Читать книгу Burley Cross Postbox Theft - Nicola Barker - Страница 6

For the exclusive attn of

Ms Linda Withycombe –

Environmental Health Technician,

Wharfedale District Council

The Retreat

Saxonby Manor

Burley Cross

21.12.2006

Dear Ms Withycombe¹,

Here is the information as requested by yourself on Friday, December 19, during our brief conversation after the public meeting re ‘the proposal for the erection of at least [my itals] two new mobile phone masts in the vicinity of Wharfedale’. (I don’t think it would be needlessly optimistic of me to say that the ’nay’s definitely seemed to have the best of things that day² – so let’s just hope those foolish mules³ at the phone company finally have the basic common sense to sit down and rethink what is patently a reckless, environmentally destructive and fundamentally ill-conceived strategy, eh?)

Might I just add (while we’re on the subject of the meeting itself) that I sincerely hope you did not take to heart any of the unhelpful – and in some cases extremely offensive – comments and observations made by the deranged and – quite frankly – tragic subject of this letter: Mrs Tirza Parry, widow⁴ (as she persists in signing herself in all of our correspondence; although on one occasion she signed herself Mrs Tirza Parry, window, by mistake, which certainly provided we long-suffering residents of The Retreat with no small measure of innocent amusement, I can tell you).

Because of her petite stature, advanced years and charmingly ‘bohemian’ appearance (I use the word bohemian not only in the sense of ‘unconventional’ – the white plastic cowboy boots, the heavy, sometimes rather coarse-seeming⁵, pagan-style jewellery, clumsily moulded from what looks like unfired clay⁶, the pop-socks, the paisley headscarves – but also with a tacit nod towards Mrs Parry’s famously ‘exotic’ roots, although, as a point of accuracy, I believe her parents were Turks or Greeks rather than Slovaks, Tirza being a derivation of ‘Theresa’, commonly celebrated as the Catholic saint of information which, under the circumstances, strikes me – and may well strike you – as remarkably ironic. NB I am just about to close this scandalously long bracket, and apologize, in advance, for the rambling – possibly even inconsequential – nature of this lengthy aside. Pressure of time – as I’m sure you’ll understand – prohibits me from rewriting/restructuring the previous paragraph, so it may well behove you to reread the first half of the original sentence in order to make sense of the second. Thanks), Mrs Parry has it within her reach to create, if not a favourable, then at least a diverting first impression during fledgling social encounters (I remember falling prey to such an impression myself, and would by no means blame you if such had been your own). There is no denying the woman’s extraordinary dynamism (it’s only a shame, I suppose, that all this highly laudable energy and enthusiasm is being so horribly – one might almost say dangerously – misdirected in this particular instance).

I’ve often remarked on how wonderfully blue and piercing Tirza Parry’s eyes are; my dear wife, Shoshana, calls them ‘lavender eyes’, which I think describes them most excellently (although, as she has also remarked, and very tellingly, I think, a ‘blueing’ of the eyes can often signify the onset of Alzheimer’s, dementia and other sundry ailments related to the loss of memory/reason in old age. I mean nothing derogatory by this statement – none of us is getting any younger, after all!⁷).

You will doubtless remember Shoshana (from the aforementioned meeting) as that fearless, flame-haired dominatrix (with the tightly bound arm – more of which, anon) who was acting as temporary secretary that day⁸, Wallace Simms, who usually fills this role⁹, having been bedridden by yet another severe bout of his recurrent sciatica.

It briefly occurs to me – by the by – that it may prove helpful at this point (especially in light of some of the wild accusations being thrown around by TP¹⁰ herself in the course of said meeting) if I provide you with a short précis of some of the complex, logistical issues currently being employed by that cunning creature as a pathetic smokescreen to obfuscate the real – the critical – subject at the dark heart of this letter. If you – like Mandy Williamson, your charming predecessor¹¹ – are already fully convinced of my impartiality as a witness/ informant on this delicate – and rather distasteful – matter then feel free to skip the next section of this letter and rejoin the narrative in two pages’ time (I have taken the trouble to mark the exact spot with a tiny sticker of a Bolivian tree frog).

The Retreat (please see first document enclosed, labelled Doc. 1) is a charming – although rather Lilliputian – residence situated just inside the extensive grounds of Saxonby Manor (I have circled the residence, and its small garden, on the map provided with a fluorescent yellow marker).

My dear, late wife (Emily Baverstock, née Morrison) inherited said property over seventeen years ago from her great-aunt – the esteemed Lady Beatrix Morrison – who was then resident full-time at Saxonby (although she generally preferred to overwinter in the south of France, where she kept an immaculate, art deco-style penthouse flat in the heart of Biarritz).

When The Retreat was initially built (in the late 1920s) the property’s principal use was as a summer house/changing room (situated, as it was, directly adjacent to a fabulous, heated, Olympic-sized swimming pool – now long gone, alas). It was constructed with all mod cons (i.e. toilet, shower etc.; see second document – Doc. 2 – a photocopy of the original architectural plans) and although undisputedly bijou, The Retreat was always intended to be more than a mere ‘adjunct’. As early as 1933 they added a small kitchen and a bedroom to allow guests to stay there overnight in greater luxury, and it was eventually inhabited – full-time – by a displaced family (the Pringles, I believe¹²) for the duration of WWII.

After the war it became the home of Saxonby’s gardener, the infamous Samuel Tuggs (he sang and played the washboard with local folk sensations The Thrupenny Bits¹³), who was subsequently implicated in the mysterious disappearance of his wife’s fifteen-year-old niece, Moira (1974) and – rather sadly for Lady Morrison¹⁴ – while he was never formally tried for the crime¹⁵, an atmosphere of intense social pressure eventually obliged him to flee the area.

The Retreat’s already fascinating history¹⁶ was consolidated further when it was rented out (1981–90) to a writer of books about the science of code-breaking (a fascinating old chap called John Hinty Crew – ‘Hinty’ to his pals – a promiscuous homosexual whose real claim to fame was his inflammatory adolescent correspondence with Anthony Blunt¹⁷).

Up until this point the cottage possessed no formal/legal rights as an ‘independent dwelling’. Lady Morrison had – quite naturally – never felt the need to apply for any, and my late wife’s ownership of the property was only ever made explicit by dint of a short caveat in the old lady’s will which forbade the sale of the Manor at any future date without a prior agreement that The Retreat (and its tiny garden) were to remain exclusively in the hands of the Morrison family. Rights of access were, of course, a necessary part of this simple arrangement.

It is, I’m afraid, this worryingly fluid and vague ‘rights of access’ issue that is the source of all our current heartache.

As you will no doubt have already observed on the map provided, The Retreat was actually constructed within a short walking distance of an arched, medieval gate in the outer wall of the larger estate, and this gate has always been used as an entrance/exit (into the village of Burley Cross beyond) by the inhabitants of said dwelling (rather than the main entrance to the Manor, which lies approximately 500 yards – again, see Doc. 1 – to its right¹⁸).

It goes without saying that many times over the years my wife(s) and I have applied for some kind of permanent, formal, legal right of way, if only to establish the property as an independent dwelling (so that we might pay rates, raise a mortgage, or even consider selling¹⁹ at some future date, perhaps).

Unfortunately, the current owners of the Manor (the Jonty Weiss-Quinns²⁰) have never been keen to support this application. The chief plank in their Crusoe-esque-style raft of objections²¹ is that the land that lies between The Retreat and the gate was once the site of an old monastery (see Doc. 1 – I have used a pink pencil to shade in the area) which is considered by – among others – the National Trust²² and English Nature to be ‘an important heritage site’.²³

Were you to come along – in person – and take a good look at what actually remains of this ‘Old Monastery’, I think you would be astonished (as, indeed, are we²⁴) that so much fuss could be generated by what basically amounts to a scruffy pile of broken stones (approx. three feet in diameter – aka the ‘Old Cloister’) and a slight dip or indentation in the ground (just to the left of the gate) which is apparently all that’s now left of the ‘Old Monk’s Latrine’(!).

As I’m sure you can imagine, Shoshana and I have grown rather depressed and frustrated by this unsatisfactory legal situation, not least because our non-payment of council tax has allowed less sympathetic/imaginative members of the Burley Cross community²⁵ to accuse us of tight-fistedness and a lack of social/fiscal responsibility²⁶. Much of this unnecessary hostility (as you are probably no doubt already fully aware) centres around the disposal/collection of rubbish.

The situation has recently developed to such a pitch of silliness and pettiness²⁷ that the local bin men have been persuaded²⁸ to ignore the black bin bags deposited outside our gate. This means that we are now obliged to skulk around like criminals at dawn on collection day, furtively distributing our bags among those piles belonging to other – marginally more sympathetic – properties in the local vicinity. Worse still, many of these sympathetic individuals – while perfectly happy to help us out – must live in constant terror of incurring the (not inconsiderable) wrath of TP, who has tried her utmost to transform this mundane issue into what she loves to call a ‘point of principle’.

As I’m sure you can now understand more fully, this complex situation re the disposal/collection of our rubbish feeds directly into the severe problems the village is currently experiencing with TP and her borderline obsessive interest in matters surrounding dog fouling.

You mentioned (during our brief exchange after the meeting) that I might benefit from reading the latest pamphlet on this subject published by EnCams: Dog Fouling and the Law: a guide for the public) which your department usually distributes free to interested parties (although due to recent budget cuts you regretted that you had yet to acquire any for general distribution – or even, you confessed, to become better acquainted with the finer details of said document yourself). I didn’t get a chance to tell you at the time that I already possess several copies of this useful booklet (and have – as you will doubtless have already noticed²⁹ – taken the liberty of enclosing one for your own, personal use³⁰).

Among the more fascinating details contained therein are the extraordinary statistics that (p. 2) the UK’s population of approximately 7.4 million dogs produces, on average, around 1,000 tonnes of excrement/day.

Burley Cross (human population: 210; dog population: 33; cat population: 47)³¹ certainly produces its fair share of the above, but, thanks to a – by and large – very responsible, slightly older³² population, the provision of two special poop-scoop bins within the heart of the village and the wonderful, wide expanses of surrounding heath and moorland lying beyond, the matter had never – until TP’s sudden arrival in our midst³³ – become an issue of serious public concern.³⁴

I confess that I have walked³⁵ Shoshana’s pedigree spitz, Samson³⁶, morning and evening, regular as clockwork, for almost five years now³⁷, and during that time have rarely – if ever – had my excursions sullied by the unwelcome apprehension of a superfluity of dog mess. If Samson – in common with most other sensible dogs I know – feels the urge to ‘do his business’, then he is usually more than happy to ‘perform’ some short distance off the path (his modesty happily preserved by delicate fronds of feathery bracken) on the wild expanses of our local moor. Here, dog faeces – along with other animal faeces, including those of the moorland sheep, fox and badger – are able to decompose naturally (usually within – on average – a ten-day period, depending, of course, on the specific climatic conditions). If Samson is ‘caught short’ and needs to ‘go’ in a less convenient location then I automatically pick up his ‘business’ and dispose of it accordingly.

Further to a series of in-depth discussions with a significant number of the dog owners in this village (and its local environs), I think it would be fair to say that the model I follow with Samson is the model that most other reasonable people also adhere to, i.e. the collection of dog mess is only appropriate within an ‘urban/residential’ setting, in public parks (where people are liable to picnic, stroll, relax, and children play) and finally – under very special circumstances – where your animal might be perceived to have ‘despoiled’ a well-used moorland path to the detriment of other walkers’ enjoyment of it (although this last requirement is not legally binding but simply a question of community spirit).

I believe I am correct in saying that all of the above criteria tally perfectly with the procedures formally established by local government, and that – up until TP chanced to throw her very large (very filthy!) spanner into the works – these procedures were generally held to be not only just, but successful, necessary and universally beneficial.

With the arrival of TP, however, this fragile consensus was attacked, savagely mauled and rent asunder.³⁸ TP, as you may well know, owns four large German shepherds and prefers – rather eccentrically – to take them on long walks on the moor in the moonlight (I say ‘them’, although so far as I am aware she only ever walks one dog at any given time³⁹). These four large dogs are usually kept confined inside a concrete ‘compound’⁴⁰ in the back garden of Hursley End – her dilapidated bungalow on Lamb’s Green.

It was initially – she insists – due to the difficulties she experienced in negotiating/avoiding random dog faeces during these night-time hikes that her bizarre habit of bagging other people’s dogs’ faeces and leaving them deposited on branches, walls and fence posts – apparently as a warning/admonishment to others less responsible than herself – commenced.⁴¹ This activity continued for upwards of six months before anyone either commented on it publicly or felt the urge to root out/apprehend the strange individual in our midst who had inexplicably chosen to enact this ‘special service’ on our behalf.⁴²

Given the idiosyncratic nature of the bags employed (TP prefers a small, pink-tinged, transparent bag⁴³ – probably better adapted for household use, i.e. freezing meat⁴⁴ – instead of the usual, custom-made, matt-black kind⁴⁵) it was easy, from very early on, to understand that the person bagging up and ‘displaying’ these faeces was not only happy, but almost keen to leave some kind of ‘signature’ behind.

When the bags were eventually identified as belonging to none other than TP (and she was calmly – very sensitively – confronted with her crimes), rather than apologizing, quietly retreating, or putting a summary halt to her bizarre activities, she responded – somewhat perversely – by actively redoubling her poop-gathering efforts! In fact she went still one stage further! She began to present herself in public⁴⁶ as a wronged party, as a necessary – if chronically undervalued – environmental watchdog, as a doughty, cruelly misunderstood moral crusader, standing alone and defenceless – clutching her trademark, transparent poo-bag to her heaving chest – against the freely defecating heathen marauder!

And it gets worse! She then went on the offensive (see Docs. 3+4 – copies of letters sent to the local press), angrily accusing the general body of responsible dog owners in Burley Cross of actively destroying the picturesque and historic moor by encouraging our animals to ‘evacuate’⁴⁷ there.

One occasion, in particular, stands out in my mind. I met her – quite by chance – on a sunny afternoon, overburdened by shopping from the village store⁴⁸. I offered to take her bags for her and during the walk back to her home took some pains to explain to her that there was no actual legal requirement for dog owners to collect their dog’s faeces from the surrounding farm and moorland (The Dogs Fouling of Land Act, 1996). Her reaction to this news was to blush to the roots of her hair, spit out the word ‘justifier!’, roughly snatch her bags from me⁴⁹ and then quote, at length, like a thing possessed (as if reciting some ancient biblical proverb⁵⁰) from the (aforementioned) EnCams publication on the subject.⁵¹

To return to this useful document for just a moment, in Dog Fouling and the Law, EnCams provide an invaluable ‘profile of a dog fouler’ (p. 4 – when you read it for yourself you will discover that it is an extremely thorough and thought-provoking piece of analysis). Apparently the average ‘fouler’ enjoys watching TV and attending the cinema but has a profound mistrust of soap opera, around half of them have internet access – mainly at home – but ‘are not particularly confident in its usage’, and they are most likely to read the Sun and Mirror (but very rarely the Daily Mail or the Financial Times).⁵²

EnCams have invented their own broad label to describe these irresponsible individuals: they call them ‘justifiers’, i.e. they justify their behaviour on the grounds of a) Ignorance (‘I didn’t realize it was a problem…’ ‘But nobody has ever mentioned this to me before etc.) and b) Laziness (‘But nobody else ever picks it up, so why should I?’).

EnCams insist that these ‘justifiers’ will only ever openly admit that they allow their dog to foul in public when placed under extreme duress. Their fundamental instinct is to simply pretend it hasn’t happened or to lie about it.

Although I cannot deny that this profile is both interesting and – I don’t doubt – perfectly valid in many – if not most – instances, TP was nevertheless entirely wrong to try and label me – of all people – with this wildly inappropriate nomenclature: I am neither ignorant, lazy nor in denial. Quite the opposite, in fact. I am informed, proactive and socially aware. And although I do dislike soaps,⁵³ I very rarely go to the cinema,⁵⁴ and my computer skills are – as this letter itself, I hope, will attest – universally acknowledged to be tip-top.

Since my acquisition of the EnCams document I have tried – countless times – to explain to TP (see Doc. 5 + Doc. 6: some valuable examples of our early correspondence) that not only am I a keen advocate of poop-scooping in residential areas and public parks, but that it shows absolutely no moral or intellectual inconsistency on my part to hold that allowing excrement to decompose naturally on the moor is infinitely more environmental than bagging it up and adding it, quite unthinkingly, to this small island’s already chronically over-extended quantities of landfill. I have also told her that by simply bagging up the faeces she finds and then dumping them, willy-nilly, she is only serving to exacerbate the ‘problem’⁵⁵ because the excrement cannot be expected to decompose inside its plastic skin. Rather than helping matters she is actually making them infinitely worse – once bagged, the excrement is there forever: a tawdry bauble – a permanent, sordid testament to the involuntary act of physical evacuation!

As you will no doubt be aware, around two months ago Wharfedale’s dog warden – the ‘criminally over-subscribed’⁵⁶ Trevor Horsmith – was persuaded⁵⁷ to start to take an interest in the problems being generated by TP’s activities on the moor. It will probably strike you as intensely ironic that TP herself was one of the main instigators in finally involving Trevor in this little local ‘mess’ of ours.⁵⁸

After familiarizing himself with the consequences of TP’s ‘work’ (on the moor and beyond⁵⁹) Horsmith announced (I’m paraphrasing here⁶⁰) that while he fully condoned – even admired!⁶¹ – TP’s desire to keep the moor clean, it was still perfectly legitimate for dog owners to allow their pets to defecate there, and that while excrement could not, in all conscience, be calibrated as ‘litter’ (it decomposes for heaven’s sake! Same as an apple core!) once it has been placed inside plastic (no matter how laudable the motivation⁶²) then it must necessarily be considered so.⁶³

Horsmith’s pronouncement on this issue was obviously the most devastating blow for TP (and her cause), yet it by no means prompted her to desist from her antisocial behaviour. By way of an excuse for (partial explanation of/attempt to distract attention from) her strange, nocturnal activities, she suddenly changed tack and began claiming (see Doc. 6 again, last three paras) that – for the most part – whenever she goes on walks she generally bags up the vast majority of the faeces she finds and disposes of them herself (‘double-wrapped’, she writes – somewhat primly – inside her dustbin, at home⁶⁴) and that on the rare occasions when she leaves the bags behind it is either because a) the ‘problem’ (as she perceives it) is so severe that she feels a strong, public statement needs to be made to other dog owners, b) the sheer volume of excrement is such that it is simply too much for her to carry home all in one go (while managing a large dog at the same time), and c) that she is sometimes prey to the sudden onset of acute arthritic ‘spasms’ in her fingers, which mean that she is unable to grip the bags properly and so is compelled to leave them in situ, while harbouring ‘every earthly intention’ of returning to collect them at a later date.

I am not – of course – in any way convinced by this pathetic, half-cocked hodge-podge of explanations. In answer to a) I say that other dog owners are completely within their rights to allow their dogs to defecate responsibly on the moor. They have the law on their side. It is a perfectly legitimate and natural way to proceed. In answer to b) I say that the volume of excrement on the moor is rarely, if ever – in my extensive experience of these matters – excessive (especially given the general rate of decomposition etc.). In answer to c) I say that it strikes me as rather odd that the same person who can apparently manage to ‘bag up’ huge quantities of excrement when their fingers are – ahem – ‘spasming’⁶⁵ is somehow unable to perform that superficially much less arduous act of transporting it back home with them!⁶⁶

Many of TP’s bags lie around on the moor for months on end and no visible attempt is made to move them. Last Thursday, for example, I counted over forty-two bags of excrement dotted randomly about the place on my morning stroll. Sometimes I come across a bag displayed in the most extraordinary of places. Yesterday I found one dangling up high in the midst of a thorny bush. It was very obvious that not only would the person who hung the bag there have been forced to sustain some kind of injury in its display (unless they wore a thick pair of protective gloves), but that so would the poor soul (and here’s the rub!) who felt duty-bound to retrieve it and dispose of it.⁶⁷ This was, in effect, a piece of purely spiteful behaviour – little less, in fact, than an act of social/ environmental terrorism.

Shoshana and I have both become so sickened, angered and dismayed by the awful mess TP has made of our local area (I mean who is to judge when an activity such as this passes from being ‘in the public interest’⁶⁸ to a plain and simple public nuisance?⁶⁹) that, in sheer desperation, we have begun to gather up the rotten bags ourselves.

On Friday, two weeks back⁷⁰, Shoshana gathered up over thirty-six bags. On her way home – exhausted – from the village’s poop-scoop bins⁷¹ she tripped on a crack in the pavement, fell heavily, sprained her wrist and dislocated her collarbone. ⁷² I will not say that we blame TP entirely for this calamity, but we do hold her at least partially responsible.⁷³

After Shoshana’s ‘accident’ I marched over to TP’s bungalow, fully intent on having it out with her,⁷⁴ but TP (rather fortuitously) was nowhere to be found. It was then – as I stood impotently in her front garden, seething with frustration – that I resolved⁷⁵ to take the opportunity to do a little private investigation of my own. If you remember,⁷⁶ TP had claimed that many – if not most – of the bags of excrement she retrieved from the moor, she automatically carried back home with her (only leaving the unmanageable excess behind) and placed them, double-wrapped, into her dustbin (alongside what I imagine would be the considerable quantities of excrement collected from her own four, chronically obese dogs which – as you know – she keeps penned up, 24/7,⁷⁷ inside that criminally small and claustrophobic, purpose-built concrete compound⁷⁸).

The day I visited Hursley End was a Monday, which is the day directly before refuse is collected in the village. I decided – God only knows why, it was just a random urge, I suppose – to peek inside her dustbin (literally deafened as I did so by the hysterical barks and howls of her four frantic German shepherds). By my calculation, I estimated that there would need to be at least forty-two dog faeces – from her own four animals – stored away inside there.⁷⁹ In addition to these I also envisaged a considerable number of stools collected from her nightly hikes on the ‘filthy’ moor.⁸⁰

Once I’d made these quick calculations I steeled myself, drew a deep breath, grabbed the lid, lifted it high and peered querulously inside. Imagine my great surprise when I found not a single trace of excrement within! The bin was all but empty! I say again: the bin – TP’s bin – was all but empty!! I quickly pulled on a pair of disposable gloves⁸¹ and then gingerly withdrew the bin’s other contents, piece by piece (just so as to be absolutely certain of my facts). I removed two large, empty Johnnie Walker bottles,⁸² four family-size Marks and Spencer coleslaw containers, three packets of mint and one packet of hazelnut-flavoured Cadbury’s Snaps biscuit wrappers, and the stinking remnants of two boil-in-the-bag fish dinners (Iceland) and one, ready-made, prawn biryani meal (from Tesco’s excellent Finest range).

I stared blankly into that bin for several minutes, utterly confounded, struggling to make any sense of what I’d discovered. It then slowly dawned on me that TP might actually have two bins – one of which was specifically to be used for the storing of excrement. Bearing this in mind, I set about searching the untended grounds of her property⁸³ with a fine-tooth comb,⁸⁴ even going so far as to climb on to an upturned bucket and peer, trepidatiously, into the tiny concrete compound to the rear, where TP’s four German shepherds barked and raced around – like a group of hairy, overweight banshees – frantic with what seemed to be a poignant combination of terror and excitement.⁸⁵

No matter how hard I hunted, a second bin could not be found. I eventually abandoned my search on realizing how late it had grown;⁸⁶ Shoshana would definitely be worried, I thought, and if I tarried any longer I could be in serious danger of missing Countdown.⁸⁷ I left Hursley End, depressed and confused, only turning – with a helpless half-shrug – to peer back over towards the property once I’d reached the relative safety of the road beyond. It was then, in a blinding flash, that I had what I now refer to – somewhat vaingloriously, I’ll admit – as my ‘Moment of Epiphany’.⁸⁸

As I looked back at TP’s property from a greater distance, I was able – with the benefit of perspective – to observe that recent renovation works to the bungalow had resulted in the temporary removal of large sections of the external fascia,⁸⁹ so that all that now remained of the property’s original structure was the roof, the window frames and a series of basic, internal walls and supports, many of which had been copiously wrapped in thick layers of protective plastic (to safeguard the property against the worst of the weather, I suppose). By dint of this expedient, I suddenly realized with a sharp gasp, TP’s home had lately been transformed (voluntarily or otherwise) into a giant simulacrum of a monstrous, semi-transparent poo-bag!⁹⁰

As this – admittedly strange and somewhat hysterical – thought caught a hold of me, a second thought,⁹¹ running almost in tandem with it, quickly overtook my mind: if no evidence of excrement could be found in TP’s garden – not even faeces from her own four dogs – then where on God’s earth might it actually be…?

What?!

I suddenly froze.

‘MARY, MOTHER OF JESUS!’ I bellowed, then quickly covered my mouth with my hand.⁹² But wasn’t it obvious?! Hadn’t the simple answer to this most perplexing of questions been staring me in the face all along?!

The moor!

Our beautiful, unbesmirched, virgin moor!

TP had not – as she’d always emphatically maintained – been piously and dutifully collecting/bagging excrement left by other, irresponsible dog owners, during those long, dark, nightly hikes of hers. Oh no! Quite the opposite, in fact! TP had actually been carefully bagging prodigious quantities of HER OWN FOUR DOGS’ EXCREMENT and then CHEERFULLY FESTOONING THE LOCAL FOOTPATHS WITH IT!!!

‘Good Lord!’ I can almost hear you howl, your smooth, firm cheeks flushed pink with rage and indignation. ‘But… but why?’

I’m afraid that this is a question which – for all of my age and experience – I cannot answer. I can only imagine that TP must derive some sick and perverse feeling of excitement/ gratification from performing this debased act. Perhaps it is an entirely sexual impulse, or maybe she has some deep yet inexplicable grudge against the people of Burley Cross which she is ‘acting out’ through this strange and depraved pastime. Or perhaps the good people of this village have unwittingly come to ‘represent’ something (or someone) to TP from her tragic past and she feels the uncontrollable urge to punish/ insult/degrade us all as a consequence of that. Or maybe – just maybe – a whole host of entirely different impulses are at play here. Shoshana had the fascinating idea that as a small child TP might’ve developed ‘issues’ during her anal phase⁹³ brought on by an overly strict and prohibitive potty-training regimen. She discussed this idea with a neighbour of ours who might properly be called an ‘expert’ in the field, and they explained to her – at some length – how as children we have an innocent, perfectly natural conception of our own faeces as a kind of ‘gift’⁹⁴ which we generously share with our parents.

Shoshana wondered whether TP’s emotional/psychological development as a child was halted/blocked at this critical stage, leading to an unusual fixation with faeces in adult life, which, many decades later, still gives TP the childlike compulsion to ‘share’ this ‘precious’ substance with all of her friends and neighbours.⁹⁵

Whatever the real reasons for TP’s extraordinary behaviour, the hard fact remains that she is currently posing a serious threat to the health and safety of the general public and must be stopped as a matter of some urgency. To this end I sent a lengthy email to Trevor Horsmith, insisting that he take some kind of positive action to deter TP from her foul and aberrant path.

Horsmith,⁹⁶ while professing himself to be ‘very interested’ in my theories, calmly informed me that unless he was able to catch TP red-handed (transporting faeces from her home and depositing them on the moor) then he would be unable to take any kind of prohibitive action against her. Given that TP prefers to walk only after dark and Trevor Horsmith’s working hours finish promptly at five, the likelihood of this ever happening is – at best, I feel – extremely limited. Horsmith also went on to discourage me – and in no uncertain terms,⁹⁷ either – from taking any kind of independent action myself, claiming that a matter this sensitive was – I quote – ‘always better left in the hands of qualified professionals’.⁹⁸

So there you have it, Ms Withycombe: a detailed summary of the complex web of problems our small – but perfectly formed – village is currently struggling to grapple with. Call me a foolish old optimist (if you must!), but I have a strong presentiment that your input in this matter will prove most beneficial, and am keenly looking forward to bashing out some kind of joint plan of action with you at the start of the New Year.

Yours, in eager anticipation,

Jeremy – aka Jez – Baverstock

PS Merry Christmas! (I almost forgot!!)

PPS You will probably have noticed that I have taken the great liberty of enclosing a small, festive gift for your private enjoyment over the holiday season: an – as yet – unpublished book⁹⁹ I once wrote about my nefarious activities as a reconnoitrer, black hat and mole inside the Royal Horticultural Society of Great Britain.¹⁰⁰

XXJ