"I'm shy, paranoid, whatever word you want to use. I hate fame. I've done everything I can to avoid it." No, really, he did... But the poor bugger still has to sit on a big pile of money $400 million high and repeatedly have sweaty, monkey sex with Amber Heard (The blonde girl off of Zombieland)
So I'm guessing that he considers his life a massive failure. What with all the fame and the money and having to spend 14 years gettin-jiggy-wid French popstrel Vanessa Paradis previous to that.
I mean, just look at the quality of his taste in available women, the poor little fellah. But anyway, enough of comparing myself to this professional pirate impersonator. Let us concentrate more on our differences... I was going to do a table and be all scientific and stuff, but I wrote it out on paper first and... to be honest, I couldn't read what I'd written after most of the ink had been washed away by my uncontrollable tears. But suffice it to say, I am not 'Best buds' with Tim Burton, I do not have Alice Cooper on speed-dial and I do not own a vineyard in St. Tropez. But the main difference is that I would love to be famous. I know it changes you. I know that there wouldn't be a portion of my life that was private anymore (<remember this bit for the big reveal later) And I don't mean fairly famous... I'm pretty sure that I'm 'fairly famous' already - I mean, you guys have all heard of me, Michael Sheen (Yes, THAT Michael Sheen) wished me Happy Christmas last month. I also count Yvette Fielding, Dr. Karl Fielding and Rufus Hound as close, personal friends (As long as you don't tell them about it - I'm not sure that it's 100% reciprocal - I mean, they like and retweet a lot of my stuff... Well some of it... maybe a couple each, tops... I'm so alone.) and Scott Page, the saxophonist from Pink Floyd, thinks I'm cool - No, really he does. But I want a gold plated helicarrier with a giant naked picture of myself on the bottom, I want Vin Diesel to walk everywhere behind me just punching his left fist into his right palm every time i talk to anyone, whilst wearing the sunglasses from 'Pitch Black'. I want whistling lobsters as shoulder-pads. Am I ever going to be that rich? Not on my own, no... What I need are followers (No, not 'Drink the Coolaid' type followers - put that straight-jacket down) I mean, like a regular audience who can spread the word and increase the numbers of the Dandy Nation. To that end, I have done the unthinkable... From tomorrow, 28th January, to 1st February 2016 All three of my Chimping Dandy books will be FREE to download onto your Kindle, or Kindle compatible device from Amazon. Here are the Links: Mumblings of an Irate Pangolin - My First book... Read the reviews if you're unsure as to whether to download it FOR FREE - All five star, all of the time The Pangolin Yodels - My second book... All five star reviews again (except the one four star review). You don't need to have read 'Mumblings' before you read this one - But you know, there's no reason not to because you can download it FOR FREE And finally... Do you have children, are they of an age where they're not so easily scared and/or overawed by life on this big ball of snot that we call 'The Earth'? Do you read them bed-time stories, or throw a book at them and say "Read this until you fall asleep"? Well, if you do, then you should totally get this: The Collected Children's Pangolin Primer - This is a collection of volumes 1 and 2 from above, but with all the drugs, sex and swearing taken out (I think it might say 'bugger' once... But it's used as an expletive, not a verb) - It has a picture of my Son on the front... It's pretty dim, it's a bit like those 'The longer you stare into the fog, the more zombies you will see' type thing, but he's definitely there. This can also be downloaded FOR FREE So, if I want to be rich, why am I giving my books away? Well, in all honesty, I'm trying to get you hooked, so that when my fiction books come out (And the Pangolin books contain some of the stories that they're based on if you need a sweetener) you'll dive onto them like an extra from 'Breaking Bad' dives onto anything blue and translucent. Just think of me as your friendly neighborhood drug dealer - only hairier, and possibly fatter with a slightly less casually racist Hispanic name. But seriously Buy... I mean, GET FOR FREE, my books, make me famous, I'l buy you a chinchilla or something when I am. Totally, you will probably have to remind me though. Remember when I said that I wouldn't be worried that none of my life would be private? Well, if you get these books, you'll know pretty much everything there is to know about me anyway - And that's got to be worth at least nothing at all... Hasn't it?
I’m aware that I haven’t done a ‘State of the Dandy Nation’ post for a while. In fact, it’s been so long that there are probably people reading this who don’t even know what that means.
Every month, when this blog was new, and fresh, and throbbing, I would let you wonderful people into some of the stats from the previous month (or however long it had been since the previous time that I’d done it) – I’d include things like the top-ten all-time posts and what countries had checked the blog out more than any other, or what strange and odd things people had typed into Google to find us.
I like thinking of us as us you know… You the reader, me the purveyor of lurid scoria, the people who visit the blog purely because I very often slip a word into the Metadata that people often use when searching for pornography – It helps to foster inclusion, and it makes me giggle uncontrollably.
Did I tell you about the time when I got confused for a busty, red-headed camgirl model, for like six months or something? People were googling “IsHotMyself Dandy” (Which was the name of a site she was featured on) But were being pointed to my page, explaining about the wonderful day when I shot myself… Easy mistake to make I suppose, I’m hoping that at least some of them stayed (If you are one of those people, please leave a message in the comments… I’ll buy a red wig and post a topless photo of myself as a treat for you… Might even sign it) - I was going to post a picture of the young lady concerned... But, I couldn't really find one that was 'appropriate' - You could try the search yourself, just not a work, OK?
Anywho, nowadays, if you want to know the all-time top-ten posts, I post them on the right-hand side of the main page, so you can take a look yourself. As far as our audience goes – It’s mostly the USA, followed by Russia, the UK, then the Ukraine… With a load of European countries making up the rest of the top ten. To be honest, the only thing people have googled to find us, other than the name of the blog, are the words ‘Dzit Dit Gaii’ (Which is Navajo for ‘The Mountain that is White’) – and only goes to show that the Internet is still full of conspiracy theorists. And that they’re coming to me for answers – The poor confused lambs.
Anyway, I wanted to do something different this time, if you follow me on Twitter (@Chimping_Dandy) you’ll know that I occasionally post phrases, in the style of Redtop headlines that, when typed into Google – Show search results where this blog (in general, not this post in particular) is the first result. I thought that I might share a few of them with you… In the vain hope that you might find them funny, or odd, or a cry for help from a fat, bald man whose readership figures aren’t what they were when he was posting every day instead of having a lunch-break.
I’ll start with the most recent one…
Colin Firth makes an example of lesbian weasels using cutlery – Takes you HERE
Alvaston Nazi hunter finds pizza from 1953 – Takes you HERE
Stickleback tin helmet brain lesion made Benedict Cumberbatch try breast feeding – Takes you HERE
A drunk moorhen on its gap-year wears teenage student underwear – Takes you HERE
Christmas blindness blamed on primrose cannabis vodka – Takes you HERE
You know, if you get a spare minute, maybe you'd want to try this for yourself, it'll probably waste a few minutes, it might even be fun - If you find a good one, send it in - I'll say thanks and everything... Probably
I had a day off from my day-job yesterday (yesterday being, in this case, 12/1/16)
you know… A lot of you won’t recognise the enormity of that statement – But those
who have met me face to face (or face to
any part of my morphologically improbable body) will know that I don’t take
time off. In fact, I often get reminded
by my colleagues, in the latter part of the year, “Oi, Dandy, you know you’ve
still got 22 days holiday left to take in the next two weeks?”
But anywho, I was off work yesterday and that was the
important thing. Initially, it was
because my daughter had her last meaningful parents’ evening at her senior
school and I wanted to see if any of her teachers had suddenly become less
ineffectual (some had, some hadn’t, as is
the way of things) – Please note, I wholly appreciate that Secondary School
teachers have a set of problems all their own, mostly that they’re no longer
allowed to punish, discipline, chastise, castigate, reprove or otherwise beat
senseless their charges, who are often taller, wider, spottier and not beholden
to any kind of government ratified rulesets that tie their hands firmly behind
their backs – But then some are just namby-pamby twig-eating liberal hippies (My name’s Ben Elton… Goodnight!)
Ah no, don’t go… I haven’t finished yet.
Where were we? Ah yes, day off. As luck would have it, it was not long after
Mrs. Dandy had told me that my presence was required, and then reminded me – a mere
fifteen or sixteen times, that I should book the day as holiday, that I was
contacted by the massively popular, Norfolk based mixed media artist, Caroline Hack
– whom I’ve known, via a plethora of mutual friends on social media, for a
number of years, who requested a ‘meeting’.
N.B. Aren’t commas brilliant?
If you’ve not heard of the hugely talented lady in question,
then it probably means that you’re just not that into historic whaling or
wildly inappropriate Scandinavian songs about whaling, or whaling shanties, or
fabric sperm whales, or Moby Dick, or maps, or the scientific study of the
actual ratio of Polar-bear head size to polar bear skull size (Did you know, the Inuit name for the polar
bear is ‘Nanook’? – I know I didn’t) – If you get the chance to visit her
at one of her many residencies, you totally should – She’s very educational. The
Memsahib even described her as incredibly passionate (Which is odd, because I only left them alone long enough for me to get
the teas in – Earl Grey they were, very nice… I hugely recommend the Coffee House at
the Central Museum & Art Gallery in Derby – Good staff, very clean.)
The brilliant Nature Gallery at Derby Museum
We met up in the Nature Gallery of my local museum (see above) – Being two people who had
never met ‘in the flesh’ – We agreed that, to make things easier, she would
wear a badge featuring a whale and I would wear a bow-tie, as I often tend to
in every-day life. We found each other
with not too much bother, as most of the other patrons were less than four feet
high and we could see over them – It was a visiting school party, rather than
the organised outing for morally corrupt dwarves that you lot were no doubt
The reason for this somewhat cloak and dagger meeting was
that I’d received the honour of being invested into a world-spanning art project
that Caroline has masterminded. She has
produced a limited edition of exactly 100 numbered, hand-made, foot-long,
fabric whales that she provides to the great and the good (and myself, and the famous author and mental
health Champion James Josiah, and my good friend Nathan – whose wife Victoria
has the patience of a saint – trust me) on the proviso that they ‘have
adventures’ and are photographed doing so – It’s a sort of global, movable art
installation you see, in a ‘here is one of my whales at the top of the Empire
State Building.’ or ‘This whale is posed, ironically, on an authentic James
Durfee harpoon from 1862.’ Or ‘Here is a whale being held by Russell Crowe on
the set of Noah.’ It’s a sort of a big deal you see, made me genuinely proud to
be a part of it, and all it cost me was the basing of a character on Caroline
in my new book – The fact that I chose to base a Goddess on her didn’t enter
into it at all of course. *cough*
I was also introduced to the thoroughly wonderful Andrea
Hadley-Johnson and her colleague, Rachel Atherton, both from the museum. Who,
apart from being stupendous people in their own right, let us surreptitiously,
but very reverently, fondle a real, live (well,
not live, obviously – That’d be bloody silly, we’d have drowned and/or gotten horribly gored and eaten or something
probably) narwhal tusk. They’re
funny old things you know - quite heavy, hollow, and almost freakishly smooth –
Which is due to all the ceaseless fondling I should imagine – And yes, I’m
talking about the tusk, not the nice ladies from the museum – I don’t know them
anywhere near well enough to be able to say whether the same description
Mrs Dandy, a Narwhal tusk, and half a Rachel Atherton
There was a tiny amount of pomp and a smattering of
ceremony, photos were taken, words were said, the Pangolin-whale was introduced
to the real Pangolin who resides in the museum’s Nature Gallery and then passed
into my greasy clutches with whispered washing instructions and threats that my
ownership was merely a ‘Fostering’ relationship and the artist retained the
right to instantly repossess it if she suspected any kind of foul-play was on
Pagolin Whale meets Pangolin (Tweet via Derby Museum Nature Gallery)
At one point, Ms Atherton asked me if I was a ‘Naturalist’ –
which is a damn fair question under the circumstances, and she was politely
taken aback when I replied, “No, I’m just an idiot, who sometimes names his
books after Pangolins.” – Which is, from now on, how I will introduce myself to
dignitaries of any type.
On the whole, it was an excellent day, I met some wonderful
people, visited a truly brilliant museum (Support
your local museum – Both by attending regularly and donating if you can – They are
under threat), drank some splendid tea, and I became the owner of a whale,
who amongst you can say that you’ve spent a dull Tuesday doing all those
For those of you who would like to know what number my
whale was, of the strictly 100 whales involved in the project… well, It was
number 101, obviously.
I spent the Christmas break, treading the windy (as in oft swept by the wind) windy (as in torturously convoluted) halls and
corridors of Dandy Towers, reading great leather-bound volumes of Chaucer and
yelling selected quotes out of the window at the unkindness of ravens that seem
to have taken up semi-permanent residence in the trees between the southern
tennis court and the helipad.
“Time and Tide wait for no man!” I would scream repeatedly
at their dispassionate mawkish beaks
“Murder will out, this is my conclusion!” I shouted more
than once (Mainly because at that point,
I had accidentally misidentified them as crows)
It was usually at the point when my face started to turn a
rather fetching shade of puce, that Heckmondswyke would appear from the serving
staff’s hidden walkway to bring me a steaming cup of weasel coffee and the latest
edition of ‘Making a Gimp-suit for your Clydesdale’ (Part 1 - £1.99 Remaining 624
issues - £5.99) to calm my nerves. I would sit on the granite window-seat
of the Ladies Tower wondering exactly how I would tell Mrs. Dandy that I had,
once again, accidentally defaced another pair of bespoke doe-skin promenading trousers
during my excursion.
It was whilst I was being given a wet-shave by the upper-bathroom
houseboy that the dear Memsahib suggested that we try an alternative method of
recreation that evening… Knowing my love of entertainment where fresh-faced Sons
of the Empire (The British Empire, that
is) take on the foul revolutionary Colonial powers and give them a sound
thrashing, often seeing them on the business end of a bloodied nose and comically
disheveled hair, she suggested that we watch the splendid Colin Firth vehicle ‘Kingsman’
– You should all go out and watch this film immediately. It is splendid, as I
may have mentioned previously.
It led, as most things seem to do, to a heated discussion, as
to what constitutes a ‘Real’ Gentleman – And more worryingly, whether today’s modern
woman actually wants a Gentleman as a partner in the first place. As you may probably have gathered from the
name of this blog, I consider myself sufficiently more flamboyant than the
average person to identify with the ‘Dandy’ classification. As funds, situation and time allows – I generally
overdress for any given occasion. It’s my ‘thing’… Along with identifying with the
tenets of an earlier, simpler, age, and attracting peoples’ attention by poking
them firmly in the shoulder or haunches.
To my mind there are several, easy things that one may do to
be perceived as a Gentleman. (In no
Never eat until all participants in any given meal have been
If the meal is self-service, serve yourself last.
Always hold open a door, and in the case that you are
holding it open for another male, offer a questioning glance. If the glance is
replied to with a shake of the head, let the door go and do not look back.
Never wear a hat indoors. Unless it is used as an obvious Gentleman’s
Realise that a hat may be reversed only under specific
circumstances (e.g. driving in an open-topped car)
Never give advice that has not been requested.
When walking with a female, or child, always walk on the
side nearest the road. When walking a dog, the opposite is true.
Always be kind to shop and/or restaurant staff.
Know that there are a selection of situations where it is
preferable to come second, especially when it is not technically a race.
Judge a person’s character on their deeds, rather than their
Be able to shine a pair of Oxfords to a mirror finish.
Admit when you are in the wrong.
Correctly wear cufflinks as often as humanly possible.
Respect the opinions of others, no matter how obviously
wrong they are.
Tell the truth, constantly (people get used to it eventually) and as a continuation, do not
cheat, or steal – For that way Caddishness lies
Know which cutlery to use for eating a banana.
Be able to launch (and
safely recover) a falcon.
Never get angry to the point where you lose yourself in an argument.
Be able to identify the birds, trees and animals of your
Do not hesitate to put a suffering animal out of its misery.
Never start a fight, but always finish one.
Know that there are circumstances where each and every one
of these rules may be safely bent and/or broken, so that your Gentlemanliness
will remain intact.
Leave me your thoughts… Gentleman – Could you keep to these
rules more often than not? Ladies –
Would a Gentleman be more attractive to you if he did?
We have a TV program over here in the UK called ‘MostHaunted’; I think that I've mentioned it before. For those who don’t feel like clicking on
that link, it’s about a group of friends and family who travel to old castles
and pubs and disused military installations and try to interact with the
spirits of the departed. The sort of
program that, if it were to have been made in the USA for instance, would have
to have the words ‘For entertainment purposes only’ written in large, friendly
letters somewhere in the titles, so that none of the viewers had to deal with
any uncomfortable ideas or suddenly have the urge to ‘try this at home’. (Believe it or not, I've spoken to one of the
cast of the show about this very subject – I shan't name-drop which one*,
because I'm not like that, but she says that she hates that whole ‘For entertainment
The Most Haunted team
Anyway, last night, I had a dream where I was some minor
member of the team, on an investigation (I'm a bit of a fanboy of the program, so this was only a matter of time I suppose –
and if one of the production team are listening, I really wouldn't mind tagging
along one night – you could do a ‘no-name blogger special', you've already got
the Internet presence after all.) – But the odd thing was, I remembered it when I
woke up. So, in true Robert Louis
Stevenson style, I wrote it down. We also have/had very similar moustaches you
know, Stevenson and I, but that’s neither here nor there.
Bear in mind that it was a dream, so the details aren't
going to be factual or accurate, and I've added some bits so that it makes a
little more sense. I suppose I could have embellished it a bit more and saved
it to be next years’ Christmas Ghost Story, but I’d probably have forgotten it.
I hope you like it.
The minibus that the hotel had found for us was older than I
was. I remember turning to Stuart, pointing to a hole surrounded by rust at the
bottom of the door, and shaking my head, but he just shrugged and carried on
resignedly loading the gear on to the rear seats as if to say ‘Yeah, but what’re
you gonna do?’. It was starting to get
dark, but at least the rain had finally stopped.
Normally, we’d get there nice and early set up in the daylight, take a
few readings, set up the radio mics and suchlike. But our shiny new crew-bus had decided that
that was all way to easy and had thrown a strop, as well as some vitally important
part of the engine. The guy in the
garage said that the part had to come all the way from Germany, and it would be
a couple of days at least, so that was nice.
Once we were loaded, the trip around the ring-road did
little to lift our spirits, we’d hit Leeds’ rush-hour and everyone and their
brother was wanting to go the same way as us.
At least it gave me some time to think about the job. It was only my third gig with the team and I
was still very much ‘back-room’ staff. I wasn't ruggedly handsome enough to be
in front of the cameras I suppose; it didn't help that I wasn't much of a
screamer either, so I had limited entertainment value – I’d had enough contact
with disembodied voices and doors opening and closing on their own in my own
home to let it shock me in a damp, disused factory by the river in
Heckmondwike, which was lucky really, as that was exactly where we were
heading. We’d got the call a few weeks
before, from the PR team of a development company that was converting said
factory into flats. They asked us if we’d like to work on something a bit more ‘current’
than we’d normally been used to. It
seemed that they’d been excavating one of the buildings to see if the
foundations were up to the change of use they were going to put them through and
had found some strange ladder-shaped configuration of rotting railway sleepers
about a metre down. Then the County
Archaeologist had somehow got wind of it and had wanted the chance to take a
look before they all got dug up. Everything was going well until they found the
first body and they'd had to call the coroner. The bodies weren't recent,
probably dating from about when the factory was built, but their numbers, and
the method of their burial was very odd.
They’d found seventeen bodies so far: two adults – A man and a woman,
and fifteen children all of similar ages.
They were lying peacefully, no sign of foul-play or struggle, wrapped in
the remains of Hessian sacks that were all neatly tied at the top with leather
thonging. They had been laid to rest in the spaces between the rungs of the ‘ladder’; it’d given the construction guys quite a shock when they first found them, But it
wasn't until the bodies had been taken away for reburial that things really
started to get strange. It was as if
someone had opened the ‘I-Spy book of Hauntings’
at page one and started ticking things off in order.
There were cold spots, which you’d probably expect in a
Victorian factory next to a river. The same could be said for the unexplained
draughts and rattling doors. Then the
reports of half seen shadows and disappearing lunchboxes had started, then
someone claimed that he had been reaching behind him for a hammer when someone
had gently placed it into his hand, although he was the only person in the room. It all came to a head when the Yorkshire
Evening Post ran a story from a builder who had left the job after being
followed around for his entire shift by the sound of giggling children.
I think the developers thought that getting us involved
would give them a bit of positive publicity, maybe they were right, I don’t
know much about that side of things. The
house I live in is haunted and I manage OK. Maybe they thought they’d get some
free publicity. When we got to site, the
rain had just started again, you could see the mist of it blowing past the
floodlights that were spread around. A
man wearing a hard-hat and a hi-viz jacket waved us through the gate and we
parked up next to the other, working crew-bus that the talent had used to get
there earlier in the day and made our way over to the group, who were huddled
under ‘Most Haunted’ branded golfing umbrellas and looking into a hole.
“So, that’s where you found them?”
Yvette asked the foreman who was desperately trying to look comfortable for the
“Yes,” he replied, “we’ve
extended the trench, but those seventeen… people were all we found. We’ve just
had the go-ahead to remove the wood and check the foundations.”
“Well, we’ll do our best to find
out why they’re still here and hopefully help them to cross over,” she turned
dramatically, straight to camera, “on tonight’s Most Haunted. OK, cut there, we’ll add the sting and that’ll
do it I think.” Then she turned to me, somewhat less dramatically, “We’re set
up in that building over there, the Foreman said it has all the mod-cons, which
means it has a working kettle and a jar of instant coffee. Did you remember to
bring the milk?” she took a sip from a large Starbucks takeaway mug.
I smiled and nodded, then started unpacking the gear from
the van. The room that she’d indicated
turned out to be an old machine shop that had had most of the heavy machinery
removed. The walls were red-brick under
a coating of grease and the steel tables were all welded to the floor. It took me the best part of an hour to set up
the desk and connect all the wiring and I was still hunched under the desk when
Karl walked in. He kicked the sole of my
boot to get my attention and I cracked my head on the underside of the table
whilst cursing his ancestry in Klingon.
“Oops, sorry mate. Just been
talking to one of the site security guys.
It seems that the next building down the river is a bit of a ‘hotspot’
at the minute. We want to setup some
lights and stuff in there, but there’s no juice. Can you throw a cable down
“Yeah Boss, no problem, I’ve got a
reel in the van.”
I rubbed the growing lump on my head as he went outside and
I muttered something unsavoury under my breath.
Grabbing the cable, I wandered down towards the building Karl had
mentioned, bumping into Yvette, who was sheltered under an umbrella, looking
down into the oily river below.
“Thinking about going for a swim?”
I asked, trying to attract her attention without actually using the words ‘Can
you move out of the way, because this reel of cable is really heavy.’
“No, I was just wondering why
they were there, why they were buried and then had a factory built on top of
them, why they were in sacks?”
“Cheaper than coffins,” I
replied, “perhaps you’ll get to ask them later?”
She smiled and nodded, still
looking into the water. She blinked and turned to me as if she’d just
remembered something, “Let me show you where we need lighting.”
My million candlepower torch showed that the building was very
much like the one we’d set up camp in. A
couple of the skylights were broken, letting the steady stream of rain make growing
puddles on the floor. A bramble bush had made its way inside through a
half-opened fire door and some of the heavier, cast iron framed machine tools
were still there – More expensive for the previous owners to move than they
were worth. The main difference was the
sound of a steadily ringing telephone. I
pointed at Yvette, putting my thumb and little finger up to the side of my head
with a questioning expression. She shook
her head in response. The sound echoed off
the damp brick walls, making it sound like it was coming from everywhere at
once. We crept around the darkened room, tripping over the corners of lifting
tiles, the sound getting louder as we headed away from the door and towards the
furthest corner. Even when there was no
further to go, the ringing still sounded wrong somehow, like it was muffled or
I was wearing earmuffs. But it was still
urgent, the ringing bells demanding to be answered. I scanned the torch
backwards and forwards over the wall, but saw nothing except a single 1940’s
metal sign, advertising that ‘Careless talk costs lives’ with a child-like
drawing of a busy train carriage. I gently
touched the sign and pulled my finger away with a yelp as it vibrated at the
same time as the phone rang.
“It’s behind there,” I whispered,
as I took a screwdriver from my belt and slid it behind the sign, easily levering
the rusty screws from the brickwork.
In an alcove, completely covered by the sign, was what
seemed to be an old army field telephone with a mouldering canvas cover. I tipped my head towards it and pointed again
at Yvette, who shook her head and took a step back. The phone rang another four
times before I plucked up enough courage to pick it up. At first I could just hear
the wind, then faintly, but getting louder as if the person on the other end
was getting closer, I heard a calm, male voice.
“Tell them it’s all right, I’m
the first one here, but it’s all right. They shouldn’t be scared.”
Then the line went dead.I lowered the handset, constantly looking at it as if I expected it to
turn into a snake in my hand at any moment.When I put it back onto the cradle I realised that the braided cord
coming from the box ended abruptly in a knot of corroded copper wires about an
inch away.There didn’t even appear to
be a cable that the phone could have been connected to in the past.Then the realisation hit me just as the phone
began to ring again...