Sentence The Sixtyninth
As we drift southwards on our Magic Carpet, over the rooftops of Edinburgh, occasionally peeping in a window here, through a skylight there, noticing lonely people wrapped in their gloom, or lovers wrapped in each other, we pause briefly to consider our use of the Royal Plural (or 'we') to which we find ourselves rather pleasantly attached – it would be jolly to use it all the time, for it dispels any feeling of aloneness and gives us the sensation of being part of something greater than ourselves, but enough of this sentimental twaddle – and being paused, we catch a glimpse of a patient in the ICU Ward of the Royal Infirmary, his head swathed in bandages, seeming to sleep peacefully and, despite his battered and bruised aspect we recognise him as Angus Og of The Bog and as we watch a nurse comes to his bedside and touches his hand, briefly; his eyes open and he smiles – and so do we for Mr Og is clearly on the mend and we must hope for his recovery to be swift; but on we must fly, though just a short hop, to the little former mining village of Danderhall, where we immediately observe that Bunty and Dixie O'Hooligan and their dear cousin Bernie Westwater, are under cover at The Dog and Duck Club in Danderhall – this Friday Night Rave may have seemed incongruous, it's venue being The Danderhall Miners' Welfare Social Club, but it draws a colourful crowd who spend their money freely and the DJ (ex-Miner, vegetarian and presently munching on a not-dog, Jazz Brothers) is a regular of Forth FM with his eclectic dance mix of Garage, Techno, Skidd and Krash, with some mainstream Gumball-Pop for the older patrons;
if he noticed three dancers, three girls who spurned any male interest, it was only for their dedication to the Beat; they had been on the floor for over an hour and show no signs of flagging; but, then, he didn't know who they were, nor the topic of the conversation they manage to maintain as they jump, skip, segue and writhe, to his constant supply of music – this is the perfect setting for a private discussion, linked as they are by the blue-tooth earpieces through which they can clearly hear each other and anyone who watches their lips move will think they are singing along to whatever record is playing; but they speak only of Martin Elginbrod and the latest moves they have made towards their intention to eviscerate him – ideally, literally, otherwise in ways which will destroy his reputation, his wealth and his position: according to Bernie, she will be seeing him tomorrow night, he had phoned her and almost begged her to meet him for dinner at a restaurant she could never have afforded to eat in herself – she will be wired; Dixie reported that she had agreed a price with The Economic Migrant who would set up traces on all of Elginbrod's telephones and monitor his internet traffic – “easy peasy,” was the 12-year-old's reply to the request, and he had asked if she wanted access to all his Chambers and Home CCTV, which she agreed would be useful; done deal; and Bunty has arranged for Elginbrod's two paramours to be exfiltrated from their 'love nests' that very night, by a pair of her waddies (both members of the Shottstown Quick-Draw Club in Penicuik who affect Stetsons, cowhide waistcoats and spotted neckerchiefs, which Bunty has advised them to leave off and to replace with black jumpsuits and to wear Balaclavas or even stockings over their heads, while Elginbrod wines and dines Bernie – she has a safe-house ready in the Cowgate, hard by the Grassmarket and Cowgate Community Policing Hub, which will be as good as anyone can get – and The Migrant is already monitoring all the Police Scotland communications networks in the city and giving her electronic updates through a secure system routed through The Cayman Islands and North Korea – she sometimes listened in to the banter among the officers based at the Hub and felt she knew them all so well already; she particularly found the intriguing WPC Isa Urquhart especially beguiling and wondered if she dared stage an accidental encounter, which might lead to........but setting that thought aside till later, let us command our Carpet to hie away for a very short flight to the Musselburgh flat where the two Brevitys – Gordon and Goldy – are both off-duty at the same time and lying abed, for they have an early start tomorrow, having heard that Angus Og is now conscious and both willing and able to meet them and, at this very moment they are discussing the nature of that interview, for what else would a married pair of Police Sergeants do when they are off duty and alone in their own bed, but discuss the case which currently fills all their waking thoughts – or are we being cheeky, too 'pass-remarkable' as residents of that faraway city in the West tend to describe those of us more fortunate than themselves – well, let us not intrude on their conversation, we are tenderfoots (tenderfeet?) in the business of detection and had best leave it to the professionals; no doubt The Economic Migrant has already had their home bugged and is doubtless listening to their pillow-talk in real-time (as a 12-year-old he is no doubt quite innocently ignorant of other activities which adults may engage in, in the privacy of their own bedroom) so Eastward, Carpet, and take us to the Honeymooners we last heard of in The Jolly Boatman, for we would know how they fare!
As we drift southwards on our Magic Carpet, over the rooftops of Edinburgh, occasionally peeping in a window here, through a skylight there, noticing lonely people wrapped in their gloom, or lovers wrapped in each other, we pause briefly to consider our use of the Royal Plural (or 'we') to which we find ourselves rather pleasantly attached – it would be jolly to use it all the time, for it dispels any feeling of aloneness and gives us the sensation of being part of something greater than ourselves, but enough of this sentimental twaddle – and being paused, we catch a glimpse of a patient in the ICU Ward of the Royal Infirmary, his head swathed in bandages, seeming to sleep peacefully and, despite his battered and bruised aspect we recognise him as Angus Og of The Bog and as we watch a nurse comes to his bedside and touches his hand, briefly; his eyes open and he smiles – and so do we for Mr Og is clearly on the mend and we must hope for his recovery to be swift; but on we must fly, though just a short hop, to the little former mining village of Danderhall, where we immediately observe that Bunty and Dixie O'Hooligan and their dear cousin Bernie Westwater, are under cover at The Dog and Duck Club in Danderhall – this Friday Night Rave may have seemed incongruous, it's venue being The Danderhall Miners' Welfare Social Club, but it draws a colourful crowd who spend their money freely and the DJ (ex-Miner, vegetarian and presently munching on a not-dog, Jazz Brothers) is a regular of Forth FM with his eclectic dance mix of Garage, Techno, Skidd and Krash, with some mainstream Gumball-Pop for the older patrons;
if he noticed three dancers, three girls who spurned any male interest, it was only for their dedication to the Beat; they had been on the floor for over an hour and show no signs of flagging; but, then, he didn't know who they were, nor the topic of the conversation they manage to maintain as they jump, skip, segue and writhe, to his constant supply of music – this is the perfect setting for a private discussion, linked as they are by the blue-tooth earpieces through which they can clearly hear each other and anyone who watches their lips move will think they are singing along to whatever record is playing; but they speak only of Martin Elginbrod and the latest moves they have made towards their intention to eviscerate him – ideally, literally, otherwise in ways which will destroy his reputation, his wealth and his position: according to Bernie, she will be seeing him tomorrow night, he had phoned her and almost begged her to meet him for dinner at a restaurant she could never have afforded to eat in herself – she will be wired; Dixie reported that she had agreed a price with The Economic Migrant who would set up traces on all of Elginbrod's telephones and monitor his internet traffic – “easy peasy,” was the 12-year-old's reply to the request, and he had asked if she wanted access to all his Chambers and Home CCTV, which she agreed would be useful; done deal; and Bunty has arranged for Elginbrod's two paramours to be exfiltrated from their 'love nests' that very night, by a pair of her waddies (both members of the Shottstown Quick-Draw Club in Penicuik who affect Stetsons, cowhide waistcoats and spotted neckerchiefs, which Bunty has advised them to leave off and to replace with black jumpsuits and to wear Balaclavas or even stockings over their heads, while Elginbrod wines and dines Bernie – she has a safe-house ready in the Cowgate, hard by the Grassmarket and Cowgate Community Policing Hub, which will be as good as anyone can get – and The Migrant is already monitoring all the Police Scotland communications networks in the city and giving her electronic updates through a secure system routed through The Cayman Islands and North Korea – she sometimes listened in to the banter among the officers based at the Hub and felt she knew them all so well already; she particularly found the intriguing WPC Isa Urquhart especially beguiling and wondered if she dared stage an accidental encounter, which might lead to........but setting that thought aside till later, let us command our Carpet to hie away for a very short flight to the Musselburgh flat where the two Brevitys – Gordon and Goldy – are both off-duty at the same time and lying abed, for they have an early start tomorrow, having heard that Angus Og is now conscious and both willing and able to meet them and, at this very moment they are discussing the nature of that interview, for what else would a married pair of Police Sergeants do when they are off duty and alone in their own bed, but discuss the case which currently fills all their waking thoughts – or are we being cheeky, too 'pass-remarkable' as residents of that faraway city in the West tend to describe those of us more fortunate than themselves – well, let us not intrude on their conversation, we are tenderfoots (tenderfeet?) in the business of detection and had best leave it to the professionals; no doubt The Economic Migrant has already had their home bugged and is doubtless listening to their pillow-talk in real-time (as a 12-year-old he is no doubt quite innocently ignorant of other activities which adults may engage in, in the privacy of their own bedroom) so Eastward, Carpet, and take us to the Honeymooners we last heard of in The Jolly Boatman, for we would know how they fare!
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