The Ocelot of Destiny: Chapter 7

Whilst the Professor was enduring his surreal encounter with Brockwell, Bernard took the opportunity to sneak off and attend to important business of his own. Slithering lithely from the Morris van's beige leather passenger seat, he soon found himself padding purposefully through the cow field behind Brockwell's office. The northern corner of the field, as he had expected from the directions provided, was perfectly yellow with daffodils. Bernard approached the flowers at a trot and gleefully nuzzled his way through them, crushing a few under his clumsy paddling paws as he proceeded. He found himself at the entrance to a burrow, where he paused. All of a sudden, a grey and somewhat unremarkable rabbit's head popped up.

"Oh, hello, daaahling!" it exclaimed in a plummy voice, putting Bernard at ease that he had indeed found the right hole.

"Why, if it isn't Bernard Snell! How utterly splendid to meet you, at last."

"And you must be Cordelia Smythe, editor of Ideal Warren magazine. Enchanted to meet you," replied Bernard with a camp flourish of his left flipper. As an accomplished interior designer, he was very experienced in handling such characters. The customary air-kissing took place, with Cordelia making particularly expressive "mwah" noises, even for the notoriously flamboyant world of interior design for burrowing creatures.

"Come on down, I'll put the kettle on"

Bernard followed Cordelia down the hole, his eyes fixed on the inescapable sight of her fluffy white tail bobbing perkily in front of him.

"I say, beautiful daffodils you have up there," he said loudly, in an attempt to make conversation as they descended.

"Yes, fabulous, aren't they? I dig up the bulbs from local residents' gardens at night. It's a riotous laugh and it makes such a mess!"

Finally, they arrived in Cordelia's sitting room. It was a cavernous space, perfectly heart-shaped and filled with big squishy beanbags. Cordelia had cluttered her space with all manner of home comforts, and, on close inspection, Bernard could not identify a single item which was not either pink or purple. This included the kettle. The platypus was handed a steaming mug of peppermint tea, and the following article appeared in the next month's edition of Ideal Warren magazine:

~~~~~~

Interview with Bernard Sheridan Snell: Author of The Burrowing Aesthete and editor of The Discerning Marsupial magazine

Well, firstly, the burning question: how did you get into interior design and soft furnishings, Bernard?

I spent my childhood in a burrow by a large body of water (I can’t remember if it was a pond or a lake or a river, I didn’t care that much for it as I don’t like wet fur). I noticed as an infantile hatchling that the walls of the family burrow was bare and frankly depressing, so I made it my goal to perk it up a bit, you know, add some spark to my surroundings. I started by throwing cold Thomas the Tank Engine pasta shapes and worms at the walls, but this just didn’t seem to scream “elegance” or “burrow chic” at me. So I got some Laura Ashley cushions in, which, in turn, moved to Ikea bookshelves and shiny things from Habitat with big words written in bold on them. I was totally, utterly hooked, from such humble beginnings.

Say you have a large warren - it’s a blank canvas, completely empty and just ripe for you to put your Snell stamp on it. How would you go about decorating it for a discerning client?

Balls. As many spherical objects as possible. I’d want my client to see their new warren and to stop, stare, and to say “wow... balls”. Lampshades, chairs, decorations, everything, should be a melee of Perspex and glass, all orange, yellow and white. A sea of 1970s disco meets 1950s sci-fi meets 2000s doing 1970s and 1950s. It’s all coming back, you see.

That does sound splendid, and I’m sure there are many out there who are reading this and feel both in awe and indeed envious of your insights. Now, what if your next clients were a family of foxes?

Foxes? Well now, they, to be bluntly and dreadfully honest, care not for interior design, aesthetics, art. Not one jot. Now, you may call this an appalling, crude stereotype, but really, they just do not help themselves. Nor do I believe that they care. I mean, take this for example: they call their abodes earths. Now, this, to us, conjures up images of a, well, honest, homely, somewhat Bohemian, rattan-rugs-and-Agas lifestyle. Earthy. But, no, that’s just not the case. They’re full of mud, spit, bones, smells, gravel and grime. Dirt.

So, is there any hope for our canine friends?

All you have to do is look at the Frederiksson case. All of us - all of us - in the spatial life creation industry know that if Frederiksson can’t change someone’s perspective and attitude on interior design then, well, in all honestly, no one can. It goes without explaining that he started with the most promising individual: a vixen residing in the garden of large Richmond villa. She would throw her litter and general flotsam and jetsam of vulpine life not just out of her burrow, but out of the garden... Well, that’s good going for a fox! Easy student we all thought. Get one to set an example and the rest will follow we all thought. Eventually, foxes will be swapping pigeon feathers for tasteful scatter cushions we all thought. What we didn’t think was that she’d eat him. Which in hindsight is a little surprising, considering he was a vole and she was a fox... but I digress! And to think that the next day he was due to travel to Berlin to pick up an award for his Patetiskt Turkos Sexhörning bread bin, it really, really is such a waste. And the whole sorry saga just illustrates to perfection why foxes don’t give one fig-roll for interior design.

Are there any up-and-coming Australian designers we should be looking out for?

Australia? I’ve no idea, to be honest. The southern hemisphere doesn’t tend to trouble my creative brain much. Unless it’s got something to do with emperor penguins. Austria, however, yes. Australia, no.

That is a surprise, Bernard...

Oh, I see, yes sorry. Common assumption, believe you me. No, I was born in Amersham.

It’s well known that you favour lederhosen when it comes to clothing fashions, and I see that you’re wearing a fine example today; do you get much design inspiration from the Bavarian district of Germany, or is it purely their clothing you admire?

To be quite frank with you I’m not a huge fan of Germans, Germany or anything Germanic since my partner of the time got run over by an Audi A4 on the M3 in 2010. But these, these lederhosen, are very comfortable. And they’ve got brown braces, which is going to be the inspiration for warren design in spring 2013. Right after the winter of balls.

That is an exciting development! Can you elaborate?

Well, all I’ll say is this: warrens of a more inspired leaning will be a festival of Farrow and Ball wallpaper with nibbled edges, Smeg fridges that have been tipped onto their back, emptied out and used as boxes for straw and droppings, and stretchy brown things with metal clasps.

That is genius! Are you working on any designs at the moment?

Yes, yes, indeed I am. It’s called the SnellShockBottle and is a personal localised heating contrivance, AKA hot water bottle. I’ve put little flippery feet on each corner, a tail on the end, and attached rattly googly eyes to it, and, voila! It looks like me when I’ve seen something shocking. I’ve shown the prototype to a good friend, an esteemed professor, and he was most impressed. His pet wasn’t as keen, though what do you expect from someone with Danish ancestry?

And, lastly, who would you say is, in your opinion, the most “now” designer in the field of burrow interior design?

Me.

The Ocelot of Destiny: Chapter 6

Stepping through the door, he saw a small, dark study, full of old books, peeling wall maps precariously held onto said walls by yellow, brittle Sellotape, and an angry-looking badger behind another large mahogany desk. On the desk were a calculator, what appeared to be a large glass of Scotch, and a large hardback book entitled My First Atlas of the World, whose cover proudly announced that it included over 200 stickers. One corner  of the book looked  rather chewed. The badger stared at D'Urbrayne with beady, implacable eyes. An ear twitched. Its paws were clasped together on top of the chewed atlas. The overall impression was, perhaps unsurprisingly, of a very large, very angry badger.

“Hello? Mr Brockwell?” D’Urbrayne made to push his glasses up his nose, even though there was no need. It was his nervous thing.

“It is indeed,” growled Brockwell. He was wearing a green Barbour waxed jacket and had a strong West Country accent.

“Ah.” Stuck for something to say and do, D’Urbrayne fidgeted from one foot to another, scratched an elbow that wasn’t itchy, then said, “I must say, that’s quite unusual for a travel agent to have a receptionist.

"Receptionist?" asked Brockwell, getting up and sticking a drawing pin on one of the wall maps, right in the middle of the Gobi Desert.

"The nice receptionist out there, with the quill."

"Oh, her, she’s not a receptionist. She’s just there. Always has been. Never goes away. But she sometimes brings me dead rabbits, so I let her stay. Do you like rabbit?"

"Not really, I’m more of a hare person myself."

"Hare per-son" mused the badger, as though rolling the words around his jaws, “interesting, interesting".

He stuck another pin into Venezuela, stood back, paws behind back, surveyed the map, then returned to his desk.

"Why am I here?" blurted the Professor, by now completely unnerved  by the scrutiny of that unwavering musteline stare. He instantly busied himself in nervously fidgeting with his beard.

"An interesting question, that," replied the badger, "yes, one that philosophers have been asking themselves for centuries. But I don't go in for philosophy myself; it's an impractical pastime and too much thinking makes me cross. Is that fizzy pop you have there in your satchel?"

D'Urbrayne eyed the can of Dr Pop protruding from the battered pocket protectively. It was his last one. After a brief pause he decided that honesty would be the best option. After all, the badger's angry face looked very menacing. The large vertical stripes didn't help, thought the Professor to himself.

"Yes, that's my last can."

"Oh, I'll have that as payment," replied Brockwell, dipping his paw into the satchel, "money isn't of much use to me, but I never turn down an offer of fizzy pop".

The Professor decided it best not to point out that the drink had not, in fact, been offered, instead opting to remain silent and scrutinise Brockwell's desk. The green leather surface was covered in deep scratch marks from the badger's claws, interspersed with Celtic patterns drawn in biro that appeared to be crude copies of the ones the girl downstairs had been creating. His gaze shifted upward to focus on the spectacle of Brockwell guzzling from the can with apparent relish.

"Yes, I was saying, money. No use to me... the bank won't let me have an account. They told me it's because I'm a badger and that made me ab-so-lute-ly furious. Of course I'm capable of handling fiscal responsibility. I read the Financial Times and I've never got myself into debt. I think it's disgraceful."

"Well, er, yes, how, erm... inconsiderate of them" remarked the Professor, figuring that appearing cross on Brockwell's behalf might earn him Brownie points. The badger looked at him inscrutably. Clearly it hadn't worked. "Erm, yes. Er..." The badger was completely unblinking. D'Urbrayne began to sweat a little. "What was the outcome of that map exercise of yours?" he asked, rather desperately.

"Inconclusive," muttered Brockwell, rummaging in his desk drawer and bringing out a substantially-sized hammer. D'Urbrayne flinched as the badger proceeded to nail his atlas to the desk. He then wrenched the book from the nail and ripped out a seemingly random page.

"Harvard University," he announced, holding up the atlas page, which had a hole exactly where Boston should have been, "I'll alert my contacts and get you invited to give a guest lecture".

Brockwell produced two pristine plane tickets from his Barbour jacket pocket, and slammed them into D'Urbrayne's hand. "There you go," he growled. "Now... sod off."

The Ocelot of Destiny: Chapter 5

Bernard directed the Professor to the bleak far side of Armitage Shanks, and before the LP had finished they spluttered to a halt outside a tall, rickety-looking building that seemed to be a magnet for crows.

D'Urbrayne eyed the building apprehensively.

"Right, if you're quite sure about this, let's head in," he proposed.

"Actually, I think I'll wait here, but do take Simon with you. The man the travel agent shares an office with has developed quite a sinister fascination with me and I think it's best I avoid him, for reasons I'm sure you'll work out when you're in there."

Considering that the door wasn’t very wide, it took a considerable time; 47 seconds exactly, Professor D’Urbrayne counted; to squeeze Simon into the room, which dampened the grand entrance he was hoping for. The receptionist, a dignified-looking girl of about twenty four in twin-set and pearls, sat behind a large mahogany desk, looked at them, looked down at the large book before her, put down her writing quill, and looked at them again and smiled. Professor D’Urbrayne liked a person who favoured quills over normal Bics, Parkers and all that nonsense, which made him even more embarrassed by his and Simon’s gelatinous arrival into the building. Still, no point letting it get to him, so he strode as purposefully as you can in size 14 red Wellingtons, glanced down, noticed the girl wrote in the style of the Book of Kells and he instantly couldn’t think of anything to say.

He stared at the receptionist.

She smiled back.

His foot itched.

Simon bellowed in frustration as he tried to prize a seven-year-old Take-a-Break magazine from one of his tusks that had gotten stuck to him as he galumphed over to the waiting area.

“May I help?” asked the girl at last.

“Yes please."

“Have you come to see Mr Brockwell or Dr Fangleschnard?”

“Oh, erm, which one’s the travel agent?"

“Mr Brockwell. Dr Fangleschnard’s a taxidermist; they don’t get on.”
“Oh. Oh dear. Well, yes, in that case I’ve come to see Brockwell, please."

The girl flicked through the huge tome on the desk, tapped a very pretty and neat index finger on an intricate Celtic snake thing, “ah, are you his two-thirty?"

“I don’t know, “answered Professor D’Urbrayne. He glanced at the clock behind her, it was twenty-six minutes past two, “I hope so.”
“Professor P. D’Urbrayne?” she asked.

His foot was really itchy now. “To be honest I didn’t make an appointment, so, erm, this is quite strange, really, I mean to say, well, I did check on Teletext to see that you allowed walruses into your establishment, which, of course” – he swept his arm over in the direction of Simon – “you do, but no, I didn’t make an appointment as such. But, what-ho! at least we’re here! Is he free now?"

The girl tucked her shiny brown hair behind her left ear, picked up a snow globe containing a Nordic scene (or, at least to Professor D’Urbrayne, it looked Nordic. Or perhaps Alpine. There was a fir tree and a wooden house in it, anyway), shook it vigorously, watched it swirl and settle in her hand for a moment, then said, “he’ll be with you in a moment. Please take a seat."

He took a seat by a sleeping Simon, absentmindedly picked up a magazine to thumb through, put it down again (there was a great hole through the middle) and decided to count the ceiling tiles instead. He got to nineteen or eighteen (or perhaps it was already past twenty?) when he glanced at the receptionist and noticed that she was gold-leafing something on one of the pages of her book. She looked up, smiled, “invoicing” she said. He got very embarrassed to be caught looking and then realised he’d lost count of the tiles. He thought it best to start gain.

Something on her desk shouted “toucan!” very loudly in a mechanical, robotic voice. There was a ding as she hit something, then looked back over at Professor D’Urbrayne. She was smiling again. “Mr Brockwell will see you now, Professor D’Urbrayne.” She motioned towards an oak door to he right. Professor D’Urbrayne got up, thanked her, then said, “oh, can Simon stay in here? He’s sleeping.”  
“Of course! What does Mr Spildevand like to eat? In case he wakes up.”

“Oh, sorry, who?”

She waved her quill in Simon’s direction.

“He has a surname?” D’Urbrayne scratched his head in puzzlement, “well, who knew?”

“It’s all in here,” she tapped her book again, “Simon Spildevand af Nuuk."

“Well, I’d let him sleep, but if he does awake, give him pilchards. He likes them.”

She nodded, still smiling, and continued to gold-leaf whatever it was she was doing.

The Ocelot of Destiny: Chapter 4

“Professor” asked Bernard, “you've read a lot of spy novels. How can we embark on our journey in a suitably dramatic fashion?”

“Well, we'll need to give the operation a code name, spend an afternoon deliberating very seriously over some large maps, and then meet at an obscure prearranged location under the cover of darkness.”

“That sounds exciting – shall we do that, then?”

“No, I have a better idea,” replied Professor D'Urbrayne with a grin.

“Oh, do tell…”

“We’ll go back to mine and order in some jumbo pizzas, eat them whilst playing Super Mario, and then set out a little before teatime. I can show you my train set too if you’d like!”

“YAY!”

“Um… this may be a delicate question, but are you actually capable of walking back to my house?”

“Not really,” replied Bernard despondently, “look at my ridiculous flippers! They’re really great for swimming but no good for much else”

In a swift jaunty motion, the Professor scooped up the platypus and shoved him into his satchel, where he landed straddling a yellow plastic mac in a rather undignified manner, with only his bill sticking out. Bernard suspected that this was a position he would have to get used to.

A joyous lunchtime feast of pizza, garlic bread and spicy chicken wings proceeded. Simon was perturbed by Bernard's fussy eating habits and ended up eating most of his pizza for him, whilst D'Urbrayne made himself hyperactive by consuming an entire bottle of Fanta. Following much hilarity, they made their way to the garage.

Professor D'Urbrayne's garage had a faintly musty odour and was packed to the rafters with clutter. Amongst other things, Bernard noticed a sinister-looking wooden puppet, a half-empty pack of garibaldi biscuits, a wheelbarrow filled with multi-coloured Lego bricks, a 1970s book of knitting patterns, a battered map of Greenland and CDs by Leonard Cohen, the Sugababes and an obscure Eastern European folk ensemble with an unpronounceable name. “You can tell a lot about a man from his workshop… supposedly” thought Bernard to himself, still somewhat overwhelmed by the distinct feeling that his life was in the process of becoming much stranger.

In the centre of the garage, covered in a large beige blanket, stood Professor D'Urbrayne's pride and joy. In his customary swift, jerky manner he creaked open the garage door, casting dusty sunbeams in amongst the clutter, and removed the blanket with an elegant flourish, knocking an old sherry glass from one of the shelves onto the floor, where it shattered spectacularly. There stood an immaculate Morris Van, shinier than the day it rolled off the production line. Everything about it was perfect, apart from the fact that it was a rather violent shade of green.

“What do you think of her?” asked D'Urbrayne, grinning.

“She's… spectacular! How much work have you done on her?”

“She was a mess when I found her, so I completely dismantled her, restored each piece individually, and then put her back together again. It’s been fascinating learning all about how she works… and all I needed was the help of this!”

D’Urbrayne proudly brandished a Haynes manual covered in oily fingerprints.

“Does she have a name?”

“Of course… I’ve called her Brenda Peabody”

As soon as Brenda's rear doors were opened, Simon gurgled with approval and wriggled joyously in, testing the wonderfully bouncy suspension the Professor had recently installed. The platypus was strapped into the passenger seat where he took control of a Dansette record player that had been cleverly wired up to the car’s battery and encased in an ingenious “anti-skip” contraption invented by D'Urbrayne. After meticulously cleaning up the remains of the sherry glass, the Professor hopped into the driver's seat and the three of them tootled gleefully on their way, Simon embellishing “Good Day Sunshine” by the Beatles with his inimitable sound effects. 

The Ocelot of Destiny: Chapter 3

Simon, meanwhile, lay snoring on Professor D’Urbrayne’s tartan picnic blanket in the middle of the park, oblivious to the small terrier scampering in circles around him and yapping ferociously. He had taken the opportunity to inspect the oddly-shaped bottle bank whilst the professor was indoors and had concluded that the chunk of rusting metal wasn’t going to shift, so he may as have a rest until the others found a more sensible mode of transport.

“SIMON… Simon, do wake up, o' lazy walrus, it’s time to go!”

Simon looked up through half-closed eyes to see the gangly figure of Professor D’Urbrayne looming over him.

“Gnnnyrmph?”

“Simon, Bernard and I have decided you’d better get in the tank first, as you’re the largest and we need to find out whether it’ll take your weight.”

“Is he calling me fat?” wondered Simon, intensely irritated at having been woken from a very pleasant slumber. He had been dreaming of fish. Big, juicy fish…

“Woooom?!” he protested, and started to propel his lumpen body away from the tank.

“Please Simon… remember how much you enjoyed our last adventure?”

Simon paused, remembering how little he’d enjoyed the last adventure, particularly the bit where the Professor discovered that he had eaten his Thingummywotsit the previous Tuesday.

“You can have a dozen jars of pickled herrings for tea tonight if you get in the tank now!”

Reluctantly, Simon agreed, turned around and belly-flopped towards the tank, followed closely by the terrier. He then proceeded to indelicately cram the front half of his body through the main hatch, where he quickly became stuck. Panicking, he thrashed his tail in an increasingly ungraceful undulating motion until the opening gave way, causing the entire tank to explode in a spectacular shower of rust, soil and weeds.

“OI, SIMON, YOU BIG PRAT!” shouted Professor D’Urbrayne, picking a large shard of tank from his beard and flinging it at Simon, “THAT WAS MY PANZER!!!!”

“WOOOM!” exclaimed the walrus from amongst the rubble, joyfully clapping his flippers together.

“I was going to lovingly restore that tank… I even had a commission from Panzerfest magazine to write an article about it! I was going to drive it all the way to Poffley End to visit Aunty Mildred”

Bernard looked on in bafflement, pondering the strangeness of the universe.

“Professor,” he ventured, “why did you decide we’d take the tank today in the first place?”

“BECAUSE I THOUGHT IT WOULD BE FUNNY!” replied D’Urbrayne, tugging at a stubborn sod of earth that had attached itself to the cuff of his outermost sweater.

Bernard had his own opinion on the humour value of the incident, but concluded this was best kept to himself. The two of them bickered for a while about alternative modes of transport, whether to take ham or tuna sandwiches for their packed lunches, and whether Simon’s recent behaviour meant he was a good-for-nothing lump o’ lard unsuitable for accompanying them on their quest. Finally, they agreed to use the Professor’s newly-restored Morris Van for their epic journey, despite his worries about scratching the paintwork.

The Ocelot of Destiny: Chapter 2

“Yes, a secret," repeated the platypus, "it’s a matter of national security”

National security! Professor D’Urbrayne smirked imperceptibly under his beard, and drew his scrawny frame up to full height. He felt like a character from one of his favourite spy novels and anticipated embarking on a heroic adventure. This time he would have to make sure he packed some sandwiches, a warm anorak and a spare pair of socks...

“Your secret is safe with me,” he reiterated, trying to sound calm and authoritative when in fact he felt as gleeful as a small child on Christmas morning.

“I’m gay,” announced the platypus.

“I’d guessed,” replied Professor D’Urbrayne, dejectedly, “the waistcoat is a dead giveaway”

“Oops!” exclaimed the platypus, clapping together its flippers, “I am a ditzy platypus! That wasn’t the secret I meant to tell you, was it?”

“Um... I assume not”

“What about the unfortunate incident with the dating website and the Dutch Mallard... was that it? No, I think not”

Professor D’Urbrayne turned away from the platypus and called out to Simon, who was flolloping enthusiastically after a passing toddler.

“I KNOW!” announced the platypus, “the secret involves a quest I would like you to accompany me on. I’ve heard all about your search for your lost doodah... whatjumicallit…?!”

“Yes, my Thingummywotsit. I ventured across continents and braved all manner of horrific weather conditions,” boasted Professor D’Urbrayne, feeling rather important.

“Exactly,” replied the platypus emphatically, “then you realised that you’d eaten whatever it was the previous Tuesday, am I right?”

“Well, there was that, but it did very closely resemble a Manchester Egg...”

“Anyway, my quest! The German government entrusted me with something called an ocelot, but I accidentally left it in the disabled toilet at the Dog and Duck in Addis Buckett, and now it’s nowhere to be seen. Please say you’ll come with me to help me find it.”

“Um... what is this ocelot of which you speak?” replied Professor D’Urbrayne, looking even more baffled than usual.

“I don’t know. It’s wrapped in brown paper and has a label with large, friendly letters reading “this ocelot belongs to Bernard Snell”

“Oh? And who is Bernard Snell”

“It’s me”

“Interesting. I had you down as a Malcolm or maybe even an Ezekiel. This is all very interesting, but why exactly have you chosen me to accompany you on your journey?”

“Because your last quest entertained me and I thought it deserved a sequel. If you come with me, I’ll give you this crumpled packet of Monster Munch from my waistcoat pocket”

“Roast beef, spicy, or pickled onion?”

“They’re pickled onion ones!”

“Count me in”

The professor skipped joyfully back to the house, made some tuna and cucumber sandwiches and meticulously wrapped them in cling film. He packed some socks, an anorak and six spare sweaters and rejoined his new chum Bernard in the park. “What a splendid day,” he thought to himself as he cleared several empty wine bottles, a roll of soggy toilet tissue and a pair of skulking emo kids from the oddly-shaped bottle bank in preparation for its epic voyage...

The Ocelot of Destiny: Chapter 1

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?”