Doc Barbara loses her new whatsit

Happy Christmas to the followers of The Monmouthshire Mouthpiece
   Some time ago - our dedicated readers will recall - Doc Barbara invented a nositwhatsit, a ribbon that fixed a pin to the wearer's posterior and induced she or he to keep walking rather than lounging and therefore perform the daily number of steps required to maintain a healthy heart.
   Since Doc Barbara has a weakness for Christmas cake and pudding with immense helpings of brandy butter (the size of the photo indicates her appetite for these delicacies and the figurine is agog in admiration) ..

He does need a trip to the optician however

she invested in a more sophisticated device which clips inside the bra or on a waistband and counts the number of steps taken - she is not prepared to show it because of her dislike of advertising. She attached this gadget inside her substantial underwear and went for a ten-mile walk. On her return the new whatsit was missing. With a heavy heart (though a healthy one) she retraced her steps gazing at the ground as she did so and apologising distractedly to the many pedestrians she knocked down and dog owners over whose leads she tripped. She was so engrossed that she said "Sorry" to 5 lampposts, one with a dog ... [Censored: Ed}.

   To no avail.  She asked Belinda Twaddle to go in search as she was expiring with exhaustion and perspiring with [We don't wish to know that: Ed.] ...  and this obliging girl did find a small and unusual object. The two of them decided it was not the original whatsit although they confused the issue by discussing what that whatsit was if not THE whatsit. To their astonishment the app on Doc Barbara's phone showed the extra mileage and the 2 of them deduced with Holmes-like rapidity that the true whatsit was still on Doc Barbara's ample person.

  

Thumbs up for Belinda's finding something. On this newspaper we reward endeavour not achievement. [It shows: Ed.]

  Together they decided that Doc Barbara first take off her jacket, do 100 steps and check. Hurrah - they were recorded.  She then removed her skirt: ditto. Her cardigan: the same; Her jumper: similar. Now the underskirt: phenomenon repeated.  Tights; result once again. Identical with thermal body layer. As Doc Barbara stood in her scarlet vest and interlock knickers Belinda fainted from the endeavour and - in putting her into the recovery position - [Can one ever recover from that? Ed.] - Doc Barbara's whatsit fell out of her capacious camisole.
   The pair decided to desist from further walking and refresh themselves but the ferocious and disapproving squint on the face of Father Christmas was more than they could face after their ordeal and so ...

... toodle-pip to another whatsit.

     

  

Doc Barbara's new linguistic mission

  Doc Barbara is always on the alert for a new enterprise that will present a challenge for her many skills but also aid humanity or the animal world.
   She has recently embarked on such a quest: to teach a species the power of speech. The first step was to decide which language to instruct and, because of her innate patriotism, it had to be English. She also felt that British-reared creatures would be accustomed to the sounds of the native tongue and might take fright at the sudden introduction of a French subjunctive as do all school children. It is, after all, a relatively recent phenomenon, being one of William's many cruel impositions on the natives when he conquered us 950 years ago.
   The next step was to choose a species: her first option was the horse because she wanted to attract the attention of whole groups so that numbers of mammalian  linguists could benefit simultaneously. She commenced with a whinnying sound such as she makes involuntarily when she spots a large piece of lemon drizzle cake in a café to consume with her mug of Mocha. [She has been banned from one patisserie: Ed]

   As you can see from the photo above, the horses initially responded well to her vocalisations but, once they realised she did not have a pocketful of equine delicacies, they resumed their grazing.
   Doc Barbara persevered and used the shouts that she felt they would recognise such as "Whoa there" but the resultant traffic jam caused her to desist. The policeman who appeared was unconvinced by her explanation and opined that some things were better left as they were. This is NOT Doc Barbara's philosophy: she feels the world is her oyster to be opened and consumed with relish, by choice piri-piri - [possibly this metaphor is getting out of hand: Ed] Yet, as she frequently states: "Every dog has its own trumpet."

   Help is always nearby as she can call upon our intern, Belinda Twaddle, for support and assistance in her hour of need. Belinda has taken the slogan: "Keep calm and carry on" to heart but finds the first clause too tricky for her excitable and impulsive nature. Asked which species would be more amenable to language acquisition, she spent many hours of research and came up with an answer.

  Belinda asserts that she has induced intriguing and meaningful noises from this hippo in response to her philosophical observations (in particular, it grunted the word "mud" when asked what is the meaning of life) and the two indomitable women are set to carry on. [They really do carry on: Ed]  More research is needed, since, as Doc Barbara also points out: "Buying a pig in a haystack is the thief of time." We will keep our loyal readers informed; unlike some, we are not averse to giving a running commentary.

To read about Doc Barbara's other animal exploits such as her worm-training programme, click here. Ditto her campaign to encourage frogs to mate vigorously and frequently.

Doc Barbara and the Exploding Porridge

   Doc Barbara, without being a health fanatic, always pays due attention to her diet and exercise regimes. Recently she decided to alter her morning repast and bought a microwave oven to make nutritious porridge swiftly and easily.
   She took great care to stand back from the appliance whilst it did its important work as she has never quite rid herself of her anxiety about the direction of its waves: if they were to stray outwards, they might mistakenly cook her liver. In addition, she hid under the table exactly as she recalls doing in the War during a bombing raid and felt much safer there.
   When questioned she opined: "There is no such thing as a free omelette." Her erudite wisdom is a lesson to us all.

    However, on the first occasion, she was dismayed to find that the porridge had exploded out of its special container. This disaster confirmed her worst fears about microwaves and she once more retreated under the table to consult the Internet and Belinda Twaddle by phone about the best course of action.

  Firstly, she typed "Exploding Porridge" into the search engine and was agreeably surprised to see that expert help was immediately to hand.

    However, she had some considerable difficulty in interpreting the equation on the board with respect to her prospective breakfast but, with extreme good fortune, Belinda arrived at that moment of quandary, persuaded her to emerge from under the table and gave her the rational and scientific explanation, the fruits of her hasty research.

    Belinda had spent the brief interim contemplating porridge-like locations and had concluded, putting together all the evidence, that what is crucial to the enterprise is the RELATIVE amounts of oats and water. She and Doc Barbara tried again according to the suggested mathematics and the result was perfect - a delightful bowl of the precious substance upon which could be sprinkled cranberries to taste. As Doc Barbara summarised: "You can't step into the same river twice with a sow's ear."

Doc Barbara rejoices at Belinda's success

Prof. Ramsbottom-Thrutch is knocked sideways.by emotion

  Our regular devoted followers of Doc Barbara's adventures will be acutely and sorrowfully aware that her friend, Professor Ramsbottom-Thrutch (who came to write a sociological study of her unique case) had been prone to semi-paralysing bouts of emotion. Even though social scientists should be detached from their topic, he would well up copiously when lecturing on Roman burial practices if the deceased were under 60 - or diseased.
   Clearly something had to be done and his sojourn with us at our newspaper office has done much to restore his equilibrium. Yet Belinda Twaddle decided that she could help even more.

Her solution

  Here we see her offering the Prof. a variant of immersion therapy whereby he could observe a mock burial which turned out for the best. Shortly after our cub reporter took this shot (relief all round that he didn't inter himself as well as he is not the shiniest pebble on the beach) she jumped up, since she was only lightly covered with sand, danced with joy and encouraged the Prof. to join her merriment. This he did and their joyful ritual of renewal was noted by a small but rapidly growing crowd of bemused holidaymakers.

The next step

  She then took him to a museum where she instructed him to gaze at relics of Roman burials for 2 hours until he became inured: this was so amazingly efficacious that she had difficulty dissuading him from opening the sarcophagus and entombing himself. He explained that he had misheard and thought she said "immured." (We wonder in our darker moments if he simply became so bored that he lost the will to live let alone expatiate on funeral rites in the Ancient World.)

The result
   All doubts and fears were thus put to rest (R.I.P. Anxiety) and we held a celebratory party to mark the occasion: Professor Ramsbottom-Thrutch can now return to his university post and hold forth with dry-eyed vigour on any subject, no matter how potentially distressing. The party went rather too well but we are all feeling better now. We know that he will visit us in the future and continue his valuable research into the Doc Barbara Phenomenon.

"Look, I am Pluto," cried the Prof. "Or do I mean Neptune. Who cares?"

Belinda Twaddle goes further North

 
  Here we see Belinda in a rare but temporary mood of dejection after her first attempts to dissuade hermaphroditic Northern slugs from mating with themselves. She ventured North of Wigan to use her method of playing Mozart arias from Cosi Fan Tutte, which of course means "Thus do all women", but the male section of each slug failed to be discouraged by mockery. Once such a slug has caught sight of its own tail it is overcome with passion for what it calls its "better half" and loses all self-restraint. Professor Ramsbottom-Thrutch was so moved by the picture of her looking touchingly small and downcast up her sloth tree that, after a brief burst of loud but manly weeping, he put back his linen handkerchief, took out his map and plotted an itinerary and master plan for her.

   His idea was that she should continue with the musical anti-sex therapy but, instead, use Don Giovanni to make the masculine parts of slugs feel they are mere Lotharios who will come to a sticky end. [I thought that was where the problem began: Ed.] In addition he enlisted - as well as slug wardens - teams of runners to take the latest news to the headquarters of the A.S.S. (anti-slug-sex) project. This system is working magnificently beyond all expectation. Northern slugs are now as celibate as the rest of the country. [The tensions in this office get through to us all: Ed]

   Naturally Doc Barbara is delighted: "Half a slug is better than a bun in the oven", she opined.

The co-ordinator of the A.S.S. project is pleased to receive the bulletins of progress.

Doc Barbara cheers Belinda Twaddle

   Firstly let me, as Editor, apologise for the asides which crept into our last article about Doc Barbara. The Chief Reporter has a new mobile device with something on it that he seems to refer to as Piri-Piri which picks up his voice and everyone's inner thoughts (although it is possible I mutter aloud when particularly frustrated). He refuses to turn it off and so I suppose we will all have to adjust. Professor Ramsbottom-Thrutch will find particular difficulty as he is prone to voice his sorrow at deeply emotional moments to avoid fits of weeping. Sometimes life on a provincial newspaper can be acutely stressful.

   Yet the good news is that we have now returned Belinda Twaddle to her normal vertical posture by explaining that there is a difference between a sloth and a slug. You will recall that she offered to assist in the attempt to prevent slug proliferation South of Wigan. We are delighted to report phenomenal success here with most slugs persuaded by peaceful means to refrain from sexual activity even after the long wet winter. Belinda heroically established a network of anti-slug-sex (A.S.S.) wardens equipped with the special apparatus she is wearing here. Her brother Bob is holding his back in agony after bending to communicate with too many slugs. [Hoist with his own trumpet, poor man: Doc Barbara]

   She found that slugs respond to music and so played them arias from Cosi Fan Tutte, thus making the females feel that their romantic activities were commonplace and vulgar. These extracts could be whistled if the wardens forgot their gadgets or can be relayed from wires such as Belinda carries with her on her helmet at all times. The opera has had the added bonus of lightening our Professor's mood: he has been seen to smile and even chortle on occasions. Belinda will soon dare to speak to him about Roman burials.

A female slug after  listening to Mozart. 

   The slugs then give up all sensations of passion and retreat to their [Where DO they live? Ed] homes in pensive but celibate mood. [I feel an outburst of racking sobs coming upon me. Professor R-T] This method has produced success everywhere but in Yorkshire. [You can tell a Yorkshire slug anywhere but you can't tell it much. Ed]
   Doc Barbara, when informed, opined, "He who laughs last has a bird in th'hand." [Clearly the mention of Yorkshire has unsettled her. Ed]

A slug warden after an exhausting spell of duty with his wired apparatus in the blue bag.

   Belinda has now decided that the enterprise can be taken beyond Wigan to the recalcitrant Northern hermaphroditic slugs. Her public-spirited determination knows no bounds. [Worse luck. When can we get back to reporting the doings of the W.U.G? and their weekly acrimonious meetings? Ed]

Belinda Twaddle to help Doc Barbara's slug mission

   Doc Barbara has reconsidered her mission to curb the slug proliferation which has occurred after our unusually mild winter. She realised that there is little hope North of Wigan: it is virtually impossible to prevent a hermaphroditic slug from mating with itself once it has fallen in love. Her poem on geographical variations in slug libido is scientifically accurate as well as deeply emotive.

  She decided to concentrate her efforts South of that latitude and try to persuade these gastropods to contain themselves, or not as the case may be - if you see what we mean. Professor Ramsbottom-Thrutch is delighted as this is his native area and he feels at one with natural creatures in Lancashire. [All this unity is getting complex and a little unseemly: Ed]

  The difficult starting point was to find slugs with which/whom to start the anti-sex propaganda but Bob Twaddle said his sister, Belinda, would be thrilled to assist. Here she is helping out.

  We did wonder why she is in this posture and eventually found the explanation. She is energetic and devoted to whatever enterprise she undertakes but, as we saw previously, tends to lose focus. One of her prime intellectual interests is philology and Bob had told her that the words "slug" and "sloth" were connected in Proto-Indo-European because of their shared sense of torpitude. [I myself am beginning to lose the will to move: Ed]

   It is amazing that Bob uttered these words since he has a phobia about polysyllables, made all the worse when he recently discovered that his parents nearly named his sister Roberta, whereas he has to make do with one phoneme. [Such psychological neuroses bedevil the office of The Monmouthshire Mouthpiece and now we have an acrobat as well: Ed]  Belinda therefore took it upon herself to imitate a sloth in her inimitable enthusiastic manner in order to form bonds with the creatures [Here we go again! Can no-one round here stay single? Ed] It may take a while for her to work her way down from Lancashire.

    When told of these developments, Doc Barbara was pleased with our speedy response: "Procrastination is the thief of jam tomorrow," she opined. Although we may seem to have diverged from our original target (and some of you may be irately contemplating slug damage in your garden at this moment) we can assure you that the matter is in hand and Belinda will soon be coming to a tree near you.