Allow me to let you in on a little secret, which, of course, you may or may not already be aware of…
Any insect would be astonished by our ability to see. Their eyes are built with not one but hundreds of lenses, each of which concentrates light upon a sensor. However, dear reader, insects are nature’s victim. As any movement could mean death, they have a bird’s-eye view of the world; every object in their sights, any activity at once detected…There, wasn’t that marginally more interesting than last night’s shipping forecast? Bear with me; I am coming to the point…
If I re-read the juicy information above, it occurs to me that those magnificent tiny insects which Arnold Matson has placed so close to his bosom in his studies, are absolutely right in their little world, and we mere mortals are all too often guilty of not seeing what is going on right under our collective noses.
Take, for example, all the inhabitants of this village…
Not a single man jack among the five-hundred souls has one iota of a clue that the landlord of their one and only hub of the community is currently fretting himself senseless and living on a diet that a starving goldfish would swim away from. As some wise bozo once observed, ‘You never know what’s going on once that door shuts.’ Too right; but then again, in the case of dear Arnold, his doors are open to the public nearly every day of the loony week and still no-one has an inkling that the man is mentally climbing up the wardrobe with a view to leaping off and crashing head-first into the tallboy, if you follow my allusion. No, for my money next Wednesday’s get- together with a few rogues and acquaintances cannot come soon enough for Arnold Matson.
With that very prospect in mind, let me quickly introduce you to a few of the individuals that I feel certain old Harold Garstang, bless him, will have rounded up on Matson’s behalf…
‘Moot Point – Turf Accountant’
Seen by many as something of a wide boy, Moot arrived in Blinkington-on-the-Treacle after a successful venture into trout dating. We always took it that he meant trout farming but didn’t like to bring the subject up for fear of embarrassing him. Personally I have a lot of time for Moot and, as I am such an awful gambler, Moot reciprocates by taking a sizeable slice of my income from me when placed on half-lame nags that haven’t a cat in hell’s chance of winning anything.
Ah, this is an interesting choice of individual.
As touched upon earlier in these ramblings, Reginald Frimpton is actually the revered crime writer, Felicity Grayling, whose many successes include ‘Behind you, Bob’ and ‘Gelignite Girls.’
As Reginald is also a children’s entertainer in his spare time, I reckon his light-hearted banter, occasional card trick and optical illusion might be just what the doctor ordered for Arnold Matson. Of course, if Reginald’s ‘It’s ShowTime’ routine doesn’t go down too well, he’s always got his vanishing act to rely on for a speedy exit.
Councillor Ted Scampi
Once again, Harold Garstang has plucked a plum from the proverbial pudding in getting old Ted Scampi to attend. A member of the local council for over thirty-five years, Ted was the first man in the village to propose we close down the public toilets after he slipped on a discarded crisp packet in one of the cubicles and broke both his ankles. His request was turned down flat by the committee and three months later Ted returned to office, still on crutches, growling at all and sundry. He is also renowned for not taking a blind bit of notice to just about anyone who is talking to him, which may well prove to be a fantastic asset for Arnold Matson as he gets it off his chest to someone who doesn’t give two hoots.