It was a warm spring day in Armitage Shanks and Professor D’Urbrayne woke up to the sound of Simon the Walrus serenading the cold water tap in the bathroom, and the smell of fried grease from the chip shop downstairs. He stretched, swung his legs out of bed, strode over to the small window and threw back the grey, black and red eighties duvet cover which acted as a make-shift curtain; it was, indeed, a warm spring day.
Well, it was fine weather to be rakish, daring and carefree – today he would wear just four pullovers rather than the usual seven. “What a rogue!” he thought, chuckling as he got the red Turtle Wax down from the top of the wardrobe and began to polish his Special Day Wellingtons with a duster. Polishing away, he made a to-do list in his head, since it was a perfect weather for being rakish and doing things. He’d nip downstairs to the shop, pick up some pickled black pudding for himself and Simon’s favourite - a pound of lard wrapped in the “Acknowledgments and Notices” page of last week’s Armitage Record. Then he and Simon would walk to their favourite bench, the one in the park, covered in pigeons and overlooking the oddly-shaped bottle bank left to Professor D’Urbrayne by his eccentric uncle Horace, where they would eat their breakfasts in peace.
Professor D’Urbrayne got dressed, checked himself in the mirror, got nervous and put on a fifth pullover. He wasn’t quite ready to be too rakish just yet. Maybe by summer he’d be a little braver. So, with beige Corduroy trousers, five pullovers (various colours), and his shiny Special Day Wellingtons on, he went into the bathroom to brush his teeth and extract Simon from the gap between the bidet and the bath, which was his favourite place to get stuck after serenading one of the taps. This morning was different, however, reinforcing Prof. D’Urbrayne’s belief that today was a very special day indeed. Simon was wedged between the bidet and the toilet, not the bath. After the extraction of Simon, Prof. D’Urbrayne continued to get on with the necessary getting-ready-in-bathroom things and went out onto the landing, putting on his Barbour jacket and collecting Simon’s tiny hat, replete with nylon chrysanthemum, down from the coat-rack. He set the hat, at desired jaunty angle, on Simon’s head. That done, they headed out for the day’s adventures.
After picking up the edible delights from downstairs shop, Prof. D’Urbrayne and his pet reached the park. Simon galumphed off at a vaguely impressive speed after the pigeons and Prof. D’Urbrayne strolled towards his bench.
But what was this? On the bench was a DHL box. How peculiar, he thought. Reaching said bench and box, he was even more surprised to see that (oh my!) the box was addressed to none other than Mr Professor D’Urbrayne! He sat down on the bench and opened up the box. Looking inside, he found a piece of paper reading:
To Mr Prof. D’Urbrayne
Bench covered in pigeons and overlooking the old -ahem- bottle bank
Park
Armitage Shanks
Muntshire
Contents:1 x Ocelot
There was also a flyer offering cheap personalised business cards, some Styrofoam packaging things, a deflated balloon reading “congratulations on your engagement” and a platypus wearing a green waistcoat.
“Oh,”said Prof. D’Urbrayne, picking out the platypus and shaking the box out, “I was expecting an ocelot.”
“Why? What’s wrong with me?” huffed the platypus, starting on the pickled black pudding.
“Nothing,I suppose. Just that this piece of paper here says ‘contents: one ocelot’. You’re not an ocelot.”
“No. No, I am not. That is quite correct. I am a platypus.”
“I know.” Said Prof. D’Urbrayne.
“That black pudding was nice,” said the platypus, wiping his paws on the front of his waistcoat, “got any more?”
“No. You’ll have to wait until three: that’s when the shop fries and pickles another batch.”
Prof.D’Urbrayne and the platypus continued to sit on the bench, staring ahead at where Simon was wooming at a squirrel in an oak tree.
There was an awkward pause.
There was a continued awkward pause.
“That your walrus?” asked the platypus.
“Yes.”
Another pause.
The pause lasted somewhat longer than either party was comfortable with. The platypus flapped his feet nervously as Professor D’Urbrayne salvaged the last remains of the black pudding from his beard. Finally, the platypus interjected.
“Can you keep a secret?”
“Of course,” replied Professor D’Urbrayne, “particularly if it involves exotic creatures or household utensils.”
“Are you sure I can trust you?” The platypus looked up nervously from his spread-eagled position on the bench.
“Absolutely...I’ve never told anyone my mother’s secret involving the wombat, the ironing board and the toasted sandwich maker”
“That’s not a secret,” replied the platypus in astonishment, “even I know all about that!”
“Oh?”
“She shared it on Radio 4’s Woman’s Hour last Thursday and it attracted a great deal of interest, particularly from the South Muntshire Constabulary.”
“Ah... that would explain why she was banging on about a police cell on the phone the other day, and why I haven’t seen her for three days. I was terribly engrossed in some recreational trigonometry at the time and assumed she’d been caught fighting with Mrs Mangelwurzel from the WI again. Anyway, you were saying... a secret?”
