Tuesday 16 October 2012

Tarquin, the school goat and the seven (borrowed) stolen paintings and rabbit ears


It is amazing just how quickly things start returning to normal after a little holiday, even one as adventurous as a journey to the centre of the Earth, and except for the small incident with young Tarquin today it would have been almost as a distant memory to us all. But Tarquin did get to go home early today due to his mind being in a state of shock, after the incident with the School mascot (the School Goat). Remember only yesterday I mentioned just how good a goats  sense of smell was, and so the school goat got rather aroused by Tarquin’s aroma as a result of his incident in the Swiss Alps with the wild goats. But the school goat is a wirily old beast and more that capable of fending off 15 teachers trying to save Tarquin from a fate worse than death.  I know it was a fate worse than death because Tarquin who was sort of staring the incident in the face so to speak told us it was a fate worse than death and I feel he is the best one to tell us.

Luckily a large space capsule attached to a hot air balloon landed next to Tarquin and the goat, so the goat was distracted for a few seconds allowing Tarquin his chance to run (stagger) away



The art teacher yesterday was saying that there is no decent art work on the school walls at present and was looking rather depressed by it all, which was rather a shame so myself and the dog decided that we would give him a little surprise today and find a few pictures for him to hang in his classroom. The dog said he knew where we could get a couple and no one would notice (much), and dads friend Benny Neckbender said that he would help because he knows a man who knows a man who has a friend in the place that the dog thought might have a few spare pictures. So after a little trip in the dark in a white van on dodgy plates with a hidden chamber in the false floor I took the pictures into school. The Art teacher and the headmaster are very pleased and I would have got a gold star and house points if it was not for young Tarquin screaming distracting the headmaster. My favourite is a self portrait by Meyer de Haan who is wearing a hat with fake red rabbit ears. Someone told me that he often thought he was a rabbit from time to time.

And finally the Ghost Writer was complaining that he had to go to a meeting that lasted all day and was not very exciting

Ooooooo yes we had the electrician visit this morning as our strange fault is still strange so first thing tomorrow they are coming to fix it . . . . . . They have a cunning plan…



I remember seeing 10CC at Knebworth a long time ago

3 comments:

  1. I rarely think I am a raBBit, but sometimes my nose twitches, and so I am not sure. I sure hop I am not a raBBit. No, wait, that was s'pposed to be hope, I sure hope I am not a raBBit. Sorry.

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    1. I rather hope you are not a rabbit Mr ESB. I do not have that many regular readers, and if I was to discover a percentage of them were rabbits it would not be furry bunny (sorry very funny).

      Some might say that if you were a Bunny Girl then that might be OK, but as my blog is dedicated the the greater and deeper meaning of life, the universe and everything Bunny Girls might be a distraction. I am not sure if Bunny Girls write blogs or not or even follow blogs but in the great master plan one must assume that what is Hare today is gone tomorrow.

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    2. You are in luck. I did more research. I have been studying Montreal and Quebec lately, and I have discovered that raBBits rarely studying Montreal and Quebec if they do not live there. I do not live there, so I am pretty sure I am not a raBBit. Also, when raBBit do study Montreal and Quebec they do so mainly with an interest of things bunnyish, lettuce production, hiding holes, carrots, hunting seasons, number of citizens named Elmer Fudd, and the aggressive index of dogs. I found that I had no interest in those things, and raBBits also do not use Google Earth, which I did. But I did have lettuce on my sandwich tonight, warning.

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