Tick Tock Tick Tock

Normally the headquarters of my blog posting empire is a quiet, nay, tranquil place.  Greenery abounds, peacocks stroll about pecking at the ground.  A waterfall cascades scenically down one specially sculpted wall to an ornamental pond near my desk.  Due to a slight design flaw the waterfall does tend to sweep away the peacocks and drown them in the ornamental pond but on the plus side I haven't had to feed the koi in years.

A few days ago, however, this idyllic spot was marred by an undignified shouting match.  My Belorussian tech support have done the impossible and hooked up a permanent and reliable communications system between myself and my Tasmanian correspondent (apparently its a side effect of something they're doing for the North Korean government).  Sadly the first use of this technological miracle was to enable the pair of us to get into a massive argument.

I wanted to hear how Mr Moo was getting on.  Specifically I wanted to hear if he was still alive.  My correspondent, however, was reluctant to make the trip.  Apparently the highways of Tasmania have been taken over by feral road gangs (or gangs of rogue ferrets, my correspondent was a little unclear on this point) and she was determined never to leave the safety of the city again.  I pointed out that she lived in Hobart and it was only by the greatest of generosity that she could claim to be in a city right now. 

This burst of reality didn't go down well and soon terms like "coward" and "perverted leather freak" were being tossed back and forth rapidly followed by outrage (on her part) and demands to keep out of my browser history (on mine).  Eventually we came to an acceptable compromise; she decided to send her kids instead.

Eager to prove themselves as capable field reporters as their mother the two girls soon sent back a ream of information on Middleton (the general location of Mr Moo) most of which I had absolutely no interest in.  The girls names are Olive and TOTIO (The One That Isn't Olive) and they immediately uncovered a dreadful scandal.  Middleton has no fire station!  I must admit this didn't surprise me until they explained that it does have a fire brigade.  Apparently the vehicles are kept at various people's houses which probably doesn't do anything for their response times.

Against my better judgement I asked why Middleton doesn't have a fire station.  Apparently it used to.  What happened to it?  It burnt down.  Why?  Someone set it on fire.  Who?  A fireman.

At this point I thought I was on to something.  Was this a desperate cry for help by some overworked and under appreciated member of our emergency services (first responders I believe they're called in the US)?  Could this be a political act designed to highlight the dreadful underfunding and poor support given to our brigades in rural areas?  Are these noble hose jockeys, our bravest of the brave, reaching breaking point?

No, he was just a pyromaniac.  To be on the safe side they've decided its probably better if he isn't a fireman any more.  He's also in gaol which makes it difficult for him to get to training.  I lost interest and told the girls to focus on Mr Moo.

Sad news on the Mr Moo front.  The writing which has been on the wall for some time is now being chiselled in letters of gold ten feet high.  It would appear that Mr Moo's owners are quite determined to put him on the next truck to the abattoir and no amount of grandchildrenly tears from my mini correspondents could persuade them otherwise.  Every day is precious for Mr Moo now and for those who have developed a fondness for him which has nothing to do with diane sauce need to prepare themselves for the inevitable loss.  The most we can hope for now is that he graces the tables of some of the finest restaurants and doesn't wind up consigned to a McDonalds somewhere.  Surely Mr Moo is entitled to this at least.