Tulips

And so it is.... After three weeks of conflict, all that remains outside the windmill is a lone tulip nodding by the dyke, a few battered egos and a lot of broken toys. The few remaining mice have crept back to the windmill and the drawbrige has slowly cranked shut. And if you listen terribly carefully, you can hear a solitary voice echoing from the grain store, singing, "Going clip clippety clop on the...." *Bang, crash* "Fuck it's dark in here. " THE END

Rachel, you're my heroine.

Did someone say dyke?

Shhhhhhhhhhhhh! Let them sleep!

Breaking News from Rotters: "Troups stationed outside the windmill have come under heavy shelling from rocket launched smileys. A senior military spokesman for operation FID said 'Emoticons are certainly runnning high'"

Oi Flick! You trying to tell me our Racey is a dyke? You ************** bitch!

"Oi," shouted the clog louse......"behave I will defend the emoticons, after all it's all I have left.!" The troups smiled knowingly.

Whatever can this mean? Are your tulips sealed?

Dicko & Cocko?

I read about this mission on the dutch press association website www.rotters.com. Seems it's codenamed Operation Finger in Dyke.

This is the kind of gargled post that comes from from aging ex-LSD hipsters

Or maybe towards aging ex-LSD hipsters?

That verminous and shady denizen of the world's waste pipes has been on the Marisat blower again, scrambled. Edgar was involved in some pretty shady goings-on at the fall of Saigon. Now he's telling me that some Thai tart who was working in the Flim Flam whorehouse just off Kompoc Street all those years ago has turned up in London making his life hell. She's stuck in a low-rent Harley Street surgery having a series of bodily and not so bodily parts grafted onto her chest. She phones him up before the anaesthetic has worn off and screeches like a banshee about Wob Woberts who thinks she's a 15-year-old because he's so drunk on Scotch he can't see. Edgar was recently taken across the border into the US by the Canadian Mounties in the boot of a Chevy after trying to stab a crazy women who was begging him to join her cult. At least that's what he heard her to say but her English wasn't very good. The Secret Intelligence Service have now put him on the trail of a 13-year old cross-dresser from the east of England who has gone missing from school without his water wings. He thinks this is a demotion. He was on tulip duty for a bit but my lips are sealed.

Do we know any?

Andrew knows a lot about hips. What colour's your cat, then? I saw a cute cat in our garden today. When I was a little girl we had a ginger tom called Leo, and honest to goodness he was more like a dog than a cat. I saw him being born. His mother went barmy afterwards and they used to roll down the stairs together in a howling, hissing furball. Atishoo.

I have received a call from Edgar who was in the bogs at Schipol Airport trying to avoid capture. Clearly he'd been delving into his MI6 issue truth serum that he's supposed to use on interrogation subjects because he was speaking in staccato bursts. "Trouble at windmill... sails coming off... mission gone horrible awry... major firefight... technical Johnnie walked the plank in rumpus over procedures... too much censorship and revisionism... "you can stick you windmill where the tulips don't bloom"... Dutch police and military all over the place... The echoey outpourings stopped suddenly after the sounds of a brief scuffle. I have no idea what he's on about.

Chapters! Fun! We have windmills and tulips in Andorra, too. Many people come here from Holland to buy their coffee (did you know that Australia was once called 'Little Holland'?. Another little known fact: coffee is grown in Andorra at heights up to 2,500 feet, in a shade (natural) environment, replete with native birds and wild life). Many other Europeans join them, including some we ask to sign the guest book (Uri Gell, Omar Sharf, Brian Browne, etc), on display at the railway station. Andorra's dramatic topography makes it unapproachable by air, so they arrive via train from Paris, having flown that far. As a general rule - and I am afraid the English are the kind of people who believe in general rules - the Europeans like to arrive in new places by train. There is something about literally crossing borders, traversing frontiers, watching the country folk hurtle by the window and become exurban, and then the gradual diminution of speed as the train approaches a city, that allows one to arrive with an experience of place that flying disallows. Andorra is a small country - as you know, located in Scotland - and there is only one city, La Plasta - which is disproportionately small. The people are not especially small, but those visiting from the midlands generally seem to sink somewhat on arrival. Indeed, there are hotels designed to cater for them, with tiny dogs attached to each table leg. Londoners seldom make it this far but when they do, they are generally ( 'generally' - how it persists - and with such tedious solipsism!) - satisfied, finding much to laugh at as they fall upon the cobbled streets and fail to decipher the foreign accents. These people are accommodated in a tower, built by the mayor, which looks down upon the plaza, with its ever-splashing fountain, even-in-rain-sun-drenched umbrellas and general air of being overlooked. There, upon the balcony, our guests the 'Laughing Londoners' as we fondly term them, are served tea imported from Cumbria; with coffee crystal sugar, tarnished spoons they invariably agree could only have been so bent by Uri Gellar (who 'probably half-lives here') himself - while proceeding to bend them further, wearing themselves out - and glued half-and-half.

Amsterdam Tag. What fun.

*checks andorras baggage for smuggled haikus*

had to pop this to the top, cos it is so brilliant. andorra, michel, get a life.

Sounds to me like a couple of places divided by a common language. Oh hum back to the guard tower.

They both seem to have lives, albeit pointless ones.