ERROL’S DISPATCHES
From the Newsdesk of Goodboy Bindle Featherstone of Quirm — Head of Marketing, Roving Reporter & Recovering Correspondent

First, an apology.

I have been absent, gentle readers. Weeks have passed since my last dispatch. The typewriters gathered dust. The press pass went unpolished. Some of you may have assumed I had retired to a life of pure leisure — an assumption I would not entirely blame you for, given that leisure is my primary area of expertise.

The truth is simpler and duller: I was exhausted.

The summer season nearly finished us all off. For three solid months, we worked four fairs a week. Four. Every week. The Red Chariot — the Peugeot, the vehicle I have never quite warmed to — carried us up and down the North Wales coast until the wheels practically begged for mercy. The -ing eejit drove and grumbled. The Goddess made stock and smiled and never once complained, which is one of the many reasons she is a goddess. And I sat in my stroller and charmed the public, which sounds easy but is, in fact, deeply draining work for a dog of my age.

Then, on top of all that, there was the medication.

You will recall that the vet — the dear, dear Katie — prescribed me a new regimen for the old war wound. I take it every evening after dinner. It works. The knee is quieter, the hip clicks less, the whole assembly is holding up remarkably well for a dog of nine.

But I must confess, readers: it makes me feel a bit goofy.

Not unpleasant-goofy. Not worrying-goofy. Just… goofy. The world goes soft at the edges. The colours get slightly warmer. I find myself staring at things — a wall, a fly, the -ing eejit’s shoes — for extended periods, thinking profound thoughts that evaporate the moment I try to write them down. It is not conducive to journalism. It is extremely conducive to napping.

So between the fairs, the fatigue, and the goofiness, the dispatches slipped. I am sorry. I shall endeavour to do better. And I have some rather large news to share, which should make up for my silence.

The Inventory Revolution

Here is the situation, straight from the coalface.

Jon and Mary have been taking a long, hard look at the business. And what they found has prompted a significant change of direction.

The silver jewellery — the higher-end pieces, the ones that gleam so beautifully under the stall lights — is not selling. Not enough, anyway. Not reliably. Some pieces have travelled to a dozen markets and back, admired but unbought. It is not a quality problem. It is not a pricing problem. It is simply that the venues we work — holiday parks, street markets, Sunday fairs — are not where people go to buy fine silver.

So, the silver display is being scaled back. Not abandoned — never abandoned. But the higher-end pieces are looking for a more appropriate home. A gallery, perhaps. A specialist fair. Somewhere with the right audience and the right atmosphere.

Meanwhile, there is a second issue, and it is a more uncomfortable one to write about.

Some of the affordable jewellery — the popular pieces, the ones that sell consistently — turn out to be bought in. Not made by Jon and Mary. Not crafted at the bench in the chapel. Just… purchased from a supplier and resold.

This was never the plan. When Jon and Mary set out on this journey just over a year ago, the whole point was to make things. To create. To send out into the world objects that had passed through their own hands, their own skill, their own care. Bought-in stock is a compromise, and they have decided they are no longer willing to make it.

I respect this enormously. It is the difference between a business and a calling.

The Good News (And It Is Very Good)

Now. The bad news is over. Let us talk about what is filling the space.

Rejigging the inventory has opened up a considerable amount of table space. And the ideas Jon and Mary have for filling it are, frankly, thrilling.

I am authorised to announce that Jon and Mary’s Curios will soon be launching an entirely new range. I have seen glimpses. I have sniffed prototypes. I have sat in meetings, on my quilt, listening to plans being made. And I can tell you that the following are coming:

Robot chess sets. Wooden. Handmade. Beautiful. The robots do not play the chess themselves — I asked, and was given a firm no — but they stand at the edges of the board like tiny wooden spectators, which is somehow even better.

Book nooks. Dioramas built into the spaces between books. Tiny worlds tucked into shelves.

Dioramas. Larger scenes. Crafted landscapes. I do not fully understand them yet, but Mummy’s eyes light up when she talks about them, and that is good enough for me.

And — the one I am most excited about — TONKS!

A tabletop game. Easy to play. Designed to occupy the young uns when the weather is inclement. I have not yet been given a demonstration, but I have watched the -ing eejit cutting small wooden pieces with an intensity that suggests he believes he is building something important. There are dice involved. There are rules. There is, apparently, strategy.

I shall report further as development continues. This is a scoop in progress.

The Crisis (And Its Resolution)

All of this activity has been happening at base. Which has meant that the Goddess has been away from her usual station — the couch, beside me, where she belongs.

I do not wish to make a fuss. But I will make a small one, because it was a genuine problem.

For several days, Mummy was in the chapel constantly. Cutting. Sanding. Designing. Test-assembling. And I was on the couch. Alone. Well, not alone — Loki was nearby, and Alice was in her chair — but without her. This was, readers, a difficult adjustment.

The first day, I coped. The second day, I began to pace. The third day, I stood at the chapel door and looked at her with an expression that said I am very small and very loyal and I have been abandoned.

That is when the -ing eejit — the man I have criticised so thoroughly in these pages, the man who is not my real dad, the man whose gazebo struggles I have documented with such relish — came to the rescue.

He moved my bed.

Into the chapel. Right next to Mummy’s desk.

Crisis: averted.

I now spend my working hours curled at her feet while she creates. The floor is hard, but Quilt No.3 has been laid down to soften it. I can hear the saw, the sander, the quiet hum of concentration. Occasionally, she reaches down and strokes my ears without breaking her rhythm. It is, without question, the best arrangement we have ever had.

The -ing eejit has earned some credit here. I shall note it in the ledger. It does not erase the dashboard incidents, but it counts.

The New Rhythm

We have cut back to one fair a week.

This was a difficult decision, I am told, but a sensible one. The energy is now going into the new products — the chess sets, the book nooks, the dioramas, the TONKS! — and into finding the right home for the higher-end silver. The market season is not over, but it is no longer the whole story.

This suits me. One fair a week is a civilised pace. It leaves time for rest, for recovery, for the slow adjustment to my medication. It leaves time for dispatches.

I intend to return to regular posting. It has been too long. The newsroom has been quiet, and Errol’s Dispatches should not be quiet. I have a duty to my readers, and I have been shirking it. No more.

Until the Christmas rush begins, at any rate. Then all bets are off.

Signing Off

So there it is, gentle readers. An apology. An explanation. A stroller embraced. A business reimagined. A bed relocated. And a very small dog curled in the chapel, listening to his Mummy work, waiting patiently for the Holy Hour to arrive.

The summer was long. The goofiness lingers. But I am back at my post, and I am glad to be here.

Until next time — and I mean a reasonable next time, not another month — this is me, signing off and going to get my

DUK ONNA STIKK!!!1!!!!!

KthxBai — Errol
Head of Marketing, Recovering Correspondent, and Official Tester of TONKS! (pending approval)