Let me get this straight, says Victor. You arrived with three crabs, relocated from Henley.
That is correct, says Gaius. And now, as you see, one has died.
I must ask you to retrieve it from the waters of Middleton, says Victor. And dispose of it thoughtfully. If you refuse...
I shall not refuse, says Gaius. Arthur!
Arthur comes over, Monte Carlo crumbs round his mouth.
You like eating biscuits? says Victor.
Sometimes, says Arthur.
After potatoes? says Victor.
A leading question. Arthur notes it, and does not reply.
Lend me your notebook and pen for a minute, says Arthur.
Certainly not. Police property. says Victor. But you might like to tell me what for.
No, says Arthur. I wouldn't. I'll write it down for you.
Victor now has a dilemma.
But these are strange times.
All right, says Victor. One page only. And don't lick the pen!
Arthur lifts his eyebrows. A crumb falls to the sand.
No one licks a pen these days, says Gaius.
Who asked you? says Victor.
He gives Arthur the pen, and the notebook, which is open at a page on which Victor has written:
illegal crabs...3 ...located at Middleton.
illegal gathering (excuse given).....potato race? (no evidence of potatoes observed)
Arthur turns the page and starts making a copy of his poem The Short Tempestuous Life of Alexander-Curly.
Victor looks into the salad bowl where Alexander-Groovy awaits reparation.
Hello? says Victor. Claw missing. What happened?
I'm the lucky one, says Alexander-Groovy.
How so? asks Victor.
The survivor, says Alexander-Groovy. One claw was found and I'm to get it.
Victor is suspicious. A possible motive has arisen.
He needs his notebook back from Arthur.
He looks across to where Arthur is busily scribbling, without (so far) licking his pen.
His eye travels back to Alexander-Groovy who does not look capable of foul play.
Policing is full of traps and riddles.
But.... yes (thinks Victor) .... weren't there three?
He scans the nearby sand, looks under the table.
A crab. Two claws intact. Surrounded by knucklebones.
He gets down on all fours, the better to see.
Thursday, April 30, 2020
Wednesday, April 29, 2020
What Happens Next Is Irrelevant
Gaius is informed of the death of Alexander-Curly.
Terence gives him the news.
Guess what? says Terence.
Just tell me! says Gaius, now on his third paper cup of rosé.
OKAY! says Terence.
Gaius waits.
Remember Alexander-Curly? says Terence.
Of course I do. You stepped on him, as you did Alexander-Times-Roman, says Gaius.
Who? says Terence.
He has forgotten he stepped on Alexander-Times Roman.
Never mind, says Gaius. What about Curly? I imagine he died.
YES! says Terence. He's dead in the salad bowl.
This calls for action, says Gaius. And a decision.
He goes over to Kierkegaard, who is eating a prawn summer roll, next to Lauren
Our low-dose crab has died, says Gaius. That leaves the mid-dose crab, and the control crab.
Two crabs, says Kierkegaard. I see the problem.
Tell me how you see it, says Gaius.
As I see it, says Kierkegaard, whatever happens next is irrelevant.
That's not how I see it, says Gaius. Finish your prawn roll and we'll talk further.
Very well, says Kierkegaard. But I have a board rash which needs seeing to.
He does, says Lauren. And I'll see to it.
All right, says Gaius. Meanwhile, I'll dispose of the crab.
He goes to the salad bowl in which the dead Curly is lying.
Picks him up, throws him into the sea.
Dead Curly floats lopsidedly, washing in and out with the wavelets.
He does not go away.
Sweezus and Arthur are looking out to sea. Should they go surfing?
Don't even think about it, says Belle.
Have a Monte Carlo, says Marie.
She hands them around.
Lauren has put down the knucklebones, to take a Monte Carlo.
Alexander-Red-Hook sidles over.
She is sure she could juggle.
She picks up two knucklebones. Then three.
.......
A policeman approaches. It's Victor.
What's this? asks Victor. A gathering?
No, says Lauren. Legitimate exercise.
Yes, says Belle. We've just had a potato race.
Then where are the potatoes? asks Victor.
We've eaten them, says Marie.
What's in the paper cups? asks Victor.
Nothing, says Arthur.
This is true, at the moment.
Victor is mollified...
UNTIL!
He spots Alexander-Curly floating in the shallows, dead, cracked and declawed.
Evidence!
He takes out his notebook and pen.
Terence gives him the news.
Guess what? says Terence.
Just tell me! says Gaius, now on his third paper cup of rosé.
OKAY! says Terence.
Gaius waits.
Remember Alexander-Curly? says Terence.
Of course I do. You stepped on him, as you did Alexander-Times-Roman, says Gaius.
Who? says Terence.
He has forgotten he stepped on Alexander-Times Roman.
Never mind, says Gaius. What about Curly? I imagine he died.
YES! says Terence. He's dead in the salad bowl.
This calls for action, says Gaius. And a decision.
He goes over to Kierkegaard, who is eating a prawn summer roll, next to Lauren
Our low-dose crab has died, says Gaius. That leaves the mid-dose crab, and the control crab.
Two crabs, says Kierkegaard. I see the problem.
Tell me how you see it, says Gaius.
As I see it, says Kierkegaard, whatever happens next is irrelevant.
That's not how I see it, says Gaius. Finish your prawn roll and we'll talk further.
Very well, says Kierkegaard. But I have a board rash which needs seeing to.
He does, says Lauren. And I'll see to it.
All right, says Gaius. Meanwhile, I'll dispose of the crab.
He goes to the salad bowl in which the dead Curly is lying.
Picks him up, throws him into the sea.
Dead Curly floats lopsidedly, washing in and out with the wavelets.
He does not go away.
Sweezus and Arthur are looking out to sea. Should they go surfing?
Don't even think about it, says Belle.
Have a Monte Carlo, says Marie.
She hands them around.
Lauren has put down the knucklebones, to take a Monte Carlo.
Alexander-Red-Hook sidles over.
She is sure she could juggle.
She picks up two knucklebones. Then three.
.......
A policeman approaches. It's Victor.
What's this? asks Victor. A gathering?
No, says Lauren. Legitimate exercise.
Yes, says Belle. We've just had a potato race.
Then where are the potatoes? asks Victor.
We've eaten them, says Marie.
What's in the paper cups? asks Victor.
Nothing, says Arthur.
This is true, at the moment.
Victor is mollified...
UNTIL!
He spots Alexander-Curly floating in the shallows, dead, cracked and declawed.
Evidence!
He takes out his notebook and pen.
Tuesday, April 28, 2020
Flummm-Shh-Shh
Alexander-Curly is moved, to hear his own story.
And how he has died too early.
He hopes Arthur will not forget to write it down.
Arthur has returned to the other end of the table, where Marie is opening the Monte Carlos.
Alexander-Red-Hook looks over the rim of the salad bowl.
How are you doing? she asks.
Arthur made me a poem, says Alexander-Curly.
I heard it, says Alexander-Red-Hook. I was just down there on the sand, waiting for something.
What? asks Alexander-Curly.
The knucklebones, says Alexander-Red-Hook.
O to have worldly concerns, says Alexander-Curly. You do know I'm dying?
I do dear, says Alexander-Red-Hook. If I had the knucklebones with me, I'd show you a juggle.
You can't juggle! says Alexander-Curly.
I'm quite certain I can, says Alexander-Red-Hook. But when Sweezus put them down, Lauren picked up the knucklebones.
Why would she do that? asks Alexander-Curly, interested even though he is fading.
They're just like the ones she used to have as a girl, says Alexander-Red-Hook. Don't you think that's funny?
Funny haha? asks Alexander-Curly.
Funny mysterious, says Alexander-Red-Hook.
Not really, says Alexander-Curly.
Think, says Alexander-Red-Hook. Where did Sweezus get them?
Weren't they in a cardboard box? asks Curly. With the medal?
And the biscuits, says Alexander-Red-Hook. But Sweezus doesn't live here. He's on holiday. Lauren lives here.
Alexander-Curly's head is swimming.
What are you saying?
That they might be HER knucklebones, says Alexander-Red-Hook. Say he found them, in her shed.
What about the medal? asks Alexander-Curly, faintly.
Lauren has a son, says Alexander-Red-Hook. I believe he and Sweezus are about the same age. It could be his medal.
Alexander-Curly can't get his head around all these details.
And really one ought to die calm.
I'm upsetting you, Curly, says Alexander-Red-Hook. Forget this. I'll follow it up later. For now, how may I soothe you?
Sing me to my rest, mumbles Alexander-Curly.
Of course she will. He is her brother.
Lalalalay... oolayoolay.. flummmmmmmmm....shh.....shh......shh
He dies.
It's exquisite.
And how he has died too early.
He hopes Arthur will not forget to write it down.
Arthur has returned to the other end of the table, where Marie is opening the Monte Carlos.
Alexander-Red-Hook looks over the rim of the salad bowl.
How are you doing? she asks.
Arthur made me a poem, says Alexander-Curly.
I heard it, says Alexander-Red-Hook. I was just down there on the sand, waiting for something.
What? asks Alexander-Curly.
The knucklebones, says Alexander-Red-Hook.
O to have worldly concerns, says Alexander-Curly. You do know I'm dying?
I do dear, says Alexander-Red-Hook. If I had the knucklebones with me, I'd show you a juggle.
You can't juggle! says Alexander-Curly.
I'm quite certain I can, says Alexander-Red-Hook. But when Sweezus put them down, Lauren picked up the knucklebones.
Why would she do that? asks Alexander-Curly, interested even though he is fading.
They're just like the ones she used to have as a girl, says Alexander-Red-Hook. Don't you think that's funny?
Funny haha? asks Alexander-Curly.
Funny mysterious, says Alexander-Red-Hook.
Not really, says Alexander-Curly.
Think, says Alexander-Red-Hook. Where did Sweezus get them?
Weren't they in a cardboard box? asks Curly. With the medal?
And the biscuits, says Alexander-Red-Hook. But Sweezus doesn't live here. He's on holiday. Lauren lives here.
Alexander-Curly's head is swimming.
What are you saying?
That they might be HER knucklebones, says Alexander-Red-Hook. Say he found them, in her shed.
What about the medal? asks Alexander-Curly, faintly.
Lauren has a son, says Alexander-Red-Hook. I believe he and Sweezus are about the same age. It could be his medal.
Alexander-Curly can't get his head around all these details.
And really one ought to die calm.
I'm upsetting you, Curly, says Alexander-Red-Hook. Forget this. I'll follow it up later. For now, how may I soothe you?
Sing me to my rest, mumbles Alexander-Curly.
Of course she will. He is her brother.
Lalalalay... oolayoolay.. flummmmmmmmm....shh.....shh......shh
He dies.
It's exquisite.
Monday, April 27, 2020
Curly, Died Too Early
Arthur sucks pea dip from the claw and puts it down on the table.
Alexander-Groovy winces.
This tart's brilliant, says Sweezus. Artichoke and ricotta. Want some?
Arthur cuts himself a big slice.
Kierkegaard sees Arthur eating a large slice of tart.
That looks interesting. What's in it?
Artichoke and ricotta, says Arthur. Want some?
Yes please, says Kierkegaard.
Popular tart.
Kierkegaard retires to the back of the table to eat his slice.
His eye falls on the salad bowl in which Alexander-Curly is pining.
Is there anything I can get you? asks Kierkegaard.
A higher being? says Alexander-Curly.
Impossible, at a picnic, says Kierkegaard.
I thought so, says Alexander-Curly. As you see, I am cracked down the middle.
It must be painful, says Kierkegaard.
It is painful, says Alexander-Curly. Perhaps you could write me a poem?
I'm no poet, says Kierkegaard. But I believe Arthur has talent.
Yes! says Alexander-Curly. I remember the golden intentions.
I'll ask him, says Kierkegaard.
He goes over to Arthur.
Curly is dying, says Kierkegaard. He requests a poem. I put your name forward.
Thanks, says Arthur, burping up minted pea.
Arthur heads to the end of the table.
It's not far.
What kind of poem? asks Arthur. Violent? Regretful?
Yes, says Alexander-Curly. And I'd like it written out in my font.
Okay, says Arthur. That should be easy.
Alexander-Curly waits for his last (and only) poem.
The Short Tempestuous Life of Alexander-Curly, begins Arthur.
Emerged from the sand
into the cruel light of SCIENCE
I volunteered without reck.
From then I denied my true nature.
I lurked in the depths of a salad bowl.
Transported,
in a bus, the top salad bowl
of three, luckily.
The bottom one was broken.
(that WAS lucky), sighs Alexander-Curly)
Tumbled in violent waves
in search of a higher being
my claw detached, as was the claw of my brother.
One was found.
Now he will have it.
For I being stepped on, have cracked.
Sing all!
For Alexander-Curly.
He died too early.
Alexander-Groovy winces.
This tart's brilliant, says Sweezus. Artichoke and ricotta. Want some?
Arthur cuts himself a big slice.
Kierkegaard sees Arthur eating a large slice of tart.
That looks interesting. What's in it?
Artichoke and ricotta, says Arthur. Want some?
Yes please, says Kierkegaard.
Popular tart.
Kierkegaard retires to the back of the table to eat his slice.
His eye falls on the salad bowl in which Alexander-Curly is pining.
Is there anything I can get you? asks Kierkegaard.
A higher being? says Alexander-Curly.
Impossible, at a picnic, says Kierkegaard.
I thought so, says Alexander-Curly. As you see, I am cracked down the middle.
It must be painful, says Kierkegaard.
It is painful, says Alexander-Curly. Perhaps you could write me a poem?
I'm no poet, says Kierkegaard. But I believe Arthur has talent.
Yes! says Alexander-Curly. I remember the golden intentions.
I'll ask him, says Kierkegaard.
He goes over to Arthur.
Curly is dying, says Kierkegaard. He requests a poem. I put your name forward.
Thanks, says Arthur, burping up minted pea.
Arthur heads to the end of the table.
It's not far.
What kind of poem? asks Arthur. Violent? Regretful?
Yes, says Alexander-Curly. And I'd like it written out in my font.
Okay, says Arthur. That should be easy.
Alexander-Curly waits for his last (and only) poem.
The Short Tempestuous Life of Alexander-Curly, begins Arthur.
Emerged from the sand
into the cruel light of SCIENCE
I volunteered without reck.
From then I denied my true nature.
I lurked in the depths of a salad bowl.
Transported,
in a bus, the top salad bowl
of three, luckily.
The bottom one was broken.
(that WAS lucky), sighs Alexander-Curly)
Tumbled in violent waves
in search of a higher being
my claw detached, as was the claw of my brother.
One was found.
Now he will have it.
For I being stepped on, have cracked.
Sing all!
For Alexander-Curly.
He died too early.
Sunday, April 26, 2020
Going Well With A Radish
Terence goes back to tell Alexander-Red-Hook that she can't have the knucklebones.
Sweezus doesn't love you as much as you thought, says Alexander-Red-Hook.
Terence didn't know this would be how she'd perceive it.
He DOES! says Terence. I knew he'd give them to me.
But he didn't, says Alexander-Red-Hook. How do you explain that?
Terence thinks back.
He can't explain that.
What did you actually say? asks Alexander-Red-Hook.
Can you have the knucklebones, because you won them, says Terence.
Meaning me, says Alexander-Red-Hook. Of course he doesn't love ME. You should have asked if you could borrow them.
Okay, says Terence.
He heads back to the picnic table, where everyone else is.
This is a lovely dip, Lauren, says Belle. What is it?
Pea and mint, says Lauren. It goes well with a radish.
Yes, I was just going to try that, says Belle.
She picks up a radish.
Is that a tomato? asks Gaius, aghast.
No, a radish, says Belle.
I should have known, says Gaius. Different colour entirely.
He takes a radish and dips it. Cer-runch! Very nice!
Sweezus has his eye on a tart (artichoke and salted ricotta).
He puts down the knucklebones, takes a knife, cuts a large slice.
Terence regards the knucklebones.
He could just take them.
But Lauren has picked them up now.
These are exactly like my old ones, says Lauren.
She throws them up. Tries to catch them. Oops. One has dropped into the pea and mint dip.
It sinks to the bottom.
I'll get it, says Arthur, who has drunk enough low alcohol rosé to make him reckless.
Arthur picks up the claw, which is destined for Alexander-Groovy when Gaius finds the fish glue.
Arthur dips the claw in the dip.
Of course a claw won't work properly without being attached to a carpus.
Arthur has to work it himself.
He prises the claw open, getting pea dip all over his fingers.
He can feel the lost knucklebone, somewhere in the mushy green conglomeration.
Yes, he has got it.
But the claw is open at too wide an angle to pick up a knucklebone.
Arthur has to manually close it.
At last the knucklebone is lifted free of the pea and mint dip.
It's covered with dip, though.
Arthur sucks it, and gives it back to Lauren.
Thanks dear, says Lauren.
Groovy hopes he will not suck the claw.
Sweezus doesn't love you as much as you thought, says Alexander-Red-Hook.
Terence didn't know this would be how she'd perceive it.
He DOES! says Terence. I knew he'd give them to me.
But he didn't, says Alexander-Red-Hook. How do you explain that?
Terence thinks back.
He can't explain that.
What did you actually say? asks Alexander-Red-Hook.
Can you have the knucklebones, because you won them, says Terence.
Meaning me, says Alexander-Red-Hook. Of course he doesn't love ME. You should have asked if you could borrow them.
Okay, says Terence.
He heads back to the picnic table, where everyone else is.
This is a lovely dip, Lauren, says Belle. What is it?
Pea and mint, says Lauren. It goes well with a radish.
Yes, I was just going to try that, says Belle.
She picks up a radish.
Is that a tomato? asks Gaius, aghast.
No, a radish, says Belle.
I should have known, says Gaius. Different colour entirely.
He takes a radish and dips it. Cer-runch! Very nice!
Sweezus has his eye on a tart (artichoke and salted ricotta).
He puts down the knucklebones, takes a knife, cuts a large slice.
Terence regards the knucklebones.
He could just take them.
But Lauren has picked them up now.
These are exactly like my old ones, says Lauren.
She throws them up. Tries to catch them. Oops. One has dropped into the pea and mint dip.
It sinks to the bottom.
I'll get it, says Arthur, who has drunk enough low alcohol rosé to make him reckless.
Arthur picks up the claw, which is destined for Alexander-Groovy when Gaius finds the fish glue.
Arthur dips the claw in the dip.
Of course a claw won't work properly without being attached to a carpus.
Arthur has to work it himself.
He prises the claw open, getting pea dip all over his fingers.
He can feel the lost knucklebone, somewhere in the mushy green conglomeration.
Yes, he has got it.
But the claw is open at too wide an angle to pick up a knucklebone.
Arthur has to manually close it.
At last the knucklebone is lifted free of the pea and mint dip.
It's covered with dip, though.
Arthur sucks it, and gives it back to Lauren.
Thanks dear, says Lauren.
Groovy hopes he will not suck the claw.
Saturday, April 25, 2020
Nor The Wisdom Of Solomon
Kierkegaard steps back.
I'll perform Reiki on it, later, says Lauren. Right now there's the picnic.
Perhaps, says Kierkegaard.
His board rash feels worse. It could be from her raspy fingers or because he's been running.
Can we move these salad bowls? asks Lauren. And this unattached claw?
Wait, says Gaius. Where's the ruler?
Here, says Lauren. Can't you do that later?
Time is of the essence, says Gaius. This crab is failing. It would be a pity to waste the claw on a dying one. But if it's his, he shall have it.
Gaius hoists Alexander-Curly out of the salad bowl he has been put in.
He measures the tendon sticking out from the broken off carpus.
He examines Curly's empty propodus.
If only I had a skewer, says Gaius. I could poke it in and obtain an exact measure.
Noooo! cries Alexander-Curly.
It's the first word he has spoken since being stepped on.
I won't have a skewer inserted into my propodus!
Excellent A coherent sentence!
I will! says Alexander-Groovy. I'll endure the skewer!
Perhaps this proves that the claw belongs to Alexander-Groovy.
Perhaps it doesn't.
Gaius has no time to weigh up the matter. Nor has he the wisdom of Solomon.
And the picnic is being put on the table regardless.
Gaius makes a decision.
Groovy is having the claw.
Unfortunately, to reattach it requires the fish glue which is in his back pack (he hopes) on the floor in Lauren's kitchen.
The spring green frittata smells good. So do the pork and chorizo picnic pies.
Groovy can wait a bit longer.
Belle is pouring the wine.
It's very low in alcohol, says Belle, So drink as much as you like.
Or more, says Arthur, to Sweezus.
Huh? says Sweezus, idly throwing up knucklebones, and catching them on the back of his hand.
Hey! says Terence. Alexander-Red-Hook wants the knucklebones. She WON them!
But no way will Sweezus give the knucklebones up to a crab.
I'll perform Reiki on it, later, says Lauren. Right now there's the picnic.
Perhaps, says Kierkegaard.
His board rash feels worse. It could be from her raspy fingers or because he's been running.
Can we move these salad bowls? asks Lauren. And this unattached claw?
Wait, says Gaius. Where's the ruler?
Here, says Lauren. Can't you do that later?
Time is of the essence, says Gaius. This crab is failing. It would be a pity to waste the claw on a dying one. But if it's his, he shall have it.
Gaius hoists Alexander-Curly out of the salad bowl he has been put in.
He measures the tendon sticking out from the broken off carpus.
He examines Curly's empty propodus.
If only I had a skewer, says Gaius. I could poke it in and obtain an exact measure.
Noooo! cries Alexander-Curly.
It's the first word he has spoken since being stepped on.
I won't have a skewer inserted into my propodus!
Excellent A coherent sentence!
I will! says Alexander-Groovy. I'll endure the skewer!
Perhaps this proves that the claw belongs to Alexander-Groovy.
Perhaps it doesn't.
Gaius has no time to weigh up the matter. Nor has he the wisdom of Solomon.
And the picnic is being put on the table regardless.
Gaius makes a decision.
Groovy is having the claw.
Unfortunately, to reattach it requires the fish glue which is in his back pack (he hopes) on the floor in Lauren's kitchen.
The spring green frittata smells good. So do the pork and chorizo picnic pies.
Groovy can wait a bit longer.
Belle is pouring the wine.
It's very low in alcohol, says Belle, So drink as much as you like.
Or more, says Arthur, to Sweezus.
Huh? says Sweezus, idly throwing up knucklebones, and catching them on the back of his hand.
Hey! says Terence. Alexander-Red-Hook wants the knucklebones. She WON them!
But no way will Sweezus give the knucklebones up to a crab.
Friday, April 24, 2020
Catching The Sunlight
And this is what happens.
Kierkegaard wins.
It's the first time he's won anything in ages. Maybe ever.
Sweezus comes second.
He is relieved, because it means he gets to keep the knucklebones.
Belle and Arthur jog in, together, winning the Monte Carlos.
Your knee's bleeding, says Lauren. You need to wash it.
Later, says Arthur. After we've eaten.
Aren't you full of potatoes? asks Lauren.
No, Arthur is not.
Gaius and Marie have not arrived yet.
We'll wait for them before starting the picnic, says Lauren. Meanwhile, look who won our little competition!
The four finishers look.
Terence is wearing the medal. He sees them all looking. He twirls in the sand. The medal swings grandly, catching the sunlight. Terence steps on a crab.
Ouu! Crack. It was Alexander-Curly, who was lying exhausted near the leg of the table.
Lauren picks him up, and places him in one of the salad bowls. Let's hope she's picked the right one.
Terence is sorry he stepped on Alexander-Curly.
He's lost people's attention.
He shuffles away from the table, and sits down on the sand, next to Alexander-Red-Hook, who looks gloomy as well.
What happened? asks Alexander-Red-Hook. Is Curly all right?
How should I know? asks Terence. I just won a medal.
I won the knucklebones, says Alexander-Red-Hook. But where are they?
Where? asks Terence.
Sweezus has got them, says Alexander-Red-Hook.
Ask for a turn, says Terence. He'll let you.
You ask him, says Alexander-Red-Hook. He likes you.
He LOVES me, says Terence. He caught me when I fell off my palace.
There you go, says Alexander-Red-Hook.
Terence makes his way across to the table.
Gaius and Marie have come back.
Gaius is peering into the salad bowl at his third to last subject, and asking:
Were you medium or low?
Alexander-Curly can't remember.
Which bowl were you in? Red or Burnt Sienna?
It's no good, Curly won't answer.
Ask Kierkegaard. He should know.
But Kierkegaard is full of himself at the moment (as well as potatoes). He is explaining to Lauren how many he ate. And still he came first. It's a wonder!
She is rubbing his tummy.
Not for the potatoes, but the board rash, which is partly exposed.
Kierkegaard wins.
It's the first time he's won anything in ages. Maybe ever.
Sweezus comes second.
He is relieved, because it means he gets to keep the knucklebones.
Belle and Arthur jog in, together, winning the Monte Carlos.
Your knee's bleeding, says Lauren. You need to wash it.
Later, says Arthur. After we've eaten.
Aren't you full of potatoes? asks Lauren.
No, Arthur is not.
Gaius and Marie have not arrived yet.
We'll wait for them before starting the picnic, says Lauren. Meanwhile, look who won our little competition!
The four finishers look.
Terence is wearing the medal. He sees them all looking. He twirls in the sand. The medal swings grandly, catching the sunlight. Terence steps on a crab.
Ouu! Crack. It was Alexander-Curly, who was lying exhausted near the leg of the table.
Lauren picks him up, and places him in one of the salad bowls. Let's hope she's picked the right one.
Terence is sorry he stepped on Alexander-Curly.
He's lost people's attention.
He shuffles away from the table, and sits down on the sand, next to Alexander-Red-Hook, who looks gloomy as well.
What happened? asks Alexander-Red-Hook. Is Curly all right?
How should I know? asks Terence. I just won a medal.
I won the knucklebones, says Alexander-Red-Hook. But where are they?
Where? asks Terence.
Sweezus has got them, says Alexander-Red-Hook.
Ask for a turn, says Terence. He'll let you.
You ask him, says Alexander-Red-Hook. He likes you.
He LOVES me, says Terence. He caught me when I fell off my palace.
There you go, says Alexander-Red-Hook.
Terence makes his way across to the table.
Gaius and Marie have come back.
Gaius is peering into the salad bowl at his third to last subject, and asking:
Were you medium or low?
Alexander-Curly can't remember.
Which bowl were you in? Red or Burnt Sienna?
It's no good, Curly won't answer.
Ask Kierkegaard. He should know.
But Kierkegaard is full of himself at the moment (as well as potatoes). He is explaining to Lauren how many he ate. And still he came first. It's a wonder!
She is rubbing his tummy.
Not for the potatoes, but the board rash, which is partly exposed.
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