The Professor Peregrine Papers

One sunny, summer day many years ago, taking a slow train through suburban London to her house, these are the things that we enjoyed seeing from the train window. Scene 1 : A weightlifter in a garden proving to be a source of fascination for birds Scene 2 : A woman in a quiet street pushing a large wheelbarrow full of flowers, in a floriferous manner Scene 3 : A colourful statue of a cow Scene 4 : A vision from the 1930s with pots and pans suspended above a joyful husband and wife   Scene 5 : In a garden, two men dressed in Victorian clothes staring at something that they consider intractable As dusk began to fall and we neared our destination, she whispered to me, “Love is the man in quiet shoes walking close behind you as you make your way home.”

I had heard many rumours concerning the Professor's great uncle, the widely-respected ecclesiastical scholar, the Reverend Prebendary-without-Portfolio, Glanton Pyke. While briefly trapped in a defective lift between floors at The National Pith Helmet Museum, the Professor eventually confided the vexatious story to me.  “Following his recovery from a sudden crisis of faith, Glanton began to invest an increasing amount of his time in researching the role of the lithophone in the development of modern liturgical music. He was determined to see this project through to its conclusion, in spite of warnings from colleagues and a passing onion seller that he was neglecting his long-held ambition to be appointed to the office of Suffragan. After some years, he triumphantly presented his conclusions in the legendary lecture hall at The Monkton Up Wimborne Seminary and Butterfly Observatory. It's said that on that day many tears of joy were shed, many lives were changed and Nottinghamshi...

This year I accompanied the Professor on his annual visit to Grammersow Hall, the crepuscular stately home in Moreton on Lugg. Following a bracing constitutional around the grounds, I came across the Professor deep in thought at the entrance to the Ice House. After some minutes had passed, he spoke:  "I come to this place on every Saint Jude The Uncertain day. It was here that I last set eyes upon my great friend Admiral Quilkin  * . He marched into the Ice House, giving me a cheery wave as he disappeared. But he did not return. Some say he's playing glockenspiel in a reggae band on the outskirts of Tromsø. But I recently received an anonymous letter claiming that he'd been spotted buying blotting paper and safety pins in a shop just outside Wrangle Lowgate. That does sound the more likely option." "But Professor," I felt compelled to ask. "If he failed to return, then could he still be in there somewhere?" The Professor's expression became ind...

The Professor's celebrated book, ‘Cor Blimey! The Country Wife Goes To The Sand Dance’, dealt with the popular depiction of philosophy, literature and fulminology in the period from the English Civil War to the outbreak of the Second World War. However, the Professor recently confided in me that, if time had allowed, he would have included some later phenomena such as the recorded output of Mr Paul Anka, the later works of André Masson and the repertoire of Thelonious Monk from 1955 to 1965.  It was, however, the omission of the work of the Scamander Duo that he regretted most keenly.  Their performances reflecting on major philosophical works prior to the 18th century and, in particular, their critique of Leviathan by Thomas Hobbes resonated strongly with the Professor. Unfortunately, their masterpiece ‘Look Out, Missus! It's a Bellum Omnium Contra Omnes’ was comprehensively ignored when first performed in 1957. This may have been in part due to its 7 hour duration, although ...

Uncle Leucocholy's entry into Paris has become legendary, possibly because he took disproportionate delight in telling and retelling the story to anyone who could be persuaded to listen. “Oh, the dark meetings on the Champs-Elysées,” he would mutter, darkly. He sidestepped questions about why he descended by parachute. “Ah, the faces looking up at me from the crowd. Bien sûr, Pierre and Guillaume,” he would enthuse. He adamantly refused to explain the suit of armour or his reasons for being in the city at all.  "Ha ha," he would exclaim, reconditely. Despite the cloud of ambiguity that invariably surrounded him, everywhere that Uncle Leucocholy ventured, people would be inclined to cry “Hooray!”. There are many things in this world that I do not understand.

One October night, returning from a walk through narrow streets, she stood before her window and said, "That is not what I meant, at all" After so much time, the memory is submerged so deeply that I no longer fear rebuke. I could answer you, but I cannot offer a new love song.

October 4th 1926 Rue Lafayette, Paris André Breton sees Nadja for the first time. A new day. I put on gloves of foam. Much later, à la station balnéaire, I became gloves of horsehair. Time for tea. I'm putting the kettle on. Effrontément.

Following the prickly pear incident, Uncle Leucocholy insisted on dressing as a deep sea diver whenever close to cacti. When asked about this behaviour he would always reply, “L’objet d’art, par définition, est le crocodile empaillé”.  It is interesting to note: Uncle Leucocholy did not speak French. Uncle Leucocholy could not swim. Uncle Leucocholy once wore a pair of faux crocodile shoes to a performance of Mussorgsky’s “Pictures at an Exhibition”.

 I turned to say something. Richard found a place to sleep where it is quiet, and sleeps there.

It has been drawn to my attention that I could actually “do something useful” rather than accumulate arcane jottings on the life and times of Professor Peregrine. In my defence, I offer a small indication of the onerous nature of this honourable task in the shape of a week's entries from my diary.  Monday The Professor showed me a draft of his long-awaited article on string theory. Disappointingly, it seemed to dwell overmuch on the (theoretically) best containers in which to save string.  Tuesday The Professor was jubilant as he announced that he has added the 12-inch record of "The Umpire's Lament" to his collection of rare vinyl from the 1980s. The use of analogue synthesisers is, he claims, unparalleled in the field of leg-spin bowling.  Wednesday Nothing much happened that I can recall, although I did take the cat for a walk. I do not have a cat. The Professor is not answering his phone. Thurs day The Professor left a postcard in my letterbox under the cover of d...

For nebulous reasons, the Professor has been investigating the strange disappearance in 1922 of Puthery Quiddle, then Reader in Paradoxical Physics and Hat Manipulation at West Flotmanby Academy. Shortly after the publication of his infamous paper “Unexplained Disappearances and their Relation to Airships and Tethered Balloons” (Swinithwaite Press, 1921), Quiddle himself inexplicably vanished. Recently, following a particularly lengthy lunch, the Professor indicated that I should follow him into his crumbling garden shed. After locking the door behind us and checking for listening devices with what appeared to be a divining rod, he whispered to me in hushed and questionably portentous tones: “It cannot be a coincidence that Quiddle was seen in earnest discussion with Hanson "Sammy" Carter in a public house close to the Oval during the tour of the Australian Test Team in 1921. It is my belief that Quiddle was spirited away amongst the large collection of kit bags that our Sout...

As we wandered behind the happy throng beating the bounds around Priest Weston, I was momentarily puzzled by the Professor's choice of clothing for this festive occasion. I was wearing my ceremonial blazer embroidered with the colours of sunset over Dungeness Beach while the Professor sported bright green cricket pads and a matching top hat.  When I tentatively questioned his appearance, his answer filled me with shame. “You seem to have forgotten that today is William Beldham Day, my boy. I am wearing the appropriate costume, I think you'll find.” Of course, he was entirely correct. My thoughts turned at once to the exemplary ‘Silver Billy’ Beldham and I resolved to recommence work on my unfinished musical “Gentlemen versus Players and a Twelfth Man” at the earliest opportunity.  At the end of the ceremony we gathered at Mitchell's Fold Stone Circle for the customary reading of the epic poem “The Rather Confused Horseman of Black Marsh”, intoned majestically this year by t...

I had that dream again last night. The one in which we were excluded from the fortress. She warned me at the time that it would continue to haunt me. Years later, I found a note inside a book that she left behind. It read: "There's milestones on the Dover Road."

My dear (indeed, unreasonably expensive) friend Professor Peregrine has for many years been on the very best of terms with Pugil Jabbernowl, Professor Emeritus of Implausible Geography and Dwile Flonking at Stratton Strawless University. Professor Jabbernowl is probably best known in academic circles for his work “The Preston Gubbals Woodland Debate of 1902”. This exhaustive study of the momentous event, covering its causes, outcomes and catering solutions, remains a great classic amongst “those in the know.” Indeed, amid much celebration and egregious wasting of cash, an attempt was made to turn the book into a feature film entitled “Woodland Showdown”. It was never finished, of course. Professor Jabbernowl considers this a suitable metaphor. But, in recent weeks, relations have soured between these two paragons of British Academia. At first, my attempts to determine the reasons behind this falling out came to nought. But, after I concealed his television remote control during the hig...

I came across Professor Peregrine descaling a kettle. As is his wont when undertaking such dangerous tasks, he was wearing his faithful, timeworn wicket-keeper's gloves. Amid much imprudent splashing of liquid and fracturing of kitchen items, this activity brought on one of the Professor's legendary nostalgic moods. “Do you remember Binky Theddlethorpe?” he asked, with a faraway look in his eye. I didn't. “And do you remember that fine match in which he took eight wickets while also eating his way through at least the same number of ham and piccalilli sandwiches?” I didn't. “In that case," the Professor went on. “Neither do I. Pass me the abrasive fish slice, if you'd be so kind.” Following a subsequent, exhaustive search in the archives of The Thorpe Malsor Cricket Club and 24 Hour Laundry, I can confirm that the illustrious Binky Theddlethorpe was reputed to be “unplayable” while bowling within the confines of a neolithic landscape.

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. ”

Recently, as we perused, with much admiration, Ezra Gloppened's recent publication "Goo! : Butter Churns and their Role in the Peasants' Revolt", I ventured to ask if the Professor had ever considered an alternative career.   "I haven't always been attracted to the academic life," the Professor admitted. "Many years ago, I did spend some time on the road with my band The Inadequate Zarf. Ah, happy days! Except for the less happy days, which, come to think of it, was most of them." I was unsure about the veracity of this statement until I chanced upon a copy of The Inadequate Zarf’s classic album "Physalis In My Pocket" in a bric-a-brac sale at the Sandford Spence Schultz Home for Fractious Umpires. My favourite track is, without doubt, "Ruckus In The Olfaction Department", featuring the Professor's solo on bass harmonica, an instrument of which he has little or no knowledge.

I cannot deny that Uncle Leucocholy loved a pataphor almost as much as Sussex Pond Pudding and games of Wink Murder. And so it was inevitable, perhaps, that he would assume the identity of a member of The Macrosmatic Brass Band whenever he found himself near a windmill. His performances at the celebrations for 29 Gidouille are still remembered fondly in a few arcane parts of Belgium.

I came across the following photograph, stapled to a receipt for spoon rests, as I tried to make sense of the Professor's treasury of learned papers and other tea chests. The Professor considered the photograph with some interest before beginning to explain.  “Ah, the Case of the Disappearing Bails. A cause célèbre of the 1960s. At critical moments during significant matches, the bails would suddenly and inexplicably vanish. People were up in arms and stiff letters were written to the MCC, various members of the House of Lords and other incorrigibles. Eventually, Chief Inspector Drongway was called in to investigate.” The Professor stared absent-mindedly out of the window at a passing milkman before continuing: “Everybody had the greatest faith in Drongway of the Yard, so called because he owned a small yard behind a pub where he kept his valuable collection of Edwardian unicycles. However, no arrests were ever made. The belief expressed by journalists and other wastrels was that t...

The Professor has always held Steehop Latibulate, Lecturer in Indeterminate Philosophy and Controvertible Vexillology, in the highest regard. His admiration is not based solely on Latibulate's renowned lectures, with their inventive use of cowbells and sealing wax, but also on his less academic undertakings. As the Professor was at pains to point out: “I remember with great affection Latibulate's sterling efforts back in 1983 when he established The First Annual Festival of Walking Up and Down A Hill For No Very Good Reason in Higher Muddiford. Has there ever been a finer example of whatever it was he was on about?”