“So, how did it happen, Miss?”
After repeated questioning while seated in the comfy chair, and with excessive tickling, Miss Prim, finally broke her silence. Her family would be shocked; having 12 older brothers, she rarely caved to such slight inducements to confess. His inept interrogation technique bored her.
“If this on or off the record, PC Plod?” her voice sour like milk left on the stoop during a five-day heat wave. His painted-on smile grated; surely a senior officer with some stygian imagination when it came to germinating confessions could be located.
Miss P. assumed sooner or later, some clever child would call a tips line, thus ending her razorwine “enterprise.” Good whilst it lasted.
Blast it. Children keep getting smarter younger – too much World of Warcraft, YouTube, Dr. Who, and face book. Time to head back to the doll factory for a new face, then spend some flash. First a puppet to write a children’s series, then animated film, merchandise and spin-offs. Great for laundering money and cover for whatever her next nefarious plot might be.
Might be amusing if Plod finally caught a “criminal,” so the kid could spend the reward money. She wove lovely film noir, not technicolour, tales: Toyland’s name spattered/spluttered all social media. TMZ: who knew what when? Tweets: Noddy driver 4 notorious winelegger?#Noddy #razorwine #ploddy #notsoprim. Blog post: School for Scandal*
“Miss Prim, Miss Prim!”
She cheshired-catted, purring, and pushing her wrists towards him. “Oh, Officer Plod. You clever policeman, you have been watching episodes of Columbo. Yes, just one more thing, I am the leader of the Razorwine Gang.”
Mr. Plod torsioned so much in his pleasure, he didn’t realize, until after he came down from being over the moon, that Miss. Prim had vanished; a primat** of Razorwine resting in her place on the comfy chair. The attached note read: “Ask Noddy – he knows where the bottles are buried.”
** a primat of champagne is the second largest bottle size containing 27.0 litres of, in this case, razorwine.
Please, oh please, do not ask why or how a tale with an opening line, “So, how did it happen, Miss”, magically appearing on the screen, ends with “The note read: “Ask Noddy – he knows where the bottles are buried.” A stygian route I dare not take again!
I came across Noddy much later in life. I know my grandmother had a scrap book with clippings of Blyton’s magazine and newspaper children’s stories. My aunt’s tunnel-like closet, hidden behind the wall by her bed, had one hanging light bulb half way down. This did not deter me from consuming the books piled in huge stacks on the floor. As the name and signature are familiar, and just the type of reading material my grandmother would buy, Blyton books must have been among them. A very curious and lonely child, I looked at illustrations in books, not picture books, until I could read. And, after mastering Dick and Jane, well . . .
Maniacally conceived from Mindlovemisery’s Menagerie Wordle #78 words (all 12 in italic)