Horrorscopes

Horoscopes for 2023

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What doom awaits us in the coming months? How are we most likely to die this year? What ghastly things might our foes be planning? Is there anything we can dare to trust?

Capricorn: Your greatest challenge for this year is to overcome the deep mistrust of others. If you spent most of last year convinced you had turned into a donkey, this will be especially serious. Of course if you did actually turn into a donkey you probably aren’t reading this. As a donkey, you are far more trustworthy anyway. Stay away from loose roof tiles and do not eat the thistles, no matter how tempting they look. One way or another, cannibalism is your greatest risk for this year.

Aquarius: It’s going to be a great year for finding hidden treasures and buried wealth. Obviously some of these items will turn out to be cursed and/or murderous. Don’t try not looking for them, because even if you aren’t trying, fate is bound to bring some of them your way. There is no escape. Dogs will be especially likely to try and kill you this year, and it is a terrible time to take up a new hobby.

Pisces: Big decisions this year will include deciding whether to live in your water butt, whether to get out of the sea or whether to seek a new pond – depending on what you did last year. Your chances of drowning are slim, but the odds of being eaten by something in the waterbutt are more than zero. You are at particular risk from nameless entities falling out of the sky and crushing you to death.

Aries: All that work you did on self improvement last year has paid off, but it means your risk of being murdered by people you have annoyed is also higher than usual. Do not be tempted to take in and rear any unusual looking chickens. If you’re still wearing bells from last year, now would be a good time to put them on your children or any other small entities that are known to be living in your house. It’s best to avoid surprises.

Taurus: You are most likely to die in a surreal accident of your own making. Unfortunately this accident is most likely to be a consequence of the things you decide to do out of paranoia in the hopes of not therefore dying in a random accident. We thought long and hard over the ethics of printing this and whether it might have been better to leave you unaware and perhaps therefore less at risk. However, the cuttlefish overlords were adamant that you had to be told, and we do not argue with the cuttlefish overlords.

Gemini: This year you might actually get what you deserve, and you’re probably foolish enough to think this is good news. It’s hard to tell what’s most likely to kill you, but we’ve narrowed the list down to a number of candidates: Exploding pies, bagpipes, poisoned socks, vampire attack, setting your own trousers on fire, night potato vodka, excessive cheese consumption, unexpected teeth. You could try being careful, but you probably won’t.

Cancer: Your most likely cause of death this year will be duelling, so your best bet for survival is to avoid talking to anyone who is also a cancer. We’re fairly confident that at least one person will die as a consequence of a duel to the death, but it’s not clear whether this is going to involve bladed weapons, or some kind of weird tea duelling where the death is either caused by the toxic nature of the tea or a deadly overconsumption of liquid.

Leo: Those of you who have been trafficking with demons recently are likely to find that demon activity is your cause of death. For the rest of you, it’s falling over. Sprained ankle in the forest leading to starvation, or being predated by the helltopiary. Falling while stealing eggs and thus being torn to shreds by the screaming geese. Falling over while running away from ravenous creatures of the night. You get the idea. Running away is going to do you more harm than good.

Virgo: You are most likely to die this year as the consequence of mob activity. Think twice before you break out the pitchforks and torches because these kinds of activities are very risky for you. It’s harder to avoid being on the wrong end of pitchforks and torches of course, and you may not get much of a vote there. Be generally wary of anything involving big crowds, including the church picnic, and any large shipwrecks. Turn down invitations to anything that offers to be a big community celebration as these are likely to prove lethal. We think it’s more likely to be accidental – tramplings, mass poisonings and so forth rather than any group of people trying to kill you, but you’ll be just as dead so maybe that doesn’t matter.

Libra: You like to weigh everything up carefully, but this means sometimes you are slow coming to conclusions. Your best chance at survival for the coming year is to react swiftly. Duck first, think later. If something looks like a trap, mistrust it. If someone looks like they might mean you ill, don’t try and find the best in them. Some stories don’t have two sides to them, and looking for that other side is going to leave you vulnerable to people who want to hurt you, murder you and/or eat you. Remember you can’t trust a hungry werewolf, and that vampires who mean well sometimes make terrible mistakes. Librans who are also vampires should be especially alert to that last point. Please don’t make terrible mistakes.

Scorpio: For your survival this year, you need to stop spending so much time thinking about your imaginary enemies and be a bit more alert to what’s going on with your actual enemies. In the unlikely circumstances that you don’t have any enemies at this point, you need to think carefully about which of your domesticated creatures is trying to kill you – be assured that at least one of them is.

Sagittarius: Your biggest risk of death in the coming year is being seduced either by mermaids or jellyfish women. The good news is that simply by staying away from the sea you can greatly improve your chances of survival. Unless of course your current situation means that you depend on the sea for survival in which case you’re stuffed whatever you decide to do. You should probably get horrendously drunk and try to forget about it all.

Hopeless Tales, Tales from the Squid and Teapot

The Party Planner

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By Martin Pearson

“Well, that’s over for another year,” said Bartholomew Middlestreet, not without some relief in his voice.

Christmas celebrations at The Squid and Teapot had been somewhat riotous this year. Bartholomew, Ariadne and their barmaid, Philomena Bucket, had gone out of their way to make it special, and their efforts had just about exhausted the three of them.

“Yes,” agreed his wife, “It seems a shame, though, that it’s all done and dusted so quickly. Once we get the new year out of the way, there’ll be no excuse for a celebration for ages.”

“Unless of course somebody decides to get married,” said Bartholomew pointedly, giving Philomena a meaningful stare.

Despite the slight flush that sprang to her pale cheeks, Philomena pretended not to notice, deciding instead to change the subject.

“We could always do something for Granny Bucket’s deathday, in February,” she volunteered.

“Granny Bucket’s what?” asked Ariadne, confused.

“Granny’s deathday. It’s in February.”

“But I thought she was already dead,” said Bartholomew. “In fact I’ve seen her ghost hanging around The Squid several times.”

“Exactly!” exclaimed Philomena. “But February the seventh will be the anniversary of her death. Everybody has a deathday, but most people don’t know when it is.”

 “I don’t think that it’s anything that many would want to be aware of,” said Ariadne.

“The only person I know who knew exactly when he was going to die was my Great Uncle Brendan,” said Philomena, wistfully.

“Was he a clairvoyant?” asked Ariadne.

“No, a horse thief,” said Philomena. “The judge told him.”

There was an uncomfortable silence while the other two struggled for something appropriate to say. Philomena came to their rescue.

“Anyway, it’s given me an idea,“ she said. “How about we throw a party for each of the island’s ghosts, to be held on the anniversary of their death?”

“There are rather a lot of them,” mused Bartholomew. “And it raises a few questions, as well.”

“Such as?” asked Philomena, quietly irked that her suggestion seemed to be in danger of falling at the first fence.

“How would we know when it happened?”

“They’ll know, believe me. They know to the minute, especially if violence of any sort was involved,” replied Philomena.

“Hmm, that’s pretty much every ghost on the island,” conceded Bartholomew, “but how can they celebrate? As far as I know they don’t eat or drink anything.”

“There’s more to a celebration than eating and drinking,” said Philomena, not entirely convincingly. “But the ones I’ve met like to socialise, I’m sure we could arrange that. After all, ghosts are people too.”

“No they’re not,” pointed out Ariadne. “They’re ghosts. And what about the Mad Parson? Are you including him in these little get-togethers?”

Philomena frowned. Having Obadiah Hyde at any social event would be problematic.

“But should we exclude him?” she asked. “After all, he can’t help being mad.”

“No, he can’t help being mad, but he could help it when he decided to remove Lady Margaret’s D’Avening’s head,” said Ariadne. “If she knows that he is involved in anything, she won’t take part.”

That was true. As has been told in these tales before, the Mad Parson of Chapel Rock and the Headless Lady who haunted the flushing privy of The Squid and Teapot, had history, and could not stand to be in each other’s company. It could be guaranteed that, within minutes, the ectoplasm would start to fly.

“Fair enough. Obadiah can be the exception,” agreed Philomena. “How about the others?”

Bartholomew sucked in his cheeks thoughtfully.

“What if we give a party for Granny Bucket in February, and see what happens?” he suggested.

The two women nodded in silent agreement, and bustled out of the bar, already discussing the guest list and venue.

“There will be at least six weeks of this,” thought Bartholomew, aloud. “What have I let myself in for?”

“More than you can imagine, my lad,” cackled the wraith of Granny Bucket, from where she lurked in the shadows. “More than you can possibly imagine.”

Hopeless Music

We three things

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We three things of Hopeless note,

Bearing stuff we found in a boat,

Field and graveyard

Frozen mud is hard,

Following yonder goat.

(Chorus)

O goat of malice, goat of fright,

Goat with glowing eyes so bright,

Might need feeding

So misleading

Will we live to see daylight.

Born a thing, a terrible bane

Golden scales coat him again,

King in yellow

Sinister fellow

Over us all to reign.

Tentacles to offer have I,

Baked in pastry  just like a pie

After braising

Hunger erasing

Served with a mournful sigh,

Oil is mine; it stinks out the room

Weird and fishy, do not consume

Pistons smearing

Engineering

Make something that goes boom,

Eldritch horrors soon will arise,

Will you be their sacrifice

Everyone screams that they will kill you

Let’s kill you the goat replies.

Hopeless Tales, Tales from the Squid and Teapot

A Hopeless Christmas Carol

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By Martin Pearson

Despite the frost, fog, and general abject misery, the island of Hopeless, Maine was beginning to embrace an unmistakable atmosphere that was definitely leaning towards the festive. This was due, in no small part, to the efforts of Philomena Bucket and the Middlestreets, Bartholomew and Ariadne, who had decided that Christmas should be celebrated in style this year. They had festooned The Squid and Teapot with an assortment of decorations and had contrived a special seasonal menu, which featured their own version of plum-pudding. Each evening, in the bar, one could hear rousing renditions of half-remembered carols, executed by various patrons of the inn and performed in an interesting variety of keys and tempos, often at the same time. Even The Squid’s resident ghosts, Lady Margaret D’Avening and Father Ignatius Stamage, lent their voices from the seclusion of the indoor flushing privy, where they were wont to haunt, giving any visiting clients something of a shock.

Most islanders seemed to enjoy the efforts being made, but as in every well-meaning endeavour, there was the inevitable handful of naysayers. Not least among these, and possibly the most vocal, was Doc Willoughby, who found the whole Christmas experience to be tiresome, to say the least, with its forced jollity and unfounded optimism interfering with the serious business of drinking.

“Blasted carol singers,” he moaned to no one in particular. “Why does Christmas have to come round so often? Oh, how I hate it. Humbug!” (This last ejaculation was in response to the Doc having spotted, and indeed heard, a humbug. This is a rare flying beetle uniquely native to Hopeless Maine. Although quite small and nondescript to behold, the humbug can be readily identified by its tendency to loudly hum the melody of any tune it hears, and, as it appears only during the month of December, that tune is invariably a Christmas carol).

“He gets more and more curmudgeonly every year,” complained Philomena Bucket to Miss Calder, the spectral administrator of the Pallid Rock Orphanage. “I don’t mind that he dislikes Christmas, but he doesn’t have to spoil it for everyone else.”

“No, indeed,” sympathised Miss Calder. “I wonder if he has always been like that? Something awful must have happened to make him such a misery.”

“I can’t see any of us changing him now,” said Philomena, philosophically. “It would take a miracle.”

“Hmmm, maybe,” replied Miss Calder thoughtfully, then her face turned briefly skeletal as an idea formed in her ghostly head.

It was the night before Christmas, and all through the house, not a creature was stirring, except for an opportunistic young spoonwalker, quietly rifling through Doc Willoughby’s cutlery drawer. Meanwhile, up in his bedroom, the Doc was nestled snugly in bed, while alcohol-fuelled visions danced alarmingly in his head. The clock was just striking twelve when he was suddenly and rudely wrested from the arms of Morpheus – who, quite frankly, was glad to be rid of him –  by an unearthly glow that appeared to emanate from the far side of the room.

“What the… who’s there?” he demanded irritably.

“Doc Willoughby… Doc Willoughby…” said a distinctly familiar voice from somewhere within The Unearthly Glow, “I am the Ghost of Christmas Past.”

“No you’re not,” said the Doc. “You’re Miss Calder.”

“No, really, I definitely am the ghost of Christmas Past,” insisted The Unearthly Glow, though a trifle uncertainly.

“Miss Calder, I may be half-asleep and slightly drunk, but I would recognise your sepulchral – though not unpleasant – tones anywhere.”

Abashed, Miss Calder stopped being an Unearthly Glow and returned to her more familiar form.

(Unlike the other ghosts of the island, Miss Calder has always been able to wander wherever she chooses, and not doomed to haunt a single given area or object. This latest feat, however, of changing her outward appearance, is one that I had not been previously aware of. It just goes to show that you can learn something new every day.)

“Very well, I give in, Doc. You’re right… but I’ve come to say that you really need to change your ways. You must have enjoyed Christmas as a youngster, surely? It should be a time of joy and giving, not grumpiness,” she said, as little by little, she faded through the wall

“Humbug!” said the Doc, as a small flying creature zipped past his ear, melodically crooning ‘In Dulci Jubilo’ in the key of F major.

That might have been the end of the tale, but as the Doc lay in his bed, he could not help but reflect on Miss Calder’s words. Had he enjoyed Christmas as a child? For the life of him, he could not remember. In fact, he could not even recall ever being a child. Surely he had not been middle-aged for all of his days? That was preposterous, even on Hopeless. He would check with Reverend Davies in the morning to see if he had any memory of them being children together.

It was barely daylight when the Doc was woken again, this time by the off-key, slightly nasal whine of a thin, adolescent voice.

Hobbling drowsily to the window, he opened it, and put out his head, to be assailed by drizzly rain, wispy mist and a dismally cold breeze.

“What’s today?” cried the Doc, calling downward to the owner of the voice, who was dressed in what passed as his Sunday best.

“Today? Why it’s Christmas Day.”

“Christmas Day?” said Doc. “Then you should have more respect, trying to sing and disturbing decent people at this hour.”

In a fit of pique, he threw a boot, which narrowly missed the youth and bounced harmlessly into the gutter.

“Now go away.”

This last sentence, you will appreciate, was not the Doc’s actual terminology, but I have no doubt that from it you will grasp the gist of his sentiments.

Doc slammed the window shut and returned to bed, only to be disturbed seconds later by a diminutive winged beetle cheerily flitting around the room and humming the ever popular seasonal ditty “We wish you a merry Christmas.”  

“Humbug!” growled the Doc.

Island News

Festive preparations

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There are a number of things you might be trying to celebrate in the coming weeks, so we bring you advice about how best to survive the festive season on Hopeless, Maine.

Those of you who like getting into the water need to keep in mind both the murderously low temperatures and the murderously hungry waterlife. We will undertake to believe that you’re just very keen on cold water and not that you have been driven to madness if you persist in this peculiar activity. Although I’m increasingly suspicious that some of you flapping about in lakes are so undead as to not feel the cold, which is rather indecorous of you.

Say no to night potato vodka. It is not magically better or safer right now, it will hurt you. Just don’t. Please.

After last year we are fairly sure that the dustcats know about Yule cats. They won’t actually kill you if you don’t have new clothes, but anyone looking especially shabby is at serious risk of being pounced on in unusually humiliating ways.

It isn’t Father Christmas, he doesn’t come here. The noise on the roof is almost certainly a donkey. Sometimes they poop down the chimneys. Whether you consider that a gift is very much at your discretion.

If anything has hatched out of your meese stocking, burn it at the first available opportunity.

For those of you who are more recently arrived, please be aware that there is an island tradition of knocking on doors after dark and asking for food and drink. If you don’t comply, there will be singing. You have been warned. Other things also knock on doors after dark looking for food, and the ones that do not do the singing are arguably much worse.

Please leave out at least one candle during the coming weeks. We have good traditions of keeping the departed well supplied. Angry ghosts are so unseasonal.

If you find yourself feeling that you are having fun, check your pantry supplies for signs of mould and fungus, and ascertain whether you are also feverish. In case of jollity, remember that the black eyed meese in your stocking are here to help you and that breathing in their peculiar aroma will put you back to normal in no time.

Hopeless Tales, Tales from the Squid and Teapot

The Fraser Fir

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“That’s the one!” said Bartholomew Middlestreet, pointing to a particularly handsome fir tree, standing in a clearing in the wood.  “I’ll come and get it tomorrow.”

Philomena Bucket was not so impressed.

“Do you really have to cut it down?” she asked. “It is such a beautiful tree, and there isn’t much else with natural beauty growing on this island. It seems a shame to kill it, just for the sake of a couple of weeks of lack-lustre festivity.”

She could have sworn that the branches shuddered a little as she said this, but supposed it was just her imagination.

“Oh, come on, Philomena,” said Bartholomew enthusiastically. “Think how lovely it will look in The Squid and Teapot, all decorated up for Christmas.”

Philomena did not reply. Her animistic soul had never seen the sense in cutting down a perfectly good tree in order for it to do little else than stand in the corner of room, quietly and sadly dropping pine needles and turning brown.

It is fair to say that her assessment of the tree had been absolutely correct; it was indeed beautiful. Standing at just over seven feet tall, with a fine pyramidal shape and glossy green-blue needles, it exuded a delicate citrus scent that spoke of the high elevations of the Appalachian Mountains. Unsurprisingly, neither Philomena nor Bartholomew had any idea of whatever message it was that the scent might be trying to convey. Neither did they know, or care, that this particular specimen was a Fraser Fir, or Abies Fraseri, named for the Scots botanist, John Fraser, and, traditionally, the Christmas tree often favoured by the incumbent of The White House.

Bartholomew wandered back to The Squid, happily visualising the spectacle of the decorated tree standing resplendent in the corner of the bar, and the grateful, awe-struck faces of his customers as they beheld its beauty. Not that any of them would do any such thing, of course, but he could dream.

Philomena stayed behind in the wood and stared at the Fraser Fir, breathing in its delicious scent.

“I won’t let him do it,” she whispered into its branches.

If she had been able, she would have given the tree a reassuring hug, but the dense foliage allowed no more than the caress of her fingers.

“Trust me,” she said, but had no idea what she would do.

The night was beginning to draw in when Philomena made to leave, and with it came a cold easterly wind that shook the trees and chilled the bones. Philomena drew her coat tightly to her body, and bent her head in the direction of home, completely failing to notice the shadowy figure loitering fifty feet away, in the westernmost end of the woods.

Next morning dawned, and Bartholomew Middlestreet was to be seen scratching his head in bafflement, wondering where his saw had gone. His axe was also missing. In fact, every cutting implement bigger than a bread knife seemed to have mysteriously vanished overnight. He could not even blame spoonwalkers, on this occasion, unless they had suddenly become much larger.  

Meanwhile, up in the safety of her room, Philomena peered anxiously under her bed, feeling only the smallest twinge of guilt at having purloined the assortment of tools stowed there. She was painfully aware that the Fraser fir’s reprieve might yet be only temporary, though, as Bartholomew would, doubtless, be knocking on other doors in his quest for a saw.

“Maybe my magic might kick in,” she hoped. Philomena had learned some time ago that the blood of many generations of powerful witches flowed through her veins. Magic had come to her aid more than once, but only when she was in great peril. Whether it would turn up in order to save a tree, even a particularly beautiful one, was not guaranteed. 

“I must have faith,” she thought to herself, with little conviction.

Bartholomew stormed into the kitchen of The Squid and Teapot, later that afternoon, with a face like thunder. Ariadne, his wife, had rarely seen him in such a foul mood.

“Whatever is the matter?” she asked, warily.

“What’s the matter? Every saw and every axe in the area seems to have disappeared, that’s what’s the matter. I’ve asked a dozen people, including Seth Washpool at the sawmills, and they all seem to have lost anything which could be big enough, and sharp enough, to cut down a fir tree. Seth’s got his circular saw, of course, but that’s no good to me. I just don’t understand it. First of all, I suspected that Philomena was behind it; she wasn’t too keen on me having that tree, but now I know that it can’t be her. There’s no way she could have removed so many tools – why, she hasn’t even left the inn since yesterday.”

“Then perhaps you should take it as a sign that you’re not meant to have that tree at all,” said Ariadne philosophically. “After all, this island is a funny place. It seems to have its own ideas about some things. Cutting down that tree could bring you nothing but bad luck.”

“Do you really think so?” asked Bartholomew. “It does feel like some sort of warning, I guess. And bad luck is something I could do without.”

Rhys Cranham, the Night-Soil Man, fastened the padlock on his outhouse door. It was unlikely that anyone would come snooping, but there was no reason to invite trouble. Besides, he would return the tools to their rightful owners eventually, but not just yet. If they wanted firewood they could always scavenge, or get offcuts from the sawmill. Rhys grinned to himself when he reflected how he had been standing unseen in the shadows, well downwind of Philomena, when she promised to protect that fir tree. While he was by no means sentimental about the flora and fauna of the island, he had no wish to see his favourite barmaid upset for no good reason. The collection of the saws, axes, billhooks, adzes and even the odd halberd, had taken the greater part of the previous night to collect, but it had been worth it, if it made Philomena happy.

Drury ambled up to the Night-Soil Man’s side, wagging his bony tail.

“You’re right,” said Rhys, strapping on his bucket. “We should be on the move. Come on, old friend, there’s twice as much work for us to do tonight, thanks to that fir tree. The things I do for love!”

Hopeless

A plump, hearty stocking

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Now that spade up Sunday is behind us, many of you will be cultivating black eyed meese ahead of your festive preparations. If you missed the traditional gathering day, there’s still plenty of time to go rooting about under hedgerows and anywhere else dank that hasn’t entirely frozen over. You may end up with smaller meese, but you may still consider it worth the effort!

You may be tempted to feed them bones, gristle or even worms – there’s always someone who feels the urge to try a wider diet than is recommended. There are reasons for the recommended feeding of meese. On the correct diet, meese remain biddable and cooperative. Stray from this advice and the behaviour of your meese will become unpredictable at best.

Now is also an excellent time to start thinking about the stockings you will use over the festive period. The git moths will no doubt have had a nibble on any stocking you have tried to store from last year. While we make less of a tradition of stocking repair Sunday than we do spade up Sunday, you know what you have to do. Patch those holes! And if it turns out that your festive stockings are now more hole than fabric, you may have time to source or make a new pair.

Anyone who doesn’t have solid, hole-free stockings can of course expect to have terrible things happen over the festive period. If your black eyed meese tumble from the carelessly left holes, nothing will go well, and there’s also the issue of it being a really terrible omen. 

Obviously we all want the reassurance of good omens from our seasonal stockings, so I further remind you not to let git moths lay eggs in them. Do not put spoons in your stockings and leave them unattended. Do not allow anyone who has consumed night potato vodka to handle your stockings, or to breathe on them. No matter what Reverend Davies says, do not be persuaded to take any of them to any of his festive sermons, this never goes well.

And may your meese bless you with abundance and charm, and may their odours be pleasing. A reminder that an uncanny smell of vomit is not always a bad omen and can be the result of someone having tried to throw up discretely. You know who you are.

Hopeless inhabitants

The boffin

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The boffin has shown up in a few places of late – he’s on the wrap around cover of the Outland role play game, and he’s part of the wheel of fortune tarot card. This image is going to be a chapter cover for Survivors, where we have devices as a theme. And yes, this is shameless steampunk bait, and no, we have no regrets.

The boffin is a machine made by a young islander called Necessity Jones. Necessity made the boffin while still living with her parents, out at Hermit Cottage – a rather lonely spot on the coast, a modest walk from town. Necessity’s device making is very much influenced by having seen Lilly May’s walking chair.

At the moment, Necessity’s adventures are coming out in installments over on Patreon, but we do have plans to make this, and other prose fiction more available next year. Watch this space!

Hopeless Tales, Tales from the Squid and Teapot

A Stirring Tale

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“Stir-up Sunday was over a fortnight ago!”

Philomena Bucket sat bolt upright in her bed, still half-asleep and not a little confused at the unwarranted intrusion into, what had been, a very pleasant dream.

“Well? Don’t tell me that you forgot, girl!”

The ghost of Granny Bucket was sitting shimmering on the end of the bed, and shaking her head in disbelief at Philomena’s apparent negligence.

“Hello Granny. It’s good to see you too. Where have you been these last few weeks? I thought you’d gone forever.”

The apparition held no terrors for Philomena. Granny had been haunting her, on and off, for years.

“Time means nothing where I am, as you should well know. And don’t dodge the question. Did you forget?”

Philomena’s mind began to clear a little, and the mention of Stir-up Sunday brought everything back into focus. It had always been important for the matriarch of the Bucket family to make the Christmas pudding on Stir-up Sunday. Granny’s ghostly heart still dwelt in that time long ago, back in The Old Country.  For Philomena, however, such a cosy memory was very much a thing of the past, but she could clearly recall sitting in church and listening to priest reading from the collect, saying, “Stir up, we beseech thee, O Lord, the wills of thy faithful people…”

It was a safe bet that many of those faithful people in the congregation, not to mention the distinctly unfaithful ones, were thinking that they should be at home, making a start on their Christmas puddings. Not only tradition, but pudding maturation requirements, demanded as much.  The biblical call to stir-up has long been one of those happy coincidences that works as an aide-memoire for those whose interests reside more in the kitchen than in the church.

“Granny, this is Hopeless, Maine. Remember? The chances of getting all of the ingredients necessary for a perfect Christmas pudding are next to non-existent.”

“I never said it had to be perfect,” snapped Granny, “but it wouldn’t hurt you to get up off your backside and pay some respects to an ancient tradition occasionally.”

By now Philomena was fully awake and quietly fuming.

“Just because some hard-up hack, with a quill-pen and a frock-coat, decided to scribble whatever came into his head to pay his debts, it hardly makes it an ancient Christmas tradition,” she said angrily. “Wassailing is an ancient Christmas tradition; burning a yule log is an ancient Christmas tradition; going out and getting well and truly rat-arsed is an ancient Christmas tradition. They all go back centuries. Stir-up Sunday is Early-Victorian, at best.”

“So is most of Christmas,” retorted Granny. “And, when you’re living in a place like this, you’ve got to hang on to whatever you can, or what’s the point in carrying on? Now, are you going to make this blasted pudding or no?”

“Granny, it’s two in the morning…”

“I don’t mean at this very minute.”

“I’ll need to sleep on it,” said Philomena, and pulled the blankets up around her.

“Fine, but I’m not going anywhere,” said Granny, defiantly.

Sure enough, when Philomena awoke some hours later, her ghostly ancestor was still patiently perched on the end of the bed.

“Why is this so important to you?” Philomena asked. “And don’t say tradition; I’m not buying it.”

“Well, it really is about tradition,” said Granny, then added, a little reluctantly, “and it’s about you, too. I don’t want you to be a spinster all of your days.”

“Whatever has that got to do with Christmas pudding?” asked Philomena, perplexed.

“It is well known that if you don’t stir the Christmas pudding, you’ll stay single for the next twelve months, and it would make me no end happy to see you settled down with a nice young man.”

“I haven’t heard that one before,” said Philomena. “Anyway, I’ve stirred enough puddings in my time, and I’m still single.”

“But it’s about intent, girl. You’ve got to make that wish as you stir.”

“And what makes you think that not being married makes me unhappy?” asked Philomena.

“I saw the way you looked at that Night-Soil Man,” said Granny. “And you came so close to tying the knot…”

“Things didn’t work out for us,” said Philomena, her pale face reddening a little. “It was nobody’s fault.”

“It might have gone better if you’d stirred the pudding last year,” said Granny, triumphantly.

Philomena looked downcast.

“Think on what I said, Philomena,” said Granny, beginning to fade. “You won’t be young forever. Give fate a hand and get that pudding done.”

“I’m really not that young anymore,” Philomena reflected sadly, but kept the thought to herself as she watched her grandmother disappear into the ether.

To say that Ariadne Middlestreet was surprised, when Philomena expressed a wish to make a Christmas pudding, would be an understatement.

“That’s something we’ve never done at The Squid,” she said. “There are a lot of ingredients needed, as far as I know.”

“We could compromise, here and there,” said Philomena hopefully. “I’ll dig out a recipe and we’ll see what’s possible.”

Following the aforementioned excavation, an exercise which involved a certain amount of foraging through the books in the attics of the inn, the task seemed to be less daunting.

“It seems to be mainly made of dried fruit, which we have,” said Ariadne.  “It won’t be much of a variety of fruit, though.  The ship that floundered on the rocks last year was only carrying raisins, but once the pudding is cooked that won’t matter. I’m sure that I’ve got an ancient pot of mixed-spices somewhere in the larder, and there are a few sour old apples still in the store cupboard. They’re too bitter for most things, but they could go into the mixture. Do you know, this just might work!”

Philomena could sense that her friend was becoming enthused with the possibility of creating a new festive dish for the somewhat sparse bill of fare at The Squid and Teapot.

“We need not worry about the bits we don’t have,” said Philomena, “and maybe, if the brewery can supply some malted barley to sweeten it, and the distillery some neat spirit…”

“That won’t be a problem,” said Ariadne, who had interests in both concerns. “I’m really quite excited at the prospect of doing this…”

Suddenly she stopped, and looked at Philomena

“Oh, I’m sorry. This was all your idea. Don’t let me spoil it for you…”

“I’m not a bit bothered,” said Philomena, airily. “Just as long as I get to stir the pudding mix…”

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