Magical Portal Loos

Don't be mistaken... these are no ordinary toilet facilities, parked behind the Free Church.  They may be temporary and basic to look at but these Portal Loos are not for the fainthearted.

I entered, shut the door, and did my business all very normally.  But, I flushed the handle and...WHOOSH!  When I opened the door I found my Portal Loo balancing on top of the Matterhorn in the Pennine Alps, 14,690 ft high and looking down on the town of Zermatt. 

Fortunately, I managed to unzip and sit down, before depositing a shock-induced No.2.  However, when I flushed again... WHOOSH!  The next destination turned out to be a beach in sunny Torremolinos, in the Costa del Sol.

Sixteen destinations later, I opened the door to see Daft Uisdean hopping cross-legged and holding his crotch.  (Thankfully, I'd landed back behind the Free Church.)  "Quick!  I need to go," he said.   He pulled me out of the Portal Loo and jumped inside.

It appears that we have finally cracked the 'Mystery at the Post Office' and the Rev. Brimstone's travels but, unfortunately, Daft Uisdean is now missing.  The portal could have taken him anywhere in the world!

Interpol have been alerted but meantime, if you have any information as to the where-a-bouts of Daft Uisdean can you please comment in the box below?  His mother, Big Maggie Ann, is very upset because his dinner is ready.

Mystery at the Post Office

Holy Moly!  I've had a call from Christabel-Morag, the new Post Mistress, down at the Post Office.

 "Hello, Torquil," said Christabel-Morag.  "Sorry to bother you on your washing day, but I've just finished reading all the mail and I've noticed something very odd."

"Hello there Christabel-Morag.  It's okay, I've left mother in charge of the twin tub.  Tell me about the odd thing," I said.  Though I didn't think that Christabel-Morag should be reading all the mail, telling her so might upset her weak bladder. 

"Well, Torquil, you see all these postcards have arrived at the sorting office and I'm very confused. There's one for you from Jamaica; one for Woodworm Willie from Rome; one for Cyril Nosecone from Las Vegas; one for Jean at the Woolshop from Sydney Australia; one for Wullie Spanners from Amsterdam; one for the lighthouse mannie from Cardiff; one for the boy who plays music down at the hotel from Peking; one for Murdina the butcher from Brussels; one for Big Maggie Ann from Anchorage, Alaska; one for Daft Uisdean from Legoland; and one from Mombasa for Fiona and her paintings."

My eye was drawn to the smoke belching from the twin tub. I waved furiously at mother, pointing at the wall socket for her to pull the plug.  "Oh lovely," I said to Christabel-Morag.  "A nice postcard always brightens up the day."

"Oh, but you don't understand, Torquil," said Christabel-Morag, now clearly upset.  I heard her fumbling and then she said, "Can you hold the line while I go to the toilet."

Mother smiled a gummy smile and waved back at me through the smoke, so I pulled the plug myself and opened the back door to let out the smoke. 

"Sorry for keeping you, Torquil," said Christabel-Morag.  "Where was I?  Oh yes, the postcards...all these postcards are signed by the same person, The Rev. Brimstone.  They all say the same thing.  'Having a lovely time.  See you soon, The Rev. Brimstone.'"

I stood in the threshold and fanned my arm in the air to usher the smoke outside.  "That's nice of him to send so many cards, then," I said to Christabel-Morag.

"But, Torquil, all these cards were posted the same day, all correctly postmarked last Monday from their country of origin."  She paused.  "Torquil, I attended Evening Worship on Sunday at 7pm and the Reverend was there in fine voice.  So, how could he get to all these places to send postcards on the Monday?"

Suddenly, a smoking twin tub was the least of my worries -- there was a mystery to solve down at the Post Office.

Could anyone with any information pertaining to the Rev. Brimstone’s whereabouts on Monday 24^th June, 2013, please leave a comment in the box below?

 

 

Identity Crisis

Funny... I dreamed last night that my name was Hazy Dizzylady and I was a woman.  You'll be pleased to know that I've just checked the label on my underpants and it clearly says, "Hand Knitted by Jean at the Woolshop for Torquil Mor."  Phew!  Thank Heavens a man can always rely on his underpants to remind him who he is.