By way of a change I’ve been on a walking holiday in Crete where we had a leader telling us exactly where we should go. A retired police officer from Nottinghamshire he was not only good company but also good at finding the route from somewhat confused and at times creative instructions. My blog this week has something in common with the previous missing persons blogs but in this respect let us described it as an imagined account by our erstwhile leader. So it is written in the form of what I imagine a police report might be, and is about the lovely bunch of people we had the pleasure to meet on our organised walks.

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Report: Crete October 2014

Observations:

“I was proceeding to the hotel in a leisurely fashion when I encountered the very first of my ‘guests’, she is described as of mature years and appeared to have had a career in the accident and emergency department of her local hospital. An avid walker and talker, she effected a Midlands accent in the manner of that fine actress:Miss Julie Walters. Like the other suspects she was carrying a rucksack and I am of the firm opinion that she may well have been carrying enough medical supplies to effect a small surgical operation.

Next on my list was a couple from North of the Border. He was as fit as a butcher’s dog and appeared occasionally to talk in tongues that none of the rest of the group were able to understand.They was obliged on their first night to stay in a small almost windowless cell by a bolshy couple from south who had flown in from Athens with ‘a piece of paper’ that was in no way a peace offering.

After some in depth questioning the female person sang like a bird on the last evening of incarceration.

‘I’m from the Mumbles,do you know what that means?’ The assembled group had no answer.The speaker, a bright spark from South Wales had it. “It means a lady’s chest!” We thought she was kidding and that she could not be serious, and in one respect that was true, she was rarely serious over the whole week, laughing frequently. It gave us all new meaning for the verb ‘mumbling’.

‘I don’t know why I’m doing this?’ was the repeated call of the the partner of couple number two,though it sounded more like:
‘Oi duunowoiamdointhes?’ This is the call of the wild Bristol bird lacking in confidence, it evaporated later in the week as confidence was discovered.The ‘larger built retail manager at her side’ was a beacon of help and support throughout, his energetic climb up a steep slope and the manner in which he gripped the surrounding thorny bushes, later in the week, was a good moment to tell us that he suffered vertigo. Nothing would have knocked him off that slope. They makes them tough in Brissle.

Flying in from Oz,the small but very fit Oz was possibly the fittest of all of the bunch. An energetic run every morning kept her up to speed.“They don’t do walking in Australia” she informed us.They really do not know what they are missing, and now that they are not really that good at sport any more perhaps they should. Little Oz will lead the way.

There was a very smart lady from Pinner
Who seemed to get thinner and thinner
She walked up dale and down
With never a frown,
Unless she was served meat for her dinner.

This charming lady appeared to be a vegetarian personage.

Couple number three. He had the bearing of an officer and a gentleman.
Possibly a flying officer and a gentleman, and his lady wife seemed to finish each gruelling walk as if she’s just strolled through the haberdashery department of Harrods. His insistence that three large glasses of beer each night was simply to replace lost salts and dehydration was taken very seriously, by him. Quite rightly.

A mysterious woman in purple who was also fond of a beer was also present at the scene.
Little is know of this person though it is reputed that she worked in the City in IT.
I expect she is rescuing the banking system for us all.

‘He’s always lagging behind with his camera’ The lady appeared to be an artist of some sort. She was with a bloke who was always at the back of the group.He claimed to be a cartoonist, though this is debatable. Personally I though he was a bit shifty, and may well require further investigation. He was certainly very ‘bolshy’ on that first night and it was only thanks to my powers of persuasion that I was able to keep the peace.

This ends my report on the group.I would recommend that no further action is required in this case at present save to inform and advise the suspects outlined above of their responsibilities in the future.

PC 1410 Ollie Day  Signed this date: 26/10/14.

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This is another from the book, in this case the illustration is not quite faithful to the words, but there you go!
Please note the pork pie in the plastic cover, which in days of yore would benefit from being there for at least a week. The fly is on the inside. Believe me I witnessed this, the pie was delicious.

Words as ever by that taciturn Yorkshireman Gordon Thorburn, a man of few words, unless you are paying for them.

http://www.gordonthorburn.co.uk

The King’s Breeches

This city-centre pub is very popular with exiles from the old Iron Curtain countries, since it reminds them so much of the railway-station waiting rooms back home. Connoisseurs of 1950s minimalism will also enjoy the five well-seasoned South American banknotes pinned to the stone-effect wallpaper above the bar.

Other establishments near-by offer a full menu plus blackboard specials, and live music in the evenings. The King’s Breeches provides for a niche market to one side of the business-lunch crowd, with a small selection of superheated pies out of a Perspex cabinet. The free paper serviette assists easy eating rather than forcing on customers the embarrassing refinements of cutlery and plate. After dark, a juke box can be switched on by special request and any record played, provided it is Crystal Chandeliers.

Lecturers from the art college, attracted by the working-class atmosphere, drink no more than two units while chattering incessantly and waving their hands about. Journalists and flat-capped regulars prefer to ensure inner cleanliness with sequential pints of the memorable local bitter, reading their sporting papers in silence while flicking ash into dampening lagoons on the mahogany tops of original Victorian tables.

The tenant landlord, a small, thin, dark, taciturn man who is never rude to anyone but never friendly either, is greatly distressing the brewery by not dying. The predictions of the Chief Actuary of the Publicans, Sinners and General Insurance Co indicate that pub landlords’ shortlivedness is second only to those who combine lion taming with drug dealing and cave diving, but our man is past 70 and showing no signs. When he does die, the brewery will rip the pub asunder, rename it The Tup and Tart, install satellite TV, a juke box, and a manager who will have to call the police on Fridays and Saturdays.