ERROL’S DISPATCHES
From the Newsdesk of Goodboy Bindle Featherstone of Quirm — Head of Marketing, Chief Morale Officer & Veteran of the Craft Fair Circuit
Four fairs in four days, gentle readers. Four. Count them. I have.
The -ing eejit says I sleep eighteen hours a day and therefore have no right to complain about fatigue. To which I respond: I am a journalist, not a marathon runner. Mental labour is labour. And besides, I do not complain. I simply report. If the facts happen to suggest exhaustion, that is between the facts and the reader.
Newtown. A new venue. Untested territory. We loaded up the Black Chariot — ah, but I’m getting ahead of myself. More on the Chariot later. Suffice to say, for now, she carried us faithfully one last time into the unknown.
The Arrival
We were met by Miriam, the lady who organises the fair for the local council. A pleasant sort. Efficient. She showed us to our allocated pitch with the brisk confidence of someone who has spent many years telling people where to go and making it sound like a favour.
Now, readers, I must be frank. The spot was… less than optimal.
I am not one to cast aspersions on the organisational capabilities of council employees — Miriam was perfectly lovely — but our pitch was tucked away in a corner that might charitably be described as “quiet” and less charitably as “the place footfall forgets.” I gave the -ing eejit a look that said are we being punished for something? He shrugged. Mummy smiled and started unpacking the gazebo. She has the patience of a saint and the strategic outlook of a general. If she wasn’t worried, I wasn’t worried. But I was… alert.
Still, there was a silver lining. The car was parked right next to the pitch. A rare luxury. No long hauls with armfuls of robots and jewellery boxes. No expeditionary treks across windswept fields. Just a simple pivot from boot to table. Even the -ing eejit admitted it was “handy,” which from him is practically a standing ovation. The gazebo went up with minimal fuss, the tables were arranged, and my Executive Perch was deployed — Quilt No.3 atop the Really Useful Boxes, positioned for optimal surveillance of whatever footfall we might receive.
And then we waited.
The Long, Hot Quiet
It was very, very hot. Again. I am beginning to think the sun has a personal vendetta against this summer’s craft fair season. The AIR CON beastie haunted my thoughts like a distant lover. I pictured it back at the ranch, humming away in an empty room, cooling absolutely nobody. A tragedy.
The crowd was thin. A trickle rather than a flow. A few brave souls wandered past, pink-faced and fanning themselves with whatever came to hand. Some stopped. Some browsed. Some purchased. We made a few sales — not a lot, but enough to justify the petrol and the setup. Mummy sold a necklace to a lady who said it matched her daughter’s eyes. The -ing eejit demonstrated a robot to a small boy who looked at it with the kind of wonder usually reserved for Christmas mornings. These moments sustain us.
But the truth, readers, is that the heat had won. Footfall was down across the whole market. Even the ice cream van — the Ice Monster, my old adversary-turned-ally — looked subdued. We have decided to give Newtown a month. Markets are like relationships; you cannot judge them on a first date, especially when the first date takes place on the surface of the sun. We shall return when the weather is more conducive to browsing and less conducive to spontaneous combustion.
Vale, Black Chariot
And now, readers, I must report a loss.
The Black Chariot — the BMW, the faithful steed, the vehicle what has carried me to countless fairs upon Mummy’s lap — has reached the end of the road. She has given up the ghost. The MOT man has spoken, and his verdict was final. The -ing eejit says she has become “a bit spendy” to keep on the road, which I understand is hooman for “the wheels are about to fall off and we are no longer willing to pay for the privilege.”
He is down about it. The -ing eejit, I mean. Not the car. The car has no feelings, although I confess I always felt she had a certain personality. A gruff, German personality. Efficient but warm. She carried us over 100,000 miles in thirteen years. That is a lot of craft fairs. A lot of journeys. A lot of me sitting on Mummy’s lap giving directions that were roundly ignored.
Thirteen years is longer than I have been alive, which puts things in perspective. I am nine. The car was four when I arrived on the scene, a small and bewildered puppy who had no idea he would one day become Head of Marketing. She was there for my entire career. Every scoop, every marauder, every triumphant return with DUK ONNA STIK waiting at the end. She was the backdrop to my professional life, and now she is gone.
The -ing eejit muttered something about “sunk cost fallacy” and “time to let go.” I do not know what a sunk cost fallacy is. It sounds like a legal defence. “Your Honour, I plead sunk cost fallacy.” Perhaps it absolves him of the guilt of scrapping a faithful machine. I shall allow it. He is not my real dad, but even I can see he is hurting.
Farewell, Black Chariot. You were a good car. You had excellent air conditioning. You will be missed.
(Editor’s note: The -ing eejit has asked me to clarify that the car has not been literally scrapped yet, merely condemned. She sits on the drive awaiting her fate. A stay of execution. I shall report further as the story develops.)
The Old War Wound & The Appointment
In further personal news, Mummy — the Goddess, my maaamy, I luvs her I do — has booked me in to see the vet.
Now, readers, I know what you are thinking. Errol, the vet? Are you not concerned? And I answer: no. Not really. Unlike many goggies, I do not fear the vet. He is a good sort, dedicated to helping us creechurs live as long and pain-free and as happy as possible. That is a noble cause. A vocation. I respect it.
My old war wound — the left knee, sustained in the line of duty (or possibly just age, the two are not mutually exclusive) — has been playing up, so the Goddess has decided a check-up is in order. She is proactive about my healthcare. It is one of the many reasons she is a goddess and not merely a very good hooman.
I will go willingly. I will submit to the prodding and the poking and the serious nodding of the vet. I trust him. He has never steered me wrong.
Although. I must confess. There is a small twinge. A tiny flicker of memory. The time I went there, felt sleepy, and woke up to discover I was… two spheres less of a goggie.
I shall say no more on the subject. The memory is distant but vivid. The vet said it was for the best. Mummy said it was for the best. Even the -ing eejit, who is not my real dad and therefore has no jurisdiction over my spheres, said it was for the best. And I suppose it was. But still. One does not simply forget.
Here’s to veterinarians everywhere, gentle readers. They do essential work. They are healers, scientists, and occasionally — necessarily — takers-away of spheres. We salute them. But just like the pelican, they can stick their bill up their—
(Editor: Well, that’s quite enough of that. — The -ing eejit)
(Errol: You’re not my real dad. — Errol)
(Editor: I’m the editor. — The -ing eejit)
(Errol: …Fine. But I’m watching you.)
Home & The Holy Hour
And so we returned. The Black Chariot’s final journey — or final market journey, at least — was a quiet one. Mummy held me a little tighter than usual. The -ing eejit drove a little slower. We were all, I think, saying goodbye in our own ways.
The ranch. Home. The AIR CON beastie welcomed me with open vents. I settled before it and let the cold air wash over my fur like a benediction.
Loki, my bruvah, emerged from whatever shadow he had been occupying and gave me a slow blink. You’re back, said the blink. The house was too quiet, said the blink. Alice has been insufferable, said the blink. I blinked back: I know, bruvah. I know.
Alice herself was on the armchair. She did not acknowledge my return. She was busy being a tiger. The chair, I noticed, was covered in ginger fur. She has been shedding. Tactically, I suspect. A feline form of territorial marking. I did not challenge her. I am a journalist, not a martyr.
And then — readers, you know what comes next —
The -ing eejit delivered it with the air of a man who has just scrapped his car and is trying to find meaning in small rituals. I accepted it with the air of a dog who understands that grief is complex and that duck twists help. Chewy. Satisfying. A constant in a changing world. Cars may come and go. Spheres may be… reallocated. But DUK ONNA STIK endures.
Five stars. Always five stars.
Signing Off
A poor day at Newtown, but not a wasted one. The final outing in the Black Chariot. An appointment with the vet on the horizon. Quite a busy time for a small dog.
But for now — home. Loki. Alice (at a safe distance). The hum of the AIR CON beastie. And a warm lap that smells of Mummy and safety and all the things that make this strange, hot, uncertain summer bearable.
We shall try Newtown again when the weather cools. The Black Chariot’s successor has yet to be chosen, but I shall report on the selection process when it begins. The vet appointment looms, but I face it with courage. And somewhere, in the quiet of the evening, the -ing eejit is probably looking at photos of his old car and feeling things he will never admit to.
I shall allow him his privacy. Just this once.
I remain, as always —
Head of Marketing. Roving Reporter. Spheres or no spheres.
KthxBai — Errol
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