That is Ginsbergbear’s poeticky stuff out of the way for a bit, perhaps now we can get on with the story. But no, first – here is a picture of Ginsbergbear poeticising…
Aunty Stella was stressed. She lives with some fifteen cats (the exact figure is variable) and a dodo, which fact alone is enough to stress anyone. She also has a husband, children and a job on the local newspaper, so stressed barely comes close. One day, while she was screaming quietly into Facebook, Boz and Phoebles, two ginger cats who are friends of her dodo, Ferdinand, and live in Limehousesailortown, offered to take her on a weekend break the very next time they went up to the Land of Green Ginger and this is the story of how it all worked out.
It was late autumn and plans for the trip had been finalised when an unseasonable cold snap resulted in Scotland being buried under a blanket of snow. Boz has friends in north-eastern Scotland and two of them, Anna and Bui – who live deep in the forest, contacted him via the Internet to say that they were cut off and in dire distress. The plans for the weekend away would have to be modified.
The cabin interior was done out in a rather stern Teutonic Art Deco. The walls were painted in browns and creams to represent marquetry panelling and there was an exclusive looking geometrically patterned rug on the floor with Phoebles kneeling on it. He was trying to remove the catnip ash and disguise a small burn hole. Ginsbergbear lounged in a chrome and leather chair, having returned to his creative task. He jotted down snippets of conversation, descriptions of his surroundings and a few plot ideas.
Up in Maschinenzentrale Boz was tapping several dials quite vigorously and looking concerned. A significant number of the twelve 391 kW (524 hp) Siemens-built Bristol Jupiter radial engines had abandoned their purrrrrh and taken up variations on Clunk-clatter, chug-chug-cough-ch..., and phwwww. One engine-pair wailed a, scrscheeeough-plack! followed it with a ping and then fell silent.
“I think we are going to land.” said Ferdy, from the pilot’s bucket seat.
“Where? No, don’t. We can’t!” Boz was having some difficulty maintaining his calm exterior.
“No longer my decision, old comrade. The bird is to become a boat… or an amorphous mass of twisted metal and squishy heroes if the ground down there is as hard as it looks.”