In the course of an evening stroll to the newsagents to purchase the latest edition of “The Square Leg Fielder's Quarterly”, the Professor began reminiscing about some of his former colleagues. “Professors Brabagious, Ricksteddle and Catterning spent many years travelling the less populated parts of Devon and Dorset in an attempt to complete their work on the tea and water biscuit ceremony reputed to take place annually in those parts on St. Benedict's Day. Everywhere they went, they were greeted by cheering crowds but, sadly, failed to find any trace of the fabled ceremony.” The Three Professors and Mrs Ethel Slump The Professor paused and stared wistfully at a skein of geese crossing the sky, before continuing in a sad and leaden tone. “Rumour has it that they were often accompanied by a ghost called Mrs Ethel Slump, but I've no time for such tomfoolery. They were last seen setting out to sea on a makeshift raft somewhere near Budleigh Salterton. ”
For many years the Professor has enjoyed the pastime of riding the derny bike in order to pace struggling amateur cyclists in pursuit of their keirin racing dreams. Lately, however, he has expanded this hobby into new areas in an attempt, as he puts it, to “uncover profound consequences and increase the chances of being offered girdle scones”. On a recent visit to The Tytherton Lucas University and Sandpaper Repository, I was greatly cheered to witness the Professor heading across a somewhat neglected meadow pursued by Professors Nippitatum and Spong as they debated an obscure aspect of the ‘pataphysics of 'pataphysical modes. I cannot recall witnessing a more heartwarming and inspiring sight in recent times. Well, possibly apart from Mr Norman ‘Nongermane’ Griffonage playing his celebrated forward defensive stroke for several, uneventful hours on the cricket green at Muchlarnick on a fine summer day and thus allowing the visiting team an entirely inconsequential draw....
Earlier this year the Professor and his closest academic colleagues celebrated Plough Monday in their traditional manner with fine displays of old metal buckets in several unexpected places. Happily, I did succeed in finding one of these secret locations. After admiring the aged containers, I took away one of the cards scattered in the vicinity and meditated on its meaning as I played a mixtape of Bernart de Ventadorn's greatest hits. The following morning I awoke, as so often in the past, to what sounded like a robin singing Verdi while perched on a can of soup.
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