Turning out one of the attics I was fortunate enough to come across one of the several boxes denied me when I was young and usually in trouble. Checking that nobody had heard my erm, arrival at this happy juncture, I began to rummage.
Soon I had undug an old biking helmet with Canondale scribed at a jaunty angle down the side so I proceeded to place this hat on my head, what with me liking hats. It was so small I had to put it on backwards and forfain from doing up the straps, which as I recall, I never did even when it fit my head first time around.
Finding this particular box under one of the broken tiles (an unfortunate yet exhilerating remote control helicopter accident from the summer of '09 ) I was able to push a rather untidy bird nest from the gap, and as a result, listen to the eggs roll down the remaining roof, and thus shed more light upon my find.
The combined effect of more light and backward hat enabled a much more satisfying rummage.
I could also see through the new gap in the tiles, that Lambert was about some skullbuggery far below in the vegetable potting shed beside the tall victorian wall that was supposed to protect the pear trees from scrumpers, which it didn't, and this I can attest to from personal, if tummy upsetting experience. I couldn't see who he was skullbuggering with, but I am fairly sure it wasn't Cook, which would be sure to make her livid either way.
Resolving to take the matter up with him the very next time I needed his silence, I filed the information inside my head under the backwards hat and delved with depth into the box of treats, in the hope of revealing something proper useful. I was not disappointed, for within seconds I had found the melted remains of the two angle head torches I remembered fondly blending together with a hammer so that I could have headlights on my bike. I believe my error with the torch esperiment was to wire them into the battery of the milk tanker and try to ride alongside it as it departed the farm- over- the- fields' milking parlour. The driver was jolly upset about that on account of it short circuiting his battery at the same time, which inexplicably set the pumps off which as it turned out, were capable of a phenomenal rate of flow. I nearly got milk on my farmers cousins phat tyres!
Now this old torch ensemble, withered as they were, I deemed resultant enough to be deployed somewhere in Lamberts quarters, ready for when he awoke one night after heavy imbibation. Sort of a medical breakthrough esperiment in the way of pathfinding a cure for deleria tremens. Or a kill, whichever.
Lizzie xx