Sentence The Onehundredandeightyfourth
It was only two rings before the sweet-natured WPC Isa Urquhart answered the telephone: “hi, Teri, what can I do for you?” so, excusing myself for not being able to explain my reasons (a case of alexithymia, and she sympathised – for she is extremely astute – but I explained that I needed to find out about someone I had known years ago – a lifetime, you might say, but I didn't want to make it official; and I could picture her nodding sincerely; “well, you know The Economic Migrant, don't you?” and of course I did – why hadn't I thought of him? probably because I had only used his services for the present, never the past, so far; and Isa continued: “he's been able to turn up deep background on people we are investigating – I don't know what his sources are, but it's incredible how much he can find out; even if someone's past seems to be as Dead as a Dodo, he can deliver chapter and verse on where they were on a wet Thursday in 1974, and we never get any flack; that horrible QC Martin Elginbrod is the only one who challenges our information and snorts about privacy and the rights of the individual, but if the judge is Lord Linkumdoddie or Lady Marion Boyars-Romanov or someone else with integrity, that kind of bluster gets him nowhere! he's absolutely the first person you should ask,” so I thanked her and promised to meet her for coffee tomorrow afternoon; and dialled the secure number for Sayid, which bounces the call around the world several times and off half a dozen satellites, in an instant before reaching his under-stair
cupboard/bedroom/Command and Control Centre, in Drumchapel:”hiya, Miss Teri, said a sleepy voice; I apologised for waking him but he said that was okay - “anything for you, Miss, you are my bestest client in the whole wide world,” so I reprised my call to Isa, told him what I knew, gave him the address of his old Greengrocers from way back; that I knew he'd moved into Minimarts and now has a chain across Scotland, and a couple of Hypermarkets (Edinburgh, Glasgow, Aberdeen) and was a Senior Councillor, but I wasn't sure where, and had been part of a COSLA delegation who met with Ginger Goldfish a couple of days ago,” and Sayid whistled, softly: “brillo Madam, I can probably tell you what he had for breakfast and the colour of his underpants!” I laughed, thanks, my Friend, you are an Angel,” and he mumbled a few caveats about miracles and the impossible, before we agreed his usual terms – a donation to the Refugee Charity he supported, for families and children worldwide, and the requisite case of Irn Bru and a gross of Mars Bars, before hanging up; I grinned – we're on your trail, Georgie Porgie, and there isn't a stone you can hide under!
It was only two rings before the sweet-natured WPC Isa Urquhart answered the telephone: “hi, Teri, what can I do for you?” so, excusing myself for not being able to explain my reasons (a case of alexithymia, and she sympathised – for she is extremely astute – but I explained that I needed to find out about someone I had known years ago – a lifetime, you might say, but I didn't want to make it official; and I could picture her nodding sincerely; “well, you know The Economic Migrant, don't you?” and of course I did – why hadn't I thought of him? probably because I had only used his services for the present, never the past, so far; and Isa continued: “he's been able to turn up deep background on people we are investigating – I don't know what his sources are, but it's incredible how much he can find out; even if someone's past seems to be as Dead as a Dodo, he can deliver chapter and verse on where they were on a wet Thursday in 1974, and we never get any flack; that horrible QC Martin Elginbrod is the only one who challenges our information and snorts about privacy and the rights of the individual, but if the judge is Lord Linkumdoddie or Lady Marion Boyars-Romanov or someone else with integrity, that kind of bluster gets him nowhere! he's absolutely the first person you should ask,” so I thanked her and promised to meet her for coffee tomorrow afternoon; and dialled the secure number for Sayid, which bounces the call around the world several times and off half a dozen satellites, in an instant before reaching his under-stair
cupboard/bedroom/Command and Control Centre, in Drumchapel:”hiya, Miss Teri, said a sleepy voice; I apologised for waking him but he said that was okay - “anything for you, Miss, you are my bestest client in the whole wide world,” so I reprised my call to Isa, told him what I knew, gave him the address of his old Greengrocers from way back; that I knew he'd moved into Minimarts and now has a chain across Scotland, and a couple of Hypermarkets (Edinburgh, Glasgow, Aberdeen) and was a Senior Councillor, but I wasn't sure where, and had been part of a COSLA delegation who met with Ginger Goldfish a couple of days ago,” and Sayid whistled, softly: “brillo Madam, I can probably tell you what he had for breakfast and the colour of his underpants!” I laughed, thanks, my Friend, you are an Angel,” and he mumbled a few caveats about miracles and the impossible, before we agreed his usual terms – a donation to the Refugee Charity he supported, for families and children worldwide, and the requisite case of Irn Bru and a gross of Mars Bars, before hanging up; I grinned – we're on your trail, Georgie Porgie, and there isn't a stone you can hide under!
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