019s was a cheerful hive of activity. Except with no bees, or honey, or waxy cells from which small, blind grubs were waiting to emerge. So nothing like a hive, really. Sandra\u2019s mother was unconscious under the large pine table, a consequence of confusing cough sweets with sheep tranquillisers, but the two teenagers had plenty to keep them occupied…<\/p>\n \u201cRight, I think I\u2019ve got it,\u201d said Mary, putting down his utterly useless child-safe scissors, borrowed from St Botolph\u2019s Mixed Infants, \u201cA Roman Emperor fell out with a Christian priest over theology, and had the chap beaten to death and beheaded, as a warning to people who disagreed with Rome\u2019s policies on ecumenical matters.<\/p>\n “Also, before he died, the priest wrote a letter to a lot of people\u2019s daughters, saying that he might not be able to go for that drink after all, but it was nothing personal. And that\u2019s how we ended up with Valentine\u2019s Day.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cExactly,\u201d said Sandra, trying to remove a bottle of glue from one of the less competent sheep which were milling round the farmhouse kitchen. \u201cAnd so we send heart-shaped cards to those we love on February the Fourteenth each year. That one simple act completely makes up for the three hundred and sixty four days when we didn\u2019t pay enough attention to them, do anything useful, or remember to iron the cat.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cLike going to confession just after hacking seventeen people to death with a chainsaw, and saying five Hail Marys to make up for it?\u201d<\/p>\n Sandra nodded. \u201cThe organised Church is a bit of a mystery, if you ask me.\u201d<\/p>\n Her cousin stood up and brushed glitter off his pleated skirt. \u201cThese tights have had it. This glue goes everywhere \u2013 and it smells a bit, too.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cMrs Gayamurthi makes it from fish-heads.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cLovely.\u201d Mary wiped his hands on a passing sheep. \u201cStill, I\u2019m done.\u201d He held up a piece of red cardboard which resembled the results of a drunken, short-sighted junior surgeon conducting a major operation after three consecutive shifts on call. More a wholesale evisceration than an organ of love.<\/p>\n \u201cI thought Deborah Buntling still hated you?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cShe does,\u201d said Mary. \u201cThat\u2019s why I\u2019ve made a jolly rotten job of it. Maybe this year she won\u2019t go on so much about me borrowing her lipstick.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cYou don\u2019t wear lipstick.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cNo, but I use it to write threatening messages to the Latin Master at college. It makes him feel wanted.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cThat\u2019s nice.\u201d Sandra abandoned her own card, meant for her mother. Mother would have to make do with out-of-date chocolates from the village shop.<\/p>\n A sudden crash and a spray of broken glass announced that Mr Bubbles, Sandra\u2019s beloved but slightly psychotic pony, had rammed his large head through the kitchen window again.<\/p>\n Sandra sighed. \u201cHello, boy. No, you don\u2019t need to start complaining. We\u2019re finished here, and have all afternoon to join you on a risky, ill-conceived adventure across the moors, seeking out unutterably evil abominations and barely managing to survive.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cBored with that,\u201d said Mr Bubbles. \u201cWant carrots.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI have sugar cubes,\u201d Mary offered.<\/p>\n The pony gave him a look which strongly suggested the presentation of a sugar cube might result in a hoof in the face.<\/p>\n \u201cOr we could look for some carrots,\u201d said Mary hastily.<\/p>\n And so the three chums set off down to the little village of St Botolph-in-the-Wolds, often described as \u2018picturesque\u2019 by people who liked Hieronymous Bosch and Goya\u2019s Disasters of War.<\/p>\n All was remarkable quiet on the few functional streets of the quaint hamlet. This year\u2019s Valentine\u2019s Day Bake-Off between the Womens\u2019 Institute and the Esoteric Order of Dagon had been cancelled, due to an unexpected outbreak of yellow jack, whilst the highly feral Girl Guides were raiding elsewhere that day.<\/p>\n \u201cThey\u2019ve gone to pillage the towns on the coast, topping up their Brasso supplies,\u201d Sandra explained. \u201cAnd to throw stones at herring gulls. I think the ducks on the village pond put them up to that part.\u201d<\/p>\n A nearby duck stubbed out its cigarette and tried to assume a nonchalant air. No one was fooled..<\/p>\n Only Mr Quilling, the Village Pervert, had made any public attempt to celebrate the unjust murder of an over-religious Roman, but the ornate display he\u2019d constructed in his front garden was neither nice nor clever. Probably its only direct relevance to affairs of the heart was that it might induce a coronary in anyone less broad-minded (or indifferent) than the locals.<\/p>\n Mary stared, then looked away. \u201cI shall never eat broccoli again, that\u2019s for sure.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cCarrots,\u201d said Mr Bubbles.<\/p>\n Alas, the village shops were not forthcoming – the root vegetable in question was in short supply that day. The sort of short supply that means when you ask \u2018Can I buy a carrot, please?\u2019, the answer is distinctly in the negative. The general store had none, though this was hardly unusual \u2013 its owner concentrated more on the \u2018general\u2019 aspect than the \u2018store\u2019 part. The Post Office had just sold out, and Mrs Gayamurthi\u2019s could only offer large Indian radishes.<\/p>\n \u201cWe could paint it orange, boy,\u201d said Sandra, stroking her pony\u2019s black mane.<\/p>\n Mr Bubbles tried the end of one, and spat the chunk out through the shop\u2019s open door, stunning a passing pedestrian. \u201cNot the same.\u201d<\/p>\n Mary gave his cousin a sidelong glance. \u201cLook, Mr Bubbles, I can\u2019t believe I\u2019m saying this, but how about we go up to Grimspire Water, and see if we can set fire to some hideous, gelatinous monstrosity. That might cheer you up.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cCarrots.\u201d<\/p>\n In the face of the pony\u2019s obstinacy, their search continued, but even the Mobile Library, which had an unusually large vegetable section, was unable to loan them a single root. Sandra and Mary sat down on the old gibbet-stone which stood by the north road. Legend had it that long ago, possibly in the early fourteenth century, the villagers had built the foundations for an exciting new means of execution, and then couldn\u2019t arsed to finish it off. Subsequent felons had been consigned to Gibbet Hill, which \u2013 rather confusingly \u2013 was a large hole in the ground, not far from Buttersmite Fell. The people of St Botolph\u2019s didn\u2019t believe in unnecessary effort.<\/p>\n \u201cI suppose,\u201d said Sandra, \u201cThat there\u2019s nothing for it. We\u2019ll have to ask Old Aggie. If anyone has any carrots left in the entire area, it\u2019s her. She\u2019ll have a clamp of them from last Autumn.\u201d<\/p>\n It was a dire situation. Old Aggie was a perfectly pleasant woman, but she also collected potatoes in the shape of Queen Victoria, and insisted that all visitors examine her entire collection before they were offered a sit-down or a mug of gin. As Old Aggie had three extensive cellars packed full of the things, the experience could take hours.<\/p>\n \u201cLook, boy,\u201d said Sandra, as they trudged their the way up to Aggie\u2019s farm. She pointed towards a tall stand of gloomy, putty-coloured trees not a hundred yards away. \u201cThose shadows on the edge of Whateley Wood! Perhaps they represent some insidious, creeping evil that we should face right away. I could go and get my pump-action Remington, and-\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cCarrots.\u201d<\/p>\n Mr Bubbles was known for his intractable moods, but Sandra couldn\u2019t work out whey he was so particularly obsessed with carrots today, especially as he must have know they were hard to get. In fact, he probably knew that they would have to end up at Old Aggie\u2019s, so what was going on?<\/p>\n \u201cHe\u2019s not ill, is he?\u201d asked Mary as they came in sight of Aggie\u2019s farm, which would have had to be rebuilt and knocked down again before it could achieve the status of a ruin. Much of it consisted of cellars covered with sheets of corrugated iron and the more lethal types of asbestos (still widely used in St Botolph\u2019s, due to the natural immunity which the villagers had developed).<\/p>\n “Don’t suppose so.” Sandra re-tied her long blonde hair, and checked to see if she had any money in her purse. \u201cMaybe we can get away with the two-hour tour this time,\u201d she said, eyeing one of the few standing structures. \u201cI\u2019ll go and–\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cIn there,\u201d said the pony, nudging her shoulder with his velvety muzzle. He pointed one hoof at a large ramshackle shed, just on the edge of the potato fields.<\/p>\n She shrugged. \u201cIf you say, boy, but I would have thought…\u201d<\/p>\n There was no point in arguing with him. Sandra and Mary walked over to the shed, and eased back one of the double doors, peering into the gloom…<\/p>\n \u201cGosh!\u201d said Mary.<\/p>\n There, on the shed floor, lay an astonishing range of mummified legs, withered arms, skeletal fragments, oozing tentacles, and confiscated occult paraphernalia, plus half a vampire and something extremely warped with no head \u2013 and no body. Forbidden books of knowledge, such as that vile and obscene tract The Book of the Deaf<\/em>, lay next to the twisted parts of a police car and a set of amulets for protection against depressed ferrets. Many of the items \u2013 organic and inorganic – had very large teeth-marks in them. All had been trodden on quite a bit.<\/p>\n The presence of these horrors was perhaps not so important as the fact that the whole lot had been arranged on the trampled dirt in the unmistakable shape of a huge heart.<\/p>\n \u201cWe did all these, you and me,\u201d said the pony. \u201cKnackered the lot of them.\u201d<\/p>\n If the exact sight before her was indescribable, the smell certainly wasn\u2019t – but Sandra had a clue that her best friend was making a most unusual gesture. The single red rose the pony had tossed into the middle of the appalling mementos pretty much gave it away.<\/p>\n \u201cWe did,\u201d she murmured. \u201cAnd it was jolly hard work, but we always had each other\u2019s backs.\u201d She smiled, and leaned against the warm, powerful body. \u201cIt\u2019s\u2026 it\u2019s a lovely surprise,\u201d she managed to say.<\/p>\n \u201cHappy Dead Unwise Priest\u2019s Day,\u201d said Mr Bubbles.<\/p>\n Mary, too, was smiling, if a little puzzled. Quite what was the point of the author putting him in this narrative? He didn\u2019t really seem to have any useful role at all. His discontented musing was soon ended, though, by the deep, determined voice of equine hungers.<\/p>\n \u201cStill want carrots. Go look in field.\u201d<\/p>\n Ah yes, that was why he was here. The grunt work. Valentine had a lot to answer for. Sighing, he picked up a spade and headed out into the mud\u2026<\/p>\n \u201cWhat\u2019s your dog doing with that stuffed draft-excluder?\u201d asked Sandra, trying hard not to watch the excited behaviour next to the living room door. <\/span><\/span><\/p>\n \u201cNothing,\u201d Mary reddened, and wonder if he could find a bucket of cold water very quickly.<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n \u201cWoof!\u201d said Bottles.<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n This programme was brought to you in conjunction with the\u00a0 <\/strong><\/em>Bloody Valentine Bad Love Event <\/strong>on FB today, organised and hosted by writer Anita Stewart<\/span>:<\/strong><\/em><\/p>\n http:\/\/afstewartblog.blogspot.com\/<\/a><\/span><\/span><\/strong><\/em><\/p>\n There are also some giveaways here until the end of the day (not mine, because I\u2019m too busy and disorganised):<\/strong><\/em><\/p>\n https:\/\/claims.prolificworks.com\/gg\/dUSHjp1eGvHe3Svt3Qqp?fbclid=IwAR2kwhmI3ZbV9GW-gklbyO-z0UqpHbMi7WfszzNchZvuQ7OMdkvBd1TmcZE<\/strong><\/em><\/a><\/p>\n <\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" It is Valentine\u2019s Day, dear listener, and so on this special day, we explain the true meaning of the event, and share once more the delights of the little village of St Botolph-in-the-Wolds, where \u2018imbecile\u2019 is not an insult, but a mark of respect and high social status. Below we offer three \u2013 yes, THREE … Continue reading A VALENTINE, AND A PONY AT LARGE<\/span> ![\"\"](\"https:\/\/i0.wp.com\/greydogtales.com\/blog\/wp-content\/uploads\/2019\/02\/ringpony.jpg\")
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\nPRELUDE: MR BUBBLES IN LOVE<\/strong><\/span><\/h1>\n
A short, heart-warming tale of romance<\/h3>\n
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\nMAIN MOVEMENT: THE CARROT WHO CAME IN FROM THE COLD<\/span><\/h1>\n
A new tale of equine eccentricities<\/h1>\n
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\nCODA: BOTTLES THE LURCHER IN LOVE<\/span><\/h1>\n
A canine finds true romance<\/span><\/span><\/h1>\n
\nTHE END<\/span><\/h1>\n
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