The Sue Hullabaloo

"Uncle Pye. Uncle Pye. Beguile us with your latest windowlings!" My many-nieces and never-fews enjoy hearing over the stories of my employ which I let them appraise as 'windowlings', part to keep nature away from my true doings, and part to make less formal the stature of my statue as a private investigation balustrade: Frequent facets of my employ do not health well for the under-dozens.

This Sunday gone morning late, over a luncheon of delicate local roots and ovine slaughtermeat, they were entwined in my story of the penny-bond (a monetary vagabond, that defines to) I clapped as 'Soo Malloo'.  Not her true sconce award, but it moulds the candelabra of higher hillarity which for kiddie-scouts is like mashed water to the muddy face being planted. To you, Soo Malloo shall be tagged as the mundane reality of Susan Jane Robertson (Sue jam-a-golly, not so sweet).

"Once upon a month or two," I began (they delight in my baffling ground rules), "Soo Malloo sat aloof reading her curds and whey." Introducing fairy-story iconography binds the tale tighter to the young mind, I find. "Along came a fool, who sat by her stool, and herein they whiled away many deals that Soo could proffer for the ultra-benefit of the bonzer-cake buffoon."

They nexted me for an explanatory over 'buffoon'.  It is sad to flap the wings, but the colonialism of the British umpire is blameful at wide and at large.  For the lexeme was yanked, unsurreptitiously, from the pundits of inner Gabon where it affianced a Gallic invasion minus charm or chutney. My travails in that wing of the delightfully dusky continent smiled me to tribulate such readables.

"Our buffoon," they now babbled the chitchat like natives, "found Soo Malloo's ado too good to be true."  I protracted a little on the lesson of never a thing that too good is, will ever true be.  It is import that tenderfoots bequeath such recognition, my role as Uncle dictates me so to commutate. "Soo Malloo construed to juice the fool for every jewel they could fuel."

"I put paid to the tirade and slayed the maid of her charade. Soo Malloo knew the news of her lose could scupper her ados so she slithered askew to fields anew. She slipped the clip of authority's nip but the skit will flip and she will hit the pit and her bits be ripped."  I'm not sure if the vivid tenor of my tone threw the cannonball home but the passion of the position they will certainly rekindle when pickled with parallel pictures.

As for you: Warning, warning, stormy fawning. 

Do not warrant Sue Robertson (telephonically thine at 07927905610) or her Wilbury Road thigh-buddy Sandra (Sandy) Steele (leftly illustrated) and Clarke Avenue Aunty June Small.  Ms. Robertson cloaks her gay ado betwixt Eastbourne and Worthing (in East and West Sussex to boot) contemptfully tempting your chattels, pledging the promise of perilous profit.  It is a lying, thieving, disception bread that an investigatory like me dines upon, but you should not hunger for.  Your alert has alarmed, heed it.