Sentence The Onehundredandseventieth
And that was why, while Tammy slept – utterly exhausted after her escape attempt, and confused about whether The Man who had almost killed Bernie and then kidnapped her could be trusted, feeling herself gullible and worthless, guilty for allowing herself to believe The Man, lashing herself like a penitent with thoughts and words, and even her torn and ragged fingernails; while Venetia Vixen accompanied the essentially binary pairing of Daphne and Maude (whichever order one used for their names, they were forever conjoined, like ham and eggs, horse and carriage, Noddy and Big Ears, Mutt and Jeff) into Melrose, where they all booked rooms at The Kings Arms and waited there for Tabby and Tavish to arrive; and while the unblemished WPC Isa Urquhart enjoyed her meal in The East India Company restaurant as the guest of Carolina Moonbeam, witty and sparkling with many a mot juste, as the light, splintered into all the colours of the spectrum, danced in her eyes, and Isa wondered what the fascinating Professor of Forensic Science could have in mind as an after-dinner entertainment; and not forgetting Bernie – wherever in the Space/Time continuum she could possibly be and whether she was in any possible way contemporaneous – The Economic Migrant was doing the modern equivalent of the old Music Hall entertainment of setting up and keeping spinning 10 plates on ten poles by continuously dashing round and giving each an extra flick to maintain it's balance while the poles swayed and swung, which is to say that he, young Sayid, sat in his
Bedroom/Command-and-Control-Centre in the cupboard under the stairs of the house in Drumchapel to which the whole family had come from Syria just a year ago, and played Minecraft on his Tablet while his main computer network hummed, occasionally beeped, and every now and then gave a buzz, which caused him to pick up one of his other tablets and do a quick scan of the latest update; he was pleased with the way things were going and had every expectation that he would have positive news for his two clients – The O'Hooligan Twins, and the intriguing WPC Isa Urquhart; Sayid was still too young to have established his own independent realisation of his sexual identity – it was hard enough being a Partick Thistle fan without thinking about all the permutations of sex and relationships and he was happy to leave all that stuff to some future time – although he had, of course, learned some things in the Playground, and others on the net, so he was not in the least bit surprised at what the versatile WPC got up to, and a quick glance at a screen which showed him an internal CCTV shot of The East India Company restaurant was enough to tell him that Isa would be
going home tonight with Professor Moonbeam; although, as a twelve-year-old he had no experience to tell him what that would involve, whether physically or emotionally, for two women, he was pleased to see her happier than she had been for many months; she had gone through a pretty rapid revolving door with an assortment of casual encounters and affairs, but her pre-occupation with her present workload was taking it's toll on her love life and her emotional stability, and that, even a twelve-year-old boy could see, meant that she would be heading for a car-crash pretty soon – so Sayid, knowing what he did about both Isa and Carolina, felt that this could give both a degree of stability which had been missing for a long time; and over at the Danderhall Miners Welfare Club, he saw that Dixie and Bunty O'Hooligan were dancing to a Tony Christie Tribute Act, giving splendid renditions of the singer's new album of The Great Irish Songbook; Sayid didn't know enough about Ireland to appreciate all of the pathos and bathos contained within the lyrics, but his foot tapped to the rhythms coming through his headphones and he was glad to see the twins enjoying themselves, despite the worries about their missing cousin etched on their faces; and he scanned the tracking system which seemed to have homed in on a car that had left the Royal Infirmary just after the time that the twins' cousin Bernie's partner Tammy Shanter had gone missing – although the pictures were of some forty-eight or more hours ago, it was clear that the car was moving south into the Lammermuir Hills and down to the Borders – 'aha!' he thought to himself, 'the Fox may have the Rabbit, but the Poacher is on his trail and will run him to ground soon enough!' for Sayid had made use of a CIA face-recognition package and together with a British system developed independently at GCHQ, had created his own nothospecies hybrid which was easily ten times better than the others – having, after hours of patient work in between household chores, school-work and football practice, he had finally nabbed his Man – cross-checked that it was in fact the same person from the various sightings which his clients had been able to pass on to him, and locked his cross-hairs onto him: The Man was as good as tagged, although once he went off-grid to where there was no surveillance, Sayid
would be totally dependent on satellite tracking, which was a tad slower than he'd have liked, but with any luck he should soon know where Miss Shanter is, and that might, hopefully, lead him to Miss Westwater; he sometimes wondered if the people he was seeking might have some sort of telepathic, sixth-sense, counter-intuitive but primal-instinct-sort-of sensation that he was close behind them; but then he shrugged and got back to his game which was a lot more structured than human beings, adults especially!
And that was why, while Tammy slept – utterly exhausted after her escape attempt, and confused about whether The Man who had almost killed Bernie and then kidnapped her could be trusted, feeling herself gullible and worthless, guilty for allowing herself to believe The Man, lashing herself like a penitent with thoughts and words, and even her torn and ragged fingernails; while Venetia Vixen accompanied the essentially binary pairing of Daphne and Maude (whichever order one used for their names, they were forever conjoined, like ham and eggs, horse and carriage, Noddy and Big Ears, Mutt and Jeff) into Melrose, where they all booked rooms at The Kings Arms and waited there for Tabby and Tavish to arrive; and while the unblemished WPC Isa Urquhart enjoyed her meal in The East India Company restaurant as the guest of Carolina Moonbeam, witty and sparkling with many a mot juste, as the light, splintered into all the colours of the spectrum, danced in her eyes, and Isa wondered what the fascinating Professor of Forensic Science could have in mind as an after-dinner entertainment; and not forgetting Bernie – wherever in the Space/Time continuum she could possibly be and whether she was in any possible way contemporaneous – The Economic Migrant was doing the modern equivalent of the old Music Hall entertainment of setting up and keeping spinning 10 plates on ten poles by continuously dashing round and giving each an extra flick to maintain it's balance while the poles swayed and swung, which is to say that he, young Sayid, sat in his
Bedroom/Command-and-Control-Centre in the cupboard under the stairs of the house in Drumchapel to which the whole family had come from Syria just a year ago, and played Minecraft on his Tablet while his main computer network hummed, occasionally beeped, and every now and then gave a buzz, which caused him to pick up one of his other tablets and do a quick scan of the latest update; he was pleased with the way things were going and had every expectation that he would have positive news for his two clients – The O'Hooligan Twins, and the intriguing WPC Isa Urquhart; Sayid was still too young to have established his own independent realisation of his sexual identity – it was hard enough being a Partick Thistle fan without thinking about all the permutations of sex and relationships and he was happy to leave all that stuff to some future time – although he had, of course, learned some things in the Playground, and others on the net, so he was not in the least bit surprised at what the versatile WPC got up to, and a quick glance at a screen which showed him an internal CCTV shot of The East India Company restaurant was enough to tell him that Isa would be
going home tonight with Professor Moonbeam; although, as a twelve-year-old he had no experience to tell him what that would involve, whether physically or emotionally, for two women, he was pleased to see her happier than she had been for many months; she had gone through a pretty rapid revolving door with an assortment of casual encounters and affairs, but her pre-occupation with her present workload was taking it's toll on her love life and her emotional stability, and that, even a twelve-year-old boy could see, meant that she would be heading for a car-crash pretty soon – so Sayid, knowing what he did about both Isa and Carolina, felt that this could give both a degree of stability which had been missing for a long time; and over at the Danderhall Miners Welfare Club, he saw that Dixie and Bunty O'Hooligan were dancing to a Tony Christie Tribute Act, giving splendid renditions of the singer's new album of The Great Irish Songbook; Sayid didn't know enough about Ireland to appreciate all of the pathos and bathos contained within the lyrics, but his foot tapped to the rhythms coming through his headphones and he was glad to see the twins enjoying themselves, despite the worries about their missing cousin etched on their faces; and he scanned the tracking system which seemed to have homed in on a car that had left the Royal Infirmary just after the time that the twins' cousin Bernie's partner Tammy Shanter had gone missing – although the pictures were of some forty-eight or more hours ago, it was clear that the car was moving south into the Lammermuir Hills and down to the Borders – 'aha!' he thought to himself, 'the Fox may have the Rabbit, but the Poacher is on his trail and will run him to ground soon enough!' for Sayid had made use of a CIA face-recognition package and together with a British system developed independently at GCHQ, had created his own nothospecies hybrid which was easily ten times better than the others – having, after hours of patient work in between household chores, school-work and football practice, he had finally nabbed his Man – cross-checked that it was in fact the same person from the various sightings which his clients had been able to pass on to him, and locked his cross-hairs onto him: The Man was as good as tagged, although once he went off-grid to where there was no surveillance, Sayid
would be totally dependent on satellite tracking, which was a tad slower than he'd have liked, but with any luck he should soon know where Miss Shanter is, and that might, hopefully, lead him to Miss Westwater; he sometimes wondered if the people he was seeking might have some sort of telepathic, sixth-sense, counter-intuitive but primal-instinct-sort-of sensation that he was close behind them; but then he shrugged and got back to his game which was a lot more structured than human beings, adults especially!
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