It all began, as these things tend to begin, with a simple misunderstanding. It was finally the weekend and we had locked up Spindle Towers and sallied forth, ready to ride the waves of relaxation in Mavis the campervan. We were off for a cheeky and long awaited weekend away from the chaos of daily life. It is the law of sod however, that ensured that our chosen weekend had perilous weather warnings, for torrential rain and heavy winds. Naturally, either side of this particular weekend, the grey clouds had, and were due to, part like satin theatre curtains, to reveal a sultry Indian summer.
Nevertheless, we were all feeling especially intrepid (and fairly desperate) and were determined that our freedom would not be deterred by a matter of inclement weather.
We therefore burst out into the wonderful world of Wareham, which resided in the kingdom of Dorsetlandshire. Arriving without too much fuss, we spent a blissful evening of tea drinking and reading. I was working my way through Rogue Herries by Hugh Walpole, and feeling peckish, I also had a nibble on some Dorset Blue Vinney.
Awaking to a cloudy yet dry morning, I quaffed my Earl Grey and quickly packed my handbag with my essential items. As a treat we were going to have our breakfast out, and I was treated to a sizzling Saturday sausage! It was, I can report, a corker. It was well formed, had a glossy even brownness to it, and was stuffed full of porksome goodness. We enjoyed several pots of tea in the cafe, whilst I was complimented upon by several other ‘Saturday morning sausage snafflers’, and had my earsies gently stroked.
We eventually unfurled ourselves from our corner and peered out of the partially steamed up window. To our dismay the rain was now lashing down, several hours earlier than had been forecast. It was then that we realised our great folly at leaving my coat behind in Mavis. I was most distressed as it was my best fleece lined oilskin, with velvet piping and waterproof panniers for my custard creams. I looked beguilingly up at the pair of shambling numpties (AKA Hector and the Tiny Terror), and made it very clear I was not going out in THAT weather. It is just not done for a hound to be exposed to such dreadful conditions. Many things were silently conveyed between the three of us during the next five minutes, which ended up with sigh from the Tiny Terror and a resigned shrug from Hector – this was a victory shrug to Spindlehound!
We ended up scampering into the nearest pet shop to see if we could exchange some of our best pounds into a houndly raincoat. After making our brief request, I was promptly encircled by a kindly woman who began wrapping me in various sartorial disasters, all of which would have had Nelson rolling around in the land of mirth. I cast my eyes to the heavens, then closed them anticipating further coat related humiliation. Trying to deduce the correct size, the kindly woman hollered “She’s a medium,” to her co conspirator in the stock room. This is where it all began to go totally teats up. You would have thought that no folly could conceivably arise from this. You wouldn’t though, would you?
It took twenty minutes for Mater and Pater to convince the wild swivelling eyed harpy, that emerged from the dark corner of the shop, that I was not in fact a Medium, and in no way had ever been, or had any psychic experience. (This isn’t strictly true, as certain circles have requested my services to successfully assemble a roughly hewn love poppet out of nothing but a gentleman’s handkerchief, a dolly peg and a strand of private hair).
The harpy was not convinced. “She has the sight!” she insisted as she waved her goat headed stick around in excitement. Now, dear reader, I must say that we are not strangers to unusual incidents occurring around us. I blame Hector, he seems to be a magnet to all things peculiar and mysterious. However, there are limits, and it was whilst she was rummaging in her voluminous bag for her bells (her ‘Telling Bells’ which would, she assured us, confirm her assertions) that we began to edge very slowly towards the door. The Tiny Terror was quite taken with her, and was quite keen to see the bells, but Hector took charge and flung the correct amount of coins at the counter and we scarpered. Unfortunately in our haste to escape, they had not properly secured my new raincoat down around my derriere, and as we turned the corner the wind inflated it, and I nearly ended up in Poole harbour. I have said it before my friend, and I will say it again, a hound does not like an unexpected gust up her tail.
Oh how we laughed about this later when we were snuggled up in Mavis. Well, they did. I was still reeling from the shock of wearing a wind propelled rain protector. I was placated with a custard cream and a rather nice glass of sherry which took the sting out of it a bit.
It was, in conclusion, an eventful morning. Thankfully the rest of the weekend passed without incident, or any that I am prepared to commit to my diary anyway. Soon it will be time to return home. Now I was going to have to give some thought as to how I was going to cheer my good pal Nelson up He had recently experienced a ‘parting of the ways’ from his beloved Lady Hester. We need a plan…one that may or may not be cunning.
One thought on “Madame Spindle”
We’re not fans of wind and rain either, Elsie! We had to laugh looking at that second photo – for a moment we thought you were cuddled up to someone’s foot, then we realised it’s a cuddly toy. We’re glad it’s not a foot, as anyone with a foot like that would need to see a doctor! Millie and Pearl xx