I can’t quite believe it myself, but I seemed to have accidentally sustained another zoom based injury. In my defence, my brake pads are long overdue for a service. I have no memory of the incident happening at all. It had been a very pleasant outing with my pal Nelson.
There had been talk circulating Winchester, that his club, ‘The Velvet Marmoset’ was suffering financial difficulties and its future was teetering precariously. This is Nelson’s natural habitat so he is quite distressed about this news. We discussed this at length, formulating several back up plans (to be revealed at a later date) and before we knew it we were back at home. I treated myself to a cup of Earl Grey, some cheese and biscuits and waited for the return of my adoring humans.
It was whilst I was in my accustomed position of ‘the upturned table,’ sprawled out on the bed, awaiting a belly scratch when my injury was noticed. It wasn’t that bad to be honest but it did necessitate a trip to the vets, so off we trudged, the short one muttering profanities under her breath. I love the vets, there is always a ready supply of treats and it is in a pet supply shop so we get to see a variety of small furry beasties as we trot to the vet bit. It’s like a walk through paw buffet.
I was led away by a charming young lady and after a thorough petting I emerged with a spiffy long dark green bandage on my limb, with the little plastic bag on the end to stop it getting soggy, or me peeing on it.
I was chatting on the phone later that evening to the Tiny Terror’s dad, Tom, bemoaning the bad luck of my injury. During the day I had taken to using a walking stick to help redistribute my weight. I didn’t really need it but I fancied it gave me a battle weary look that I felt might encourage the emergency provision of sausages. I did find however, that using this stick meant that I was unable to also carry about with me my leather clutch bag. This holds all manner of important things like my handkerchief, hip flask and custard creams for any sudden onset low blood sugar occasions.
Now Tom, my learned pal, is a Scot and has a brilliant mind when it comes to problem solving. After some careful consideration of my perceived problem he came up with a corker of an idea. I needed a sporran, a portable pocket for my custard creams. A snack on the go, if you will. He himself was no stranger to a sporran. In the year 1977, he found himself engulfed in the chaotic festivities of a street party, celebrating the Jubilee. Naturally proud of his heritage, he hastily borrowed his wife’s kilt and fashioned a sporran out of a wide painting brush (soft bristled) and a bit of string. It swung proudly (the sporran) and a good day was had by all. There also exists a photo of the Tiny Terror, who, for this occasion, was dressed as a bumble bee. Sigh. Sadly no photographic evidence could be found of the sporran but I am told that it was a glorious sight to behold which was spoken about in hushed whispers for many months afterwards and has now settled itself into local folklore.
The Mistress seemed fairly keen at the prospect of me sporting a sporran, but only if it dangled at the appropriate area to help to protect my precious chastity, which had to be, according to her, claimed after a hard won battle. This battle should feature suitable sonnets and great feats of derring do, so I asked if she herself ascribed to this same moral code. We all paused to think about this for a while, as I sidestepped a flying cushion.
After a frenzy of activity, I held aloft my Spindle Sporran, fashioned from a purse I found which I covered in a sheepskin mitten, with braiding and jingly bells to finish. It was wound round my middle with a dressing gown cord. By ‘eck I looked smashing! Keen to try out this new method of carrying my necessaries, I went out for a wander. The first problem I had was that it is awfully difficult for a long limbed Spindle to reach round and firkle around in a sporran, especially if it needs to be done quickly. By the time I had contorted myself to reach around and opened the utility flap, the handkerchief was now redundant. It also produced a rather unsettling waft of air as it swung around my nether regions, which I did not care for.
Nethertheless, I did persevere and it was fairly satisfactory until I had to crouch to respond to the call of nature. Sometimes brilliance can come out of nowhere. It would seem, that Tom had somehow managed to invent a self worn ‘catching mitt’ for evacuated ‘matter’.
It worked very well I must say. Less good is that I had to carry it about with me afterwards as I continued my walk. What with that and the plastic boot I was forced to wear, I think we could all assume that my virtue would not be in any real danger that day.
One thought on “Spindle’s Sporran”
Poor Elsie! You’ve certainly perfected the woebegone expression (a sighthound speciality as we all know). I hope your leg gets better soon! xx
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