Buzzing

I have found that the curd of the bee has strange properties when ingested. After I had consumed the curd, I was overcome with a dangerous vexation, and felt an urgency in my bowels that I have never experienced before or since. I was compelled to empty my guts immediately and with extreme rapidity, but not through the usual channels, and on that grim matter I can reveal no more for fear of offending my female readership.

That unpleasantness over, I felt a sharp tingle at the base of my spine, which I at first attributed to a teaspoon that had I swallowed as a child, but I quickly discerned that I had developed a painful carbuncle on my lower back. I wasted no time in pouring Domestos onto the infected area to destroy any germs, but counter-intuitively, this only aggravated the pimple.

When I try to prod or squeeze the area, my fingers ache and swell. I fear I may be turning into some form of bee, and this abscess is the first evidence of a sting growing.

I hope I am not one of those bees that dies when it administers its sting, for I have already stung my own handz fifteen time today.

Bee Curd

The face of Blanche, when its jowls are tweaked, blurts curd from its wizened mouth! When spread upon an oatcake, it tastes not unlike horseradish.

Notes on the Bee

Today's inspection of the dead bee reaped two curious revelations. The insect is dead, of that there can be no doubt, yet its sting retains its venom. My swollen, throbbing pinkie pays testament to this fact. This was the first of the revelations.

The second divulged itself as I prodded and squeezed the bee's underbelly, in the hope that a tiny udder might be exposed to corroborate my initial surmise. Unfortunately, no teats are yet apparent, though I am not disappointed because a rather more intriguing theory has presented itself.

On the bee's stomach, a secondary face is observable. It appears to have the structure and expression of a gurning human female, which alarmed as much as it excited me upon discovering it. Its physiognomy is that of Blanche Hunt, Deidre Barlow's irascible and interfering mother from the longrunning British soap Coronation Street. It is beyond my ability to conjecture how such a thing may have evolved, but I would assume it is a rudimentary form of defense.

More thoughts tomorrow.

A Fortuitous Discovery

I had all but abandoned my search for bees yesterday, when I hit upon a scheme. I would hunt instead for wasps - the natural enemy of the bee - and host a small garden party in their honour. The bees, being jealous of the wasps, would swarm towards my home, whereupon I would capture them in some sort of tupperware and conduct my experiments upon them. I felt I should thank the wasps for their part in this, and settled upon a fresh cream meringue for each of them. I had got as far as donning a duffle coat to shield my brittle frame from the elements as I made my way to the bakers, when my finger tip made contact with something small and furry in the coat's deepest pocket.

Though I was understandably anxious about what this might be (I at first assumed it was Fingermouse), I forced myself to explore further. It was a dead bee. My plans had seemingly come to fruition, and I felt a surge of joy in several of my various glands.

This is a regular brute of a bee, and I have spent the bulk of today examining it with a tiny comb I have designed specifically for this purpose. No udders have yet revealed themselves, but I am hopeful that tomorrow will bring rich discoveries.

Absence of Bees

I begin to question the wisdom (or sense) of embarking upon my bee study during winter, when all the bees are dead or hiding.

Flushed with the confidence of early morning, I paraded around my loft waving a pillowcase lined with crystalised ginger in a bid to lure (or coax) some bees into entering the sack, but this was not as successful as I had hoped. Feeling demoralised (or disheartened), I foraged in the back garden, hoping to uncover a stray hive, but again this came to nought.

The low buzzing from the basement (or cellar) tempted me to investigate, but I cannot venture down there because my innate timidity prevents me. That part of the house remains abhorrent to me because of the dark secret (or bloated corpse) that resides there.

I must be positive - tomorrow will bring bees!

Bee Searching

To begin my pioneering study of bees, I have decided I must look every inch the scientist. I cannot afford a Science-gown or Science-cuffs, so I have had to make do with oiling my hair and squinting.

My study requires that I find a ready source of bees. I have searched around my home for hives but there are none to be found. However, I did find a great many earwigs beneath the carpet in the bathroom. I quickly scanned their bellies for teats, but none of them possessed any, so I crushed the majority of them under my thumbs.

I have often heard a buzzing from the basement, which I have, at times, optimistically attributed to bees, but for obvious reasons I cannot go down there to confirm this. My study seems snookered before it has begun. I have a few ideas as to how to catch upwards of three bees tomorrow, using an old trick I picked up in the Sudan. I can only hint at this technique, for I was sworn to secrecy by the student nurse who told me of it.

A Bee Theory

Inspired by the erudition of my academic visitors, today I have developed a bold hypothesis that runs counter to the received wisdom of prominent western apiculturists. It has long been held that bees create honey through the theft of flower-nectar, which they take back to their hives and mix with hot wax. However, I believe that this theory is bunk and I aim to prove it through long nights of research.

It is my contention that honey actually derives from miniature udders that dangle from the fuzzy underside of bees. I believe that ants or aphids sneak into the hives at night and gently milk the bees as they doze. Beekeepers then crack open the hives and behold the liquid sweetness within, which they then purloin and sell to local schools, etc.

Yesterday's Visit Described

I find myself perplexed by the events of yesterday, and wholly incapable of explaining them to any degree of adequacy, so I have elected to give you the accounts offered by the two groups of Academics who visited me. Between them, a single truth may become apparent.


Professor Jessica Flitey's Account: I present a brief account at Mr Carew's request so that he can post it on his internet diary for the enlightenment of his small readership. He insisted that I keep my vocabulary simple as he believes his readership to consist primarily of 'pygmies and gypsies'. Ergo, I have eschewed obfuscatory academic jargon. Interested readers are invited to note that a fuller account of today's events will appear in my forthcoming monograph On Thumbs and Manatees: The Curious Case of Horton Carew (University of Duncairn Press, 2007), alongside many other preternatural episodes that I have recorded in my long history of studying Mr Carew.

I arrived on the morning of Friday 17th February 2006 at Mr Carew's home on the outskirts of Dundee with a select crew of postgrads. Mr Carew's house is situated directly on the notorious Foggie-Toddler ley line and was originally a site for a Victorian abattoir, which is doubtlesly causally linked to the innumerable inexplicable events associated with him. Regrettably, a small team of psychiatric doctors were already talking to Mr Carew when we arrived: these people unfortunately acted in a most unprofessional manner throughout my investigation.

We found Mr Carew in a state of some agitation, his attempt to prepare a tray of tea and battenburg cake for us having been scuppered by poltergeist activity of a particularly vehement type. I had my postgrads conduct a brief seance, and they quickly concluded that the battenburg had been sabotaged by the spirit of a departed Victorian Medium, apparently frustated that her ability to converse with the dead was no longer very impressive.

She admitted via oujia board that she had been toying with Mr Carew for a long while, and habitually messed up his hair while he slept (Mr Carew confirms that his hair is frequently dishevelled upon waking). She also stated that she had occassionally taken on the form of a top-hatted purveyor of mints (certainly the 'Uncle Joe' figure that Mr Carew has spoken of) and had aggravated Mr Carew for sport.

The tea was cold, though we witnessed Mr Carew pour it out boiling hot. I used an electronic temperature gauge and discovered that there were several cold spots around the building. Exploring a suspicion I've harborbed for some time, I hypnotised Mr Carew and regressed him through several past lives. My hypothesis was confirmed: in an earlier life, Mr Carew was a cannibalistic eskimo. It is clear that he is projecting memories of an Arctic environment onto his present day surroundings.

A short interview was conducted with Mr Carew. He claimed to be unable to remember anything about the 'Uncle Joe' figure, and instead talked at length concerning his belief that bees are mammilian and capable of being milked. This is only conjecture as I will need to get my colleague Dr. Fulcrum to mind-read Mr Carew first, but I believe that Mr Carew may be psychically linked to a being from an alternative universe in which bees are farmed for milk.


Dr. Anthony Gland's Account: When we arrived at Horton's house, we found that he was terribly upset because he had dropped a batternburg cake and lost his tea-cosy. He was anxious to impress us and had become worked up when his ideal view of our meeting had failed to match up with reality. Horton, old chap, try not to worry so much! :-)

We had a little chat and managed to settle him and put his mind at rest. Just then a team from Duncairn University showed up and caused all manner of fuss with their mumbo-jumbo - Horton became excitable and overwrought, as they fuelled his fantasy life and encouraged his delusions. I have to say that I found their conduct despicable, and the psuedoscience and nonsense that they peddle is simply depressing!

There is nothing supernatural about the things plaguing Horton! I have prescribed a course of anti-hallucinogen tablets and recommended that he return to our weekly therapy sessions. He would benefit greatly from joining a club of some sort and getting out to meet people.

When Professor Flitey and her team left, Horton began talking in tongues and seemed to levitate, while the sound of sea chanteys came from underground. This elaborate fabrication, no doubt done with sophistciated wires and tape-recorders, had obviously been constructed by Horton to impress Professor Flitey and her team, but he clearly misjudged the duration of Professor Flitey's stay and left it too late. You see, this is the danger of Flitey's involvement in this case - it causes Horton to act up, and go to ludicrous lengths to maintain the fantasy world he has created! After this behaviour stopped, I let him know I was not impressed, and left.


After reading through these accounts, dear readers, I have to confess that I remember nothing of their visit. Today I have been looking for bees.

Anxious to Impress

The Scholars will be here tomorrow, or rather today, for it is now the early hours of Friday the 17th. I have prepared some conversation so that I may appear erudite to the Academics, so that I might not shame myself through my comparative dearth of intelligence. To this end, I have been leafing through Trivial Pursuit questions all day, and even ate a few of the little wedges of cheese/pie that accompany the game, to ensure that I am in an appropriately intellectual frame of mind for the big day.

I also re-familiarised myself with the publisher's blurb on the back of my copies of Jane Austen's Northanger Abbey and Stephen King's 'Salem's Lot. Should the conversation veer towards the vicinity of fine literature, I shall now be well equipped to hold my own.

Alternatively, the discussion may drift towards scientific knowledge, so I have memorised pi to 17 decimal places and looked up what a bunsen burner is.

I do hope all will go well tomorrow.

Anticipating Scholars

On Friday the professors and doctors are to visit, so I have begun preparations to make my house presentable. This visit will be akin to a situation comedy of the 1970s, for Professor Jessica Flitey is an expert in ghosts and demons, and accords me greater attention when evidence of such ghoulies are present. Conversely, Doctor Anthony Gland is a rationalistic psychiatrist who prizes my sanity above all earthly things, and does not tolerate the stories I tell, for he fancies them to be fantastical and tainted by the untruths of some unidentified mania. As a host, I must devise a way to keep both parties satisfied, which will doubtlessly lead to all manner of humorous misunderstandings.

To bring my home into a state suitable to welcome eminent scholars, I have laid several of my old mathematics jotters from high school upon a coffee table and placed a sprig of parsely atop the pile, as a kind of 'intellectual garnish'. I believe this is the sort of thing academics go in for.

Saint Valentine's Day

Today is the Day of Lovers, so I felt obligated to mark the occasion with celebration. At dawn, I gathered up some old pencil shavings, seeped them in Brut, and thereby created pot-pourri, which I sprinkled liberally around my rooms. I smeared a soupcon of honey on the underside of certain cushions. These touches combined to bring an air of unadulterated romance to my home.

Having read once that oysters are widely believed to have aphrodisiacal properties, I ate the contents of a jar of fish paste that I found under the sink, for this was the nearest equivalent I could find. To furnish the living room with a sense of New York high glamour, I hung up a few printouts of TV dietician Gillian McKeith, whom I confess to harbouring feelings for.

My passions now suitably roused, I waited for a woman to arrive. At 20:00 it became apparent that no ladies were to visit me today, so I retired to my bedroom feeling somewhat melancholy.

To cheer myself up, I have dressed as a pirate.

Shopping

My day has been largely successful. Within the week, I am to accept a female professor and her colleagues into my home, alongside a party of psychiatric specialists, so I feel honour-bound to offer them a suitable level of hospitality. To this end, I rose at dawn and risked a day in public in order to visit the shops.

My first stop was a bric-a-brac emporium called Save the Children, where I consulted a moldering pocket dictionary to pick up some ideas of the types of item I might purchase today. I had not got a quarter of the way through the 'A' section before the shopkeep, a wispy-chinned baggage in a cardigan, shooed me away.

The next place I happened upon was a food-pill shop. There they sold futuristic capsules of food arranged in jars along shelves. A whole meal contained in one small pill! I confess that this idea excited me, so I spent all my money here. For fruit, I bought one rhubarb&custard pill, one apple drop pill, one pineapple chunk pill, and one strawberry&cream pill. For protein, I bought one fizzy fish pill, and, feeling somewhat adventurous, I tried a Bull's Eye pill, which is apparently a delicacy in some of those Arab places. For beverages, I bought a cola cube pill, a beer bottle pill, and a milk drop pill.

All these meals should last me a week, and they only cost me 12 pence altogether. I am a shrewd consumer!

Preparing For Guests

I have reviewed my larder and found it wanting. If I am to welcome professors and doctors to my home, I must restock my inventory, for at present there is a great paucity of eggs.

Tomorrow I will venture outside and take a trip to the local shops. At the very least, I will need to procure vanilla extract, bulgar wheat, and crème de cassis.

A Day Given Over to Idleness

Today I have been shamefully indolent, reclining languidly over a pouffe for hours, indulging elaborate fantasies of myself as a wealthy and polished 18th century gentleman, and eating Cheesy Wotsits.

This morning the postman delivered a copy of an Alan Titchmarsh novel, which I had apparently purchased via an online auction site some days ago, though I have no memory of doing so.

I attempted to read the first sentence, but found his prose so ungainly and incompetent that I was left with no option but to commit the volume to the flames.

Respite

I believe I am free of imminent danger for the time being, but feel like a shattered mirror on a trampoline, each bouncing smithereen vertiginously reflecting a myriad spinning gyroscopes, revolving glitterballs, and fractured Curly-Wurlys, with the concomitant seven year's bad luck thereby multiplied twelvehundred-fold.

I awoke this morning quivering from nightmares too grim to recount, and able to recall but snippets of the past days' horrors. I know that I was rarely conscious for long, the events I experienced too heinous to tolerate human cognizance. Uncle Joe kept me trapped in the kitchen and subjected me to tortures unspeakable, a new session of misery always announced by him throwing open the door and casting his shadow across the floor, revelling momentarily in the effect his ghastly silhouette wrought upon my form.

Just moments ago, he stormed into the room brandishing a tawny owl and an antique roulette wheel, no doubt having dreamt up some new torment for me, but as he approached, the telephone rang.

"Answer that chuck," he said, eerily switching his accent to disorienate me, "But don't be letting on that there's owt amiss, mind."

I obeyed at once, and discovered that it was Professor Jessica Flitey of the University of Duncairn, an apparent friend of mine. She has long been interested in the curious things that afflict me, and claims to want to free me from these. She announced her intent to visit me within the next few days, to which I agreed.

At the instant I mentioned aloud the name "Flitey", Uncle Joe's face contorted.

"Bloody Norah! So, she's 'eadin' this way, eh lad?" he said, "Time I were gone then, chuck, but you mark well these words, lad: I'll be with you on your wedding night."

And with that, he squashed himself up into his top hat, which he then swallowed, and so disappeared completely from my ken.

I am too tired to worry unduly over his parting words. I must rest now.

.... . / .... ._ ... / _ _ .

... . _. _.. / .... . _ _ _ _ ..... _ _ _ _ _ _ .

Uncle Ben Departs

My dear and patient readers, I am at last in a position to relate to you the events of the preceeding days, but be wary - these are not for the faint of heart. Again I must be quick for I remain in terrible danger.

I gather from earlier entries in this electronic diary that you all believed I was fine, but I must tell you now that you were victims of trickery. Those entries proclaiming me in good health are entirely bogus, inserted by my tormentor to dupe you. This tormentor is none other than Uncle Joe, who has returned to bedevil me anew.

Uncle Ben, I fear, is dead. When I could attend to him, I propped the ice-block against the kitchen radiator so that the heat generated might gently free him from his chilly prison. Regrettably, the nature of the jinx meant that although the ice did rapidly melt, Uncle Ben melted along with it, as though he were a giant scented candle. I specify 'scented' for as his body deliquesced, the smell of hot cross buns mysteriously permeated the air.

As I lay howling in anguish, the grinning figure of Uncle Joe stepped into the kitchen, lewdly sucking a mint. I tried to flee, but he somehow conjured a great many postage stamps from his eyes, which flew across the room and stuck me fast to the linoleum. As I lay fixed to the floor, I watched in horror as he produced a bucket of acorns and a pair of oven gloves. I cannot bring myself to describe what happened next.

As I passed out of consciousness, for some reason the name of the Ebay seller who sold me the Gremlins 2 thermos popped unbidden into my mind...JJFlitey.

...help, he returns! I must go again - more later! I hope my tormentor does not possess the moxie to delete this message...

again I am fine

helpme

a further up-date to calm my readers

The Grimmest of Updates

I must be quick, for I am in mortal danger. I snatch this brief interval to relate my latest woes. As Uncle Ben performed the necessary incantations to exorcise the flask, he was suddenly struck down as if suffering an apoplexy of some kind. At once I abandoned my electronic diary and rushed to his side where I found his body vibrating at such an advanced rate that his features were but a blur, and an unidentified emulsion spat from his ears.

After muttering one enigmatic word - Labiatae! - he became encased in ice.

Panicking, I sought to melt the ice by drinking endless cups of fortified wine and breathing the alcoholic fumes directly onto the ice block, but this gambit was unsuccessful. He remains in suspended animation, and I weep to think of him. I will certainly be leaving the thermos seller neutral or negative feedback in light of this.

But I have yet to describe the worst of the events of the last days, which I will proceed to do now, but being studious of brevity my narrative must not be overly circumlocutory...

Alack! I hear... I think...I fear I must....;oy75ty#

ifgdscvcvcc d s
pjy


'

a further message from HORTON

A Curious Thermos

I was awoken at 11:00am by my saintly protector, who laid a package by my feet and announced that the postman had been. Inside was a Gremlins 2: The New Batch thermos flask, which I have no memory of ordering, but the accompanying note assures me that I bought this through Ebay from a seller in Hull. The note thanks me for my purchase but seems excessively eager for me to leave positive feedback as soon as possible.

The flask is attractive as far as these things go, but I hear liquid inside sloshing about. The Ebay listing had promised that the item was "BARND NEW!!! UNUSED! RARE!!!" but I see now that this was an untruth. I unscrewed the lid and was met with a foul odour that caused a small amount of vomit to escape up my gullet.

"Yassuh, that's rancid coconut milk, shaw as the day I was bawn," said Uncle Ben. "There is some Hoodoo at work here, you can be shaw of that. Yassuh."

This has put a dampener on the day. Uncle Ben has spent many hours chanting and sprinkling burning herbs onto the flask in an effort to dispel any bad mojo that may have....

Help! Something is happening right now! I must go at once to the aid of he who helped me.

Recuperating with Uncle Ben

I slept all day yesterday, rising only to eat and to empty my bladder. My saintly benefactor has attended to me for the last two days, bringing me sumptuous meals that gradually return the strength to my weary frame. He sings me glorious hymns in a low, reverberating tone, and tells me tales of the plantation days in sweet Mississippi, where he worked gladly and was only rarely scourged. His fragrant breath smells of Christmas and antique clocks. He sweats molasses and treacle from his palms and allows me to sup from this heady admixture.

After lunch today he performed a selection of magic tricks to amuse me and rouse me from depression - he can produce ivory dice from his wrists at will, and can revolve his eyes at enormous speed.

As I write this, he is preparing a teriyaki rice dish for my tea, after which he has promised to show me a map of the spirit realm, and then we will settle down to watch The Bill.

I am happy beyond words and hope nothing should soil this current arrangement.