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I stood on the rickety jetty, under the throbbing sun. It was too hot to be doing this today. I looked downriver, to the point where it swerved away behind reed and tree, waiting for their skiff to pass into the horizon of the seeing. For it was swan-upping season.

Sure enough, they came into view. The Swan-Uppers of the Royal Household were distinctive by their red tunics, adorned with the golden crown of the monarch. There was no effort in their rowing strokes and, periodically, they seemed to wipe the sweat from beneath their boaters – no doubt thirsty for the drinks that they knew I had. They drew up to the dockside.

“Lash us to the side, will you Colin?”

I caught the rope and pulled them in, figure-eighting it around the bollard. I held out my hand. “Come on up, gentleman! I have cold drinks in the cabin. You look like you could both do with one.”

Proudly, I led them to the hut that was now assigned to me. It had previously been my father’s, and his father’s, before him. We entered. It was refreshingly cool inside.

“There’s an array of drinks in the fridge there,” I said. “Help yourselves to whatever you wish.”

You’ll laugh if I tell you that they were onto that refrigerator like lions onto a gazelle.

“You’ve done us proud here, Colin. You’re setting the bar high for your first season!” exclaimed the Chief Upper. “This always was our favourite calling point.”

I smiled at the memory of my father. He had always been a proud assistant, even though they never appreciated it.

“I’d offer you a sandwich, but I only made enough for me.”

“Not to worry, young Colin,” said Fred, the older man, wiping his hand across his mouth. “You’ve more than saved our lives with these drinks. It’s searing out there! Besides, we’ve both got packed lunches.”

My two guests lowered themselves into the camp chairs that I had provided. I sat into my usual place and peeled back the lid to my lunch.

“Well, help yourself to more, when you’re done,” I said gallantly. “You need to stay hydrated in this heat.”

We fell into silence for a few seconds. Tarquin, the Chief Upper, pushed back his boater, gulped, and sighed.

“I don’t know if you’ve noticed, Colin,  but there seem to be a lot fewer swans on this stretch of the river than in previous years.”

“Maybe they’ve just moved on,” I replied. I eased back the foil and grabbed at a sandwich within.

“Perhaps.”

We each had a sandwich in hand now. Simultaneously we raised them to our mouths. I bit deeply into mine, savouring the succulence and juiciness. As I pulled the bread away, a piece or two of the sweet flesh dropped to the floor.

Neither of them saw it.

“So, I think you are ready,” barked Hans. “Here today,” he continued, “for the first time on British Televisions, I shall reveal the true power of my Total Mind Workout Programme. Our subject, Victoria, was a confessed anatidaephobic. Now, after just thirty-minutes of exposure to my unique and patented programme, I declare that Victoria is ready for her ultimate test!”

The producer cut back to the sofa area, where the presenter and guests were watching.

“Yes, that’s right folks,” said Mrs Saturday-Night. “In just a few moments, Victoria will enter into our specially prepared booth, where she will be exposed to six geese, who have been specifically trained in high intensity staring. We would advise viewers at home not to build there own Anatidae Staring Facilities. Everything you see here has been purpose-built by skilled professionals. Hans?”

“Cut back to stage-right!”

“Thank-you Hilary. Now, Victoria. Do you feel ready to enter the booth?”

Victoria nodded.

“When you came into my care this evening, what was your anxiety-level over being watched by a member of the duck family?”

“I said ten,” confirmed Victoria.

“And what is it now?”

“Er, two.”

The crowd burst into spontaneous and rapturous applause, as dramatic music was piped into the studio.

“Then enter, Victoria, enter!”

“Cut to booth cams, and get some more sinister music!” cried the producer.

The screens around the studio kicked in as Victoria disappeared into the geese-holding structure. Observers held there breath and simultaneously thanked the television gods that they had not been picked. Then, they began to get restless. Up and down the country kettles were going on.

“This is no good!” cried the producer. “The National Grid is reporting a surge! Release the cobras on three!”

Simon Gary is the author of the darkly comic novels “Gone To The Dogs,” and its prequel “Thryke: The Man That Nobody Knew.” Both are available on this site! Go on, it can be our delightful secret!

On the day the quintuplets married the five co-joined beauties, there was much rejoicing within the village. However, on the wedding night, up in the private rooms of the tavern, there was a lot of awkward avoidance of eye-contact.

In her headset came the usual digital sequence of dialling. She looked that the script on the screen. Inside, she died a little. The embers of her dream life were barely glowing anymore. The line clicked, and the next number on the list was connected.

“Hello?”

“Hello, my name is Maria. I am calling on behalf of Whitty and Partners about an accident that you may have had recently?”

There was a moment of silence. This juncture was usually where the line went dead, or a torrent of abuse burst forth.

“I see.”

The caller, who had today chosen the name Maria, pressed on to the next hook in her libretto.

“If you have had a non-fault accident, you may be entitled to compensation – which Whitty and Partners can pursue on a no-win, no fee basis.”

Silence again.

“There was an accident, yes.”

Maria scanned the screen, yes, there it was. “And were you injured, sir?”

Again, Maria felt the cogs turning. She reviewed her script on the non-speaking.

“No, but my wife was.”

“And when was the accident, sir?”

“Last night.”

“Last night?” This was off-script. Maria tried to hide her surprise. Think. Centre. Calm. “Was this a workplace accident, sir?”

“No, it happened here, in the kitchen. Actually, she’s still laying on the floor.”

Silence fell again, only this time it was the would-be Maria who could not speak. She glanced around, hoping at least someone was listening in on the call.

“Perhaps I should end the call so that you can call an ambulance, sir.”

The line crackled, almost as if purveying laughter.

“Oh, I wouldn’t do that Miss Davenport, I wouldn’t do that at all.”

Lucinda Davenport threw off her headset as if she had been electrocuted, chest heaving in shock and emotion. She needed air. The CCTV image that captured her leaving the building was the one that they played in the incident room.

The road between Houdan and Faverolles is often impassable in the stony depths of winter. 1867 was no different, and the children of the two villages had decorated it with rows of silent bonhommes des neige.

To walk past them at midnight, after a liberal libation of Pernod is a thing plus troublant. But, as I passed them back the other way, this early fresh snow-fallen morn, one appeared to be resting, reclined upon the frozen bed, as three ice-footed hens pecked at some prize below.

“I’m here about the ad in the paper?”

Harry peered shiftily around the door, “Oh yes, the racing pigeons, come in through. I’ll take you down to the loft.”

In carpet slippers, Harry padded out into the cold, overgrown yard. “Just down here, mind out for that old tricycle.”

Gavin pirouetted around the rusty trike, bronze water oozing from a handlebar spilt.

“Here that are chief. The rarest South American racing pigeons. Direct descendants of a Mayan grand champion. They’re great value at a monkey.”

Gavin approached the grating. “Streptopelia turtur,” said Gavin, sternly, breath folding into the white, cotton sky.

“Say what, chief?”

“Turtle doves. Not racing pigeons.”

“Three-hundred, then. And you’re robbing me. See how slick and speedy they look. It’s all that time zooming through the Andes.”

“No.”

“Look,” replied Harry, with exasperation. “Give me two, and you can take them now?”

Gavin, holding his ground, held the gaze of the dubious salesman. “What else might be for sale?”

They stood in silence, for what seemed like an age before the vendor broke the silence: “You had better come inside.”

“Now,” he announced, “shooting is all in the footwork. Get a solid stance; that’s it. Good.” He aligned my shoulders.

“Keeper is going to drive them out from there, I would suggest,” he continued, pointing into the distance. Don’t be put off when they approach. They’ll only be doing thirty miles per hour, do you understand? Just make a slight allowance, and…bingo!”

With one finger, he slightly raised my barrels. “When the birds come up!” he said.

With crashing and squawking, an explosive black cloud of discombobulation flapped out of the distant woodland.

I squeezed, thrown back in the after-boom, as the smoke lazily rose and the birds flew overhead.

And with a flump, the crimson Duke hit the ground.

“And what is it that you do?” asked the sallow, angular man, barely propping his obvious wig.

Jenkins, tanned and confident, flashed a dazzling grin and settled into his well-rehearsed monologue.

“I sir, am a hunter. But not for exotic creatures and game, no. I seek trinkets, gems, artefacts and objects of esoterica. I re-discover the lost and arcane.”

The angular quarry looked back, up and along the hypotenuse. Jenkins, glancing back through the crosshairs knew he had his man.

“I have travelled to the loneliest, most forgotten lands of Earth,” continued the hunter. “I have hacked my way through the densest jungle, sending snakes scurrying in the wake of my coming light. Have you ever been to South America?”

The question glanced off an apex and span into the outer orbits, unanswered.

“Lima, last summer! I led a small expedition – I and some local fellows. We travelled East and soon were deep in uncharted forest. Soon, we left even the howler monkeys behind, to areas where the sun seldom pierced to nourish the rotting jungle floor. All beneath my feet was rotting and death and the next mouthful of air needed to be sliced off with the keen edge of a machete.”

“Go on,” said the geometric moon of Jenkins.

“Water! In times like that, a man must have water! But no sooner has one quenched his thirst, as deeply as he dares, then the elixir escapes through perspiration, as thick and sticky as breakfast marmalade, and one tumbles into desperate thirst once more!”

Jenkins purveyed the scene. A wider group was falling into his pull, hanging elliptically to his words. He looked up, and to his left. He hadassent to draw them in further.

“But we were driven on, deeper into the darkness. We travelled under the yoke of tales of lost cities rubies as big as your fist, emeralds as green as an Irish pasture, and the diamonds, oh the diamonds!”

“And this was last summer?” asked the angular man, rotating about his axis.

“It was.”

“And what did you find?”

“Ah, my good man! Well that,” added Jenkins, archly, would be telling!”

Drawn to an oscillating chord, the obviously-wigged gentleman smiled weakly and spoke.

“So, given the travel restrictions this summer, I would understand that you were unable to undertake your usual, adventurous expeditions?”

Jenkins nodded. “That sir, is sadly true?”

“The forcible quelling of the pioneering spirit must have been quite frustrating, was it not? How did you cope?”

Jenkins sipped and considered for a moment. “One found other locations and distractions.”

A slow nod was received and integrated before the dialogue resumed.

“And did such locations include the safe hidden in the study of Fourteen, Acacia Gardens, Mayfair?”

Jenkins looked up and to the left, meeting the tired eye of the judge who, from beneath an even more apparent wig, spoke with authority and honey-like gravitas.

“You may answer the question, Mr Jenkins. I think we should all like to hear your response.”

Coronavirus first broke out, in the land of China.

When a young man ate a bat,

Declaring no food finer.

In a traveller’s bag it jumped,

Eager to do travel.

Then it saw the whole wide world,

And watched us all unravel.

“Hither Dom and stand by me, we shall act with foresight.

We shall lock the country down,

You drive and test your eyesight.

Into our black books we’ll go,

And gather up our contacts.

And when the public’s heads are turned,

We’ll divvy up fat contracts.

In our homes we bravely sat, drinking beer for breakfast.

Wond’ring when would come the time,

We could go get reckless.

We clapped upon a Thursday eve,

Our only chance to natter.

Then inside we went again,

And continued to get fatter.

But Captain Tom did show the way, with fortitude and willing.

He was knighted by a distanced queen,

As we went of swilling.

Therefore as we sit and think,

Of these times a recent,

How do we treat our fellow folk?

Could I be more decent?

Simon Gary is the author of the comic novels “Thryke: The Man That Nobody Knew” and “Gone To The Dogs.”

Both would make a marvellous Christmas present for the curmudgeon in you life.

They just walked over and grabbed my arms, carrying them to the sturdy table.

“You will get these back when you learn to behave,” snarled Mister Broca, in his stove-pipe hat.

“We should beat him with them,” suggested bowler-hatted Mr Wernicke, saliva dripping from pointed teeth.

A gust swept throughout the grey emptiness of the room. With a “whoosh,” Broca, now sixty-feet tall and six inches wide loomed over me, serpiginous and full of venom.

Then, with a fizz, Wernicke, now sixty-feet wide and six inches tall, curled around me like a shroud

“Kill him now,” they said, in unison.