Sentence The Twohundredandsixtyfifth
Theresa snapped into action at the sight of a Border Security Officer attempting to take the baby into custody: that was the most extreme expergefacient possible – she grabbed the Old School Bell from her Aunt Christobal's kitchen shelf and, clanging it wildly to rouse the rest of the household from their Post-Christmas slumbers, launched herself like a showboat through the kitchen door and, grabbing the baby, tumbled the Officer to the grass (well, mostly mud now, she realised) and
wheeched the infant into the house, placed it in a crate full of shredded newsprint ready for recycling on the kitchen table and relaunched herself into the melee, where she was quickly joined by an assortment of Aunts and Cousins, all spending the Festive Season as guests of Aunty Christ in Melrose, in the house that had formerly been a Church of Scotland School at the start of High Cross Avenue; the Border Security Officers, both he and she, slow and abdominous, unused to the kind of favonian whirlwind now overwhelming them, were augmented by two schoolboys dressed as Police Scotland Officers but lacking the inherent authority of the undisputed WPC Isa Urquhart, even in her pyjamas, and Sergeant Goldy Brevity, in a skimpy nightie (both of whom they recognised from recent news coverage and instantly deferred to) were no match for the Ladies of the Big Hoose and quickly dispersed; the three girls who’d been chasing down sheep escaped from the farm behind the BGH,
were in urgent need of cocoa (fortified, of course) as were the three Historians from Edinburgh Uni following certain Ley Lines which apparently cross on the Middle Eildon, and were quick to evaluate
the situation and in no time, they had helped the group of refugees into the House – the sheep into the back green and the Professors' Range Rover parked at the Bus Stop by the gate; meanwhile, the new mother and her baby were tucked up in Daphne and Maud's bed; the other three families had been given rooms in which to rest, shown where bathrooms and toilets were, and Aunty Christ herself was preparing breakfast for everyone: “at least it's not the Five Thousand today,” she quipped as she broke several dozen eggs into a large bowl preparatory to scrambling them, while Teri and June were busy slicing and buttering home baked bread and Roxy and Trixie poured mugs of tea and coffee which they took into the dining room, into which chairs of all shapes and sizes had been requisitioned; several of the Syrian boys and girls were already playing dominoes, while others had discovered a
floor version of snakes and ladders; they seemed to have recovered from the unfriendly welcome which had greeted the dawning of their first morning in The Scottish Borders, and Teri realised that the bright light had been a helicopter's spotlight pointing out their location to the Border Agency Officers who were following by car, and she determined to send a strongly worded letter to The First Minister, but instead, turned to her sweet cousin, Ginger Goldfish and asked her: “did you know anything of that?” and The First Minister shook her head vehemently, a cascade of reds, russets, rusts and oranges, “fat chance, Teri, when there's ony Nasty Business afoot, blame the Nasty Pairty and you'll not go far wrang – we'll write a letter to Davie MacCaroon as soon as this lot have some hot food inside them!”
Theresa snapped into action at the sight of a Border Security Officer attempting to take the baby into custody: that was the most extreme expergefacient possible – she grabbed the Old School Bell from her Aunt Christobal's kitchen shelf and, clanging it wildly to rouse the rest of the household from their Post-Christmas slumbers, launched herself like a showboat through the kitchen door and, grabbing the baby, tumbled the Officer to the grass (well, mostly mud now, she realised) and wheeched the infant into the house, placed it in a crate full of shredded newsprint ready for recycling on the kitchen table and relaunched herself into the melee, where she was quickly joined by an assortment of Aunts and Cousins, all spending the Festive Season as guests of Aunty Christ in Melrose, in the house that had formerly been a Church of Scotland School at the start of High Cross Avenue; the Border Security Officers, both he and she, slow and abdominous, unused to the kind of favonian whirlwind now overwhelming them, were augmented by two schoolboys dressed as Police Scotland Officers but lacking the inherent authority of the undisputed WPC Isa Urquhart, even in her pyjamas, and Sergeant Goldy Brevity, in a skimpy nightie (both of whom they recognised from recent news coverage and instantly deferred to) were no match for the Ladies of the Big Hoose and quickly dispersed; the three girls who’d been chasing down sheep escaped from the farm behind the BGH, were in urgent need of cocoa (fortified, of course) as were the three Historians from Edinburgh Uni following certain Ley Lines which apparently cross on the Middle Eildon, and were quick to evaluate
the situation and in no time, they had helped the group of refugees into the House – the sheep into the back green and the Professors' Range Rover parked at the Bus Stop by the gate; meanwhile, the new mother and her baby were tucked up in Daphne and Maud's bed; the other three families had been given rooms in which to rest, shown where bathrooms and toilets were, and Aunty Christ herself was preparing breakfast for everyone: “at least it's not the Five Thousand today,” she quipped as she broke several dozen eggs into a large bowl preparatory to scrambling them, while Teri and June were busy slicing and buttering home baked bread and Roxy and Trixie poured mugs of tea and coffee which they took into the dining room, into which chairs of all shapes and sizes had been requisitioned; several of the Syrian boys and girls were already playing dominoes, while others had discovered a floor version of snakes and ladders; they seemed to have recovered from the unfriendly welcome which had greeted the dawning of their first morning in The Scottish Borders, and Teri realised that the bright light had been a helicopter's spotlight pointing out their location to the Border Agency Officers who were following by car, and she determined to send a strongly worded letter to The First Minister, but instead, turned to her sweet cousin, Ginger Goldfish and asked her: “did you know anything of that?” and The First Minister shook her head vehemently, a cascade of reds, russets, rusts and oranges, “fat chance, Teri, when there's ony Nasty Business afoot, blame the Nasty Pairty and you'll not go far wrang – we'll write a letter to Davie MacCaroon as soon as this lot have some hot food inside them!”
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