Malcolm, Phillip &; A Shirley Safari

The news headlines were not something that generally interested
Malcolm. News just didn't hold his attention. Not that much ever really
did, and if it did, the longevity of his attention span was around five
minutes.

But this morning as he listened to Radio Solent, the preferred station
of his new fianc?, Lill, something grabbed him, holding him, and his
attention, longer than he ever thought possible. It was news just
breaking that would send him on an adventure, and give him his five
minutes of fame.

And we have some breaking news. Over to our roving reporter,
at the scene, at Marwell Zoological Park. Kevin, what's happening
there?

Well, Simon, one of the park's three giraffe's, the youngest of the
three; named Phillip
is missing. At best it seems that he has found a whole in the fence and
wandered off, but at worst he could have been kidnapped. Or should I
say giraffenapped? When Phillip's keeper went to provide the daily feed
Phillip was nowhere to be seen. But however, tyre tracks from a heavy
vehicle have been discovered. But as yet that is all the information we
have. Back to the studio.

Malcolm choked on his decaffeinated coffee, causing him pain in his
lumber region. Malcolm created a little too much calcium and thus lived
with the affliction of kidney stones.
"Did you hear that? Poor Phillip," he exclaimed to the figure of Lill
who was busy reading up on the ins and out of the legal term 'power of
attorney'.
"Ugh?" she grunted.
"Phillip has been kidnapped!"
"Who is Phillip?"
"God, you know who Phillip is!" Malcolm barked at Lill, standing up
banging his coffee cup down on to the work surface, the contents of
which escaped onto his hand and the white sleeve of his newest work
shirt. The coffee was hot but even the scolding didn't distract him.
"Phillip is the giraffe whose image is on the pillow you bought me. The
giraffe that I have three models of. The giraffe that I have a portrait
of. The giraffe who is right under your nose," Malcolm said, venting
all his frustrations, holding out his silk tie which displayed, once
again, the image of Phillip the giraffe, so close to Lill's face that
she could barely breath, let alone focus.
"Oh, that Phillip," said Lill, pulling back, hoping her recognition
might calm him. "Now you run your hand under the tap and I'll go and
get you a clean shirt."
"Clean shirt! What for?"
"So you can go to work. You can't go with a huge coffee stain all up
your sleeve."
"Go to work? Didn't you hear what I said? Phillip has been kidnapped! I
cannot even think about going to work!"
"So, you are not going to work because a giraffe has gone
missing?"
"That's right."

Over the following fifteen minutes something of a tornado ensued. Lill
was no shrinking violet, but even she was quite shocked at Malcolm's
level of distress, and became quite distressed herself, watching him
stomp around the house, huffing and puffing, tears in his eyes,
expletives on his tongue, and a mess in his wake. Finally she left for
work, promising to call in to Malcolm's boss, explaining his
absence.
"What shall I say to her?" Lill asked.
"Tell her the truth of course. She'll understand. She'll probably be as
upset as me. She may even come and help me look."

As Lill drove in to work she kept rolling it over in her mind, 'Look.
What did he mean by look? Surely he doesn't really mean he's going to
look for the giraffe?'

Getting into the office she called Malcolm's manager before she did
anything else, before she made herself a cup of tea, before she checked
the temp's time sheets, before she called down to moan at the
supervisors.

"He said I may even help him look? Look for a bloody giraffe. Has he
lost his mind? Actually no, don't answer that. You don't need to answer
that," screamed Malcolm's manager. "You had better just ring home and
tell him to get in here. He's a housing advisor, not some cross between
David Attenbrough and Sherlock Holmes!"
For once in her life Lill did as she was told without complaint,
without even indignation, as it was obvious that Malcolm's manager
certainly had a point. But on dialling home, at the council and rate
payers expense, she would not be connected with her fianc?, because
Malcolm was gone, in search of his beloved friend, his favourite animal
at his favourite zoo, and his inevitable five minutes of fame.

On calling Malcolm's mobile phone and getting connected straight to his
answer phone Lill didn't know what to do. So she did what she always
did when she didn't know what to do. She made a telephone call at the
council and ratepayers expense.

Malcolm's sister answered on the fourth ring.
"Hello."
"Laura?"
"Oh hi Lill."
"Laura. I have a bit of a problem," and then Lill explained as best she
could the events of that morning.
"Did you call his mobile?" Laura asked.
"Yes, but he's got it switched off. He's changed his answer phone
message. I think he's gone mad. The message says that he is too busy to
talk to anyone, but that if the call is with reference to Phillip, the
missing giraffe, to leave a message and also to call the police and
Marwell!"
"Oh my, perhaps you are right, he's gone mad. He's certainly mad about
that bloody giraffe. I never thought it was quite normal the way he's
always going on about it."
"Perhaps I shouldn't have encouraged him? I only just bought him the
pillow."
"Well&;#8230;&;#8230;" said Laura. "It's a bit strange though.
I've been listening to Ocean FM all morning, and I haven't heard
anything. You heard it on Solent you say?"
"I don't know what to do," said Lill, ignoring the question.
"I'll tell you what. I'll go out in the car after I have got the kids
dressed and see if I can find him. He can't have got that far. I take
it you've got the car?"
"Yeah, I have."

Before changing his answer phone message on his mobile Malcolm had made
a couple of calls. First a call to Marwell. He didn't need to look up
the number. He had it programmed into the memory of the Siemens C35i,
with its stylish and hard to find, giraffe style cover.
The phone had rung once before diverting to a recorded message.

"We apologise, but that due to excessive rainfall all through the month
of March Marwell Zoological Park will be closed for one or two days to
let the site, the animals and staff recover. We hope to resume normal
opening hours no later that the 3rd of April."

The message ended.

'It's a cover-up,' Malcolm said to himself. 'They have lost Phillip and
they don't want any of his fans up there.' He wasn't surprised by the
zoo's behaviour, but on the other hand, he wanted to know what they
were doing to liberate his tall friend, his four-legged, leaf loving
friend.

He made another call.

"Hello, is that the Police?"
"It's the emergency services. Which service please?"
"Well, I don't know, Police, Fire Brigade, all of them. It's about
Phillip. Phillip the missing giraffe. I want to know what action is
being taken?"
"I suggest sir, that you contact your local constabulary and stop
wasting the valuable time of the emergency services," said the
telephone operator with perfect calm.
"You're not fobbing me off like that," explained Malcolm without a hint
of perfect calm. "I know what you are up to. You are trying to cover it
up. Why? That's what I want to know?" He was stamping his feet by now,
"I mean, I know there is going to be a lot of upset people. A lot of
grief. It will probably be something like when Princess Diana died, but
people have a right to know, a right to grieve!"
"Sir, I am terminating this call," said the telephone operator with her
usual perfect calm. Perhaps she was speaking slightly louder than
usual, but she was talking over the top of Malcolm's completely
imperfect calm.
She then hit the reject button, cutting off the line to Malcolm's
mobile, and in turn she reported a serious breach and waste of time
from the mobile number 07951 910655. The report alerted a national
centre that tracked the signal of the telephone and in turn reported
the incident to a police station in the locality. It was Shirley Police
station, a suburb of Southampton.
In his frustration Malcolm dialled 123, re-recorded his answer phone
message and switched the phone off, seconds after his signal had been
located.

"Picture the scene," said the national reporter to his camera man and
to his public, "a leafy suburb, an independent pet store. A man in his
mid thirties, clutching a pillow with a coffee stained sleeve, forcing
a shop assistant to stare at his tie, making enquiries about large,
unusual purchases of straw and hay. Perhaps even saw dust? Just going
out to check the messages on his mobile. Have you seen or heard
anything like it?"

Behind the reporter another tornado was blowing itself into the back of
a panda car, a tornado with a coffee stained sleeve, a pillow and a
silk tie.

"This is Stephen Head, reporting from Southampton on April fools
day."