Time To Call Time on Time Team?

Scene 1. Ext. A field in  Biggin Little-on- the-Mole

Phil-the-hat-Harding is peering excitedly into a rain-filled trench.  We know he is excited because the voiceover tells us he is, as in ‘Phil is excited as he peers into the rain-filled trench, where Carenza is up to her kagool in muck’.


Oooo aaaahr, Cretinza, is that . . . could that be a . . . waaaahl?


****s sake, Phil, how many times? It’s Carenza! Yes, it’s a wall. The clue is in the bricks.

Phil-the-Hat  turns and beckons furiously to the rest of the team who appear to be poring intellectually over a geophys chart. A slip of the camera angle reveals it is actually a copy of this month’s Fossil Fetish.


Ere, lads, come and see this ere waaahl.

The team, led by Tony-the-Baldrick- Robinson, shamble over as fast as their collective age of 1004will allow. Tony peers into the ditch as the others crowd round.


It is! It really is. It’s a . . .  wall. Well done Cortina! Is it Saxon or Roman?

Mick-of-the-clown-hair –Aston (and really dodgy woolly pullies) roughly elbows Tony out of the way.


That’s never a wall, Crepuscular. This ere is a richuaaal site. See that there unidentifiable something. That might have been used as an instrument of some kind or maybe an offering to the Gods.


Aaahr, Mick lad, yer don’t know yer tesserae from yer testicles.

It’s a waaahl, roih enuff. Finest waaahl oi’ve seen in these ere parts.


Could it be part of a Roman villa? A bath house?


Aaahr, could be, one of the waaahls.


This is such an exciting find, guys. What are we going to do with it?

Phil-the-hat-Harding, Mick-of-the-clown-hair-Aston, Carenza-the-sane-much-younger-and-female-one (all together)

Do with it? What we always do, moron. Bury the damn thing, so some other prat can come along in a hundred years and dig it all back up again.

Tony reaches down and helps Carenza out of the ditch.


Hey, Carrera, fancy a drink with a very old fossil? We could talk about my days as lead singer with Kajagool gool.


Dear Lord, put me up against the wall and shoot me!

And so say all of us. Time Team – have you no homes to go to?

There Must Be Fifty Ways To Leave Your Novel

Mess about on the net, Beth

Make another cup of tea, Lee

Get naked with Gok, Jock

Take a walk by the sea

The  keyboard needs cleaning

The house is like a hovel

The garden needs weeding

There must be fifty ways

To leave your novel

And the rest. . . and I know every one, which is why my new novel is progressing backwards. When it comes to displacement activity, I am the queen. Fact, the grass outside my window grew by exactly 1/8th of an inch today.  I know, because somehow it became a matter of huge (even National ) importance that I keep my eye on it.  Which, of course, meant that I had to abandon my novel.  Later on, in the interests of research, I learnt a great deal about double-glazing and how it could transform my life.  It must be the first time ever a double-glazing salesman hung up on anyone. And, did you know, cats can be great conversationalists – well, good listeners anyway.  Bizzie Lizzie (greatest misnomer ever) sat for a whole hour listening to me read aloud from the Encyclopaedia Britannica.  We are now both experts on the Franco-Prussian war. Admittedly, it was a question of letting the book fall open any old place. We could just as easily have become experts on the lost tribe of Hopi Pygmies or fungal problems with Big Leaf Hydrangea. Speaking of which, I had to go out for a while to check that my own BLH hadn’t moved. Now, I know that as a rule plants don’t generally get up and go walkabout (unless you live where I used to in Tooting, when they generally have assistance), but you can never be too sure. Global warming and all that – nuclear fall-out from Japan. Remember those Triffids!  And, of course, that meant I had to abandon my novel yet again. Worn out by the exertion, I then had to sit down, have a cup of tea and channel surf for a while, which is when I stumbled upon The Housewives of Orange County, a kind of Barbie-meets-Frankenstein-meets-great-vats-of-silicone programme. Like all good car-crash TV, this kept me riveted for the amount of time it took Tamra to diss Gretchen, who dissed Jeana, who dissed everyone, all without managing to move a facial muscle. By the way, I guess the moniker Housewives of Orange County is because they have all been tango’d an unnatural shade of tangerine.

Which brings my word count for today to . . . Blog 435. Novel. 1. (I deleted ‘the’ once, replaced it, then deleted it again).