Journey through space to the Planet Fabulous, where the Ruler of the Universe will see you shortly.

Tuesday, September 20, 2005

The Mysterious Affair of the Squirrel in a Cage

Holmes had been at the sales, and come back laden with an antique violin and an ancient old painting; the works, I was told, of Stradivarius and Rembrandt. Unfortunately, Stradivarius was a lousy painter and Rembrandt couldn't make a musical instrument to save his life. Although in the hands of Sherlock Holmes, it's unlikely any violin could be made to produce anything approaching music. Last night he attempted a new playing technique but ended up shooting the cat up the bum with the bow when he over-tensioned the strings.

The music is only played when Holmes is in a foul mood. This one has so far lasted over a week - longer than that time we had a row over what colour to paint the hall and I broke his favourite briarwood pipe when trying to explain that Queen Victoria's massive bust was no longer an appropriate item for the living room, even if you could hang two hats from it. The mood had been brought about by Holmes' run-ins with Los Angeles' CSI department. Three times this week he had been in the process of explaining the elaborate (and frankly unfathomable) logic processes that had led him to various deductions, when a spotty geek from CSI would arrive and arrest someone. In at least one of the cases, it wasn't the person Holmes was about to expose either.

And so it was I came down to breakfast one morning, to discover Holmes putting three squirrels in a cage.

'Good Lord, Holmes!' I ejaculated. I stood, embarrassed in the sudden silence that followed, covered in more white stuff than Kate Moss's dressing table. I went to mop up, and then returned, where Holmes had seemingly abandoned his work: the cage was nowhere to be seen.

However, in the following week, the newspapers have been full of problems at the Los Angeles CSI. They have suffered a rodent infestation. A laxative was put in their water cooler the same day that every single lavatory was covered in stretched clingfilm. Someone has widdled through their letterbox on no less than four occasions. And on one evening, all the security cameras were turned to the same spot, where a man was recorded mooning them for nearly an hour whilst humming a medley of songs by The Who.

The news reached Holmes this morning, brought by a hand-ringing representative of the Mayor who has turned to Holmes in desperation. 'How positively singular...' he mused, before reaching for his pipe. I glared at him as I've been trying to get him off the tobacco, and so he reached for his substitute. 'This is quite a three packets of chocolate hobnobs problem, Watson. It seems Los Angeles is in the grip of a Napoleon of Naughtiness. A Pope of Prankery. A Machiavelli of Mischief. A Moriarty of Mayhem.'

And at the time of writing Holmes is still there, covered in crumbs, intent on solving this. I personally hold out more faith in the LA CSI coming up with an answer, something they might already have done had not their head of operations been hospitalised when his leg was broken by a bust of Queen Victoria dropped by a mystery man passing overhead on a hang-glider...

2 comments:

Spike said...

Mwha.

Blog World said...

Faith is spiritualized imagination.
Henry Ward Beecher- Posters.