An Attic Lift Is The Place To Be.

Shotgun Ma was on the phone.
"I thought it was time I picked up the phone," she said. "I can't talk to you. You tell everyone."
"It's off the record, mum," she said, and, like Modesty, she understood and went on to talk about life.
Julian had been looking at a website that would help lift up stuff from the floor to the attic. They meant in the garage, but Julian had a literal attic and a great deal of stuff. Boxes and boxes of all sorts of good stuff, and the lift might just be the ticket. It cost just under a thousand dollars, and you put your stuff on it and it hoisted it up to where you wanted it to go.
So, yes, she would install an attic in her house, she loved her attic. The question now was, would she install an attic lift.
The other alternative, of course, was to carry it all up the spiral staircase by hand, which is the way they had managed it so far. Mind you, a thousand dollars was a thousand dollars, and she had plans. Spain, Palma de Mallorca, Thailand, London, Grenock, Oxford and Paris, for starters.
She made her decision. As beautiful as the attic lift looked and sounded, it wasn't for her. She would do it the hard way.

Modesty Blaze & Count The Dollar Nikolarse.

Modesty and Nick blew in and blew out, as they had a want to do. They worked for the Secret Service and couldn't say much about where they had been and what they had been doing. Even Nick's fawlty heart valve was known about because he had managed to work it to get out of one of Julian's curry evenings by having a minor heart attack and having to be flown to Sydney with Modesty. His sister and son came to take over and eat the dreadful large amounts of food, and Mary Hitler, Edgar, Hermione and Mr Lovely Goodness all jumped in to help out. Nick, meanwhile, laid back in the social city hospital being fed rather bland overcooked vegetables and difficult to identify meat. Modesty sat and held his rather pale hand.
In later months, as they sat at a nearby popular dutch cafe munching into hamburgers and chicken tikka, with a modest statue of Michaelangelo's David behind Julian's right shoulder, Modesty pointed out that hospital's were dreadful places and if he needed an ambulance she was going to say no. If he needed a pill she would also say no. Nick was ok with all of this as long as he could die happy, and, as Modesty said often, there isn't really much wrong with you, is there.
Mary Hitler had wanted to know if she had met the Prime Minister in her work, and she had to confess that, yes, she had met the Prime Minister. She had been coming out of the coffee making cubicle as he was marching staunchly down the corridor and there had almost been a dreadful accident. They had both stopped with the coffee resting on his beautifully dry cleaned white shirt, looked closely at the coffee and Modesty had modestly stepped aside.
Is this just a blog or a novel, she had asked Julian. Julian had wanted to know the difference. In a novel there is conflict, she explained. Julian had said that yes, now she had Mr Lovely Goodness and, therefore, she had conflict. Modesty thought it a little rude. Julian had explained that it was all ok.
Count Nicky sat quietly in the corner. He only had just so much energy and he knew where he wanted to spend it. He watched and waited and threw in the odd particle of wit. They came, and they took their confidential security labels and they went. However, the good news was the yacht, the cruise and the European trip. They would be in touch all too soon.

Fred Grobble Runs Out Of Patience.

"What's wrong with going to a strip club? It's not illegal."
"It's to do with your loyalty to your partner. I rang her, she said that you've been a bit of a goose, and, guess what, she was right."
Fred was watching the news, and the aspiring Prime Minister, who hadn't been at the time, was confessing to having had too much to drink and going to a strip club. He had rang his wife in the morning and that was that. Fred had had a hard day at court supporting his mate, and was now tired. He was laying back on the couch, in front of the log fire, and was holding forth.
"Those drop kicks at the court should be culled like pit bulls." He shouted. He was impassioned. He was also angry at the fat cat Barristers, he didn't like them either.
"Nice kid, shame about the dunderhead dad," said Fred.
"Don't put my name down." He said, "Every little bit of Nazi racist remarks? Intolerance? Don't mention the boongs," he said, "my girl friend wouldn't like it."
Mary Hitler and Hermione, meanwhile, as well as that Darling Woman, had all been on the mobile at different times to show their support of their dear married friend, who was facing conviction as an almost felon in court. He was on appeal for a twice conviction and the legal terms were exhausting, but he was ready.
The court were running through the forty cases that would be seen over the next two weeks by the most distinguished gentleman, who had flown up from Sydney, and whose plane had been delayed by inclement weather. The court waited. And waited. And stood around, and were a little stiff and waited. People were able to look closely at other people, and keep their thoughts to themselves. It was Terrible, but finally, the Judge arrived, he dressed and he was knocked into court. Everyone stood. His dress was Magnificent. A frilled front, scarlet sash and purple collar along with a smaller wig. Now, the question was, what were the significance of the longer Judge wigs and this smaller, tighter wig? His face was long and his demeanor salubrious. He mentioned the voluminous files for some, and congratulated Mr. Mister on his brevity. He hoped that all those in court would take note of his example. Mister thanked His Honour, and sat down for another three and a half hours, before finding out how to find out when his case would be heard.
Meanwhile, at Ascot, they were taking bets on the colour of her hat. Lilac, and so on. Prince Philip was speaking truthfully about house guests, and at Ascot, he said, it gave everyone something to do, otherwise they were in the way. Michael Stout was a little more cautious. When the Queen's colours run it could take in as much as three million pounds. 'Rule Brittania' and champagne finished the day.
The day in court was moved to 4 on Thursday. Julian was a little rude to the Queens Council who came over to explain that she needed more paper work and would he mind if we came back. What time would suit, she asked. Julian rudely pointed out that right now, at two would suit, so it wasn't them that wanted to find the other time, it was them. Poppy was contrite and Julian felt bad. This was the Queen's Council who were about to take Eddie down! This was a strange world indeed. It was better to keep them onside!

This was the day of All The Queen's Horses.

A Life Of Barney & A Terrible Riley.

The Darlings had driven up from Canberra for a roast lamb and mildly curry flavoured gravy. This was the Darling who had tried to get out of the last dinner party by having a mild heart attack and being flown down to Sydney in a Helicopter, but some dinners just cannot be gotten out of. So, here he was, he had been sat in a reasonable comfy chair with a sasparillia, which needed ice, and he mentioned that quietly, but thought no-one had heard, although Julian had had an ear to the ground, whilst Lazzadak practiced his appeal to the judge about drink driving on them all. The Darlings took it all in their stride, although the Detective Inpectory Wendy Inspectory, known forthwith as DIWI, had a lot to say.
"No clapping," she insisted, "no clapping." She had a lot more to say, and went on the say it. Everyone listened and in due course applied the counsel.
This was followed by Julian's rendition of 'The Man From Snowy River', which was well and truly, not only unfinished, but also outdone by Mary Hitler, who could pop it off like rice bubbles, without so much as a by your leave, without even thought. She threw in another few renditions of Mulga Bike and other well known Banjo stuff. By this time, the party had removed itself to the pub for a bit of free jazz and dance, and no-one was really able to hear her, so it was all hot air really, or Hiltler air, as the case may be. Julian attempted a showing of Basil Fawlty and the Germans, but Mary Hitler wasn't having any.
"Show it from beginning, or I'm leaving," she kept saying.
"No, no," said Julian, "everyone is tired. Just watch this very funny bit."
"I'm going to leave NOW," said Mary, at the same time as Basil, who had misinterpreted the German request for an automobile, and thought they were going out to get some meat, told them, in no uncertain terms, that there was no need, they had MEAT IN THE BUILDING, and there was no problem. He mimed horns and pointed to the kitchen, which had the old German couple worried no end. They stepped back, whilst Polly came in to save the day.
Basil was now taking orders for meals in the restaurant, and cleverly mixing it all up with the war. Prawn cocktail became Goering cocktail, and he was taking their orders, 'which must be obeyed', and so on and so forth, and very clever it all was. Mary Hitler was asleep with a glass of red wine in one hand and a glass of Julian given water in the other.
"I'm watching, I'm watching," she insisted, when everyone told her to go to bed.

"You'll get yours," Mary said to Julian. "Just you wait."
"Weak hearts, nothing. The Darlings are the Darlings, and the Hitlers are the Hitlers and the Woes. Mayhem be damned, and Lovely Goodness be a Crabbe-Boggart in the making. Where would we all be without the manners that come with the new personality."
"I'd like a beef curry," Hermione said. She was down with a third rendition of the flu and had nowhere else to go.
Julian had just created an italian curry that worked very well. She insisted that Hermione must taste it, and it would be a pleasure to whip one up, and the left-overs went into the gravy for the roast lamb and the Hitler, Darling dinner. They were warned, and the piano wire was not needed.

The moral of the story is that if a name doesn't come, it doesn't come. The life of Barney and a terrible Riley was there for all.

A Rose By Any Other Name Would Smell As Sweet.

Julian hit the keys cautiously. They were well and truly good friends in name and in deed, but Julian would have to tread carefully. So many people didn't want to be mentioned by written word. The spoken word, of course, could be gotten away with, because once it was said, it was gone. Julian, however, didn't believe that. She was of the opinion that what was thought, whether said or written, was a similiar thing. Both were terribly powerful, and that was why the apostle Paul has so much admonition about being careful with the spoken word. In proverbs it talked about winged creatures taking the nasty things spoken back to the speaker and awful things happening. It was also well known that things that were thought about were now things, and existed. We must not speak 'evil about others.' This was very, terribly important. Julian had always thought so.