The Professor Peregrine Papers

One afternoon not long ago, I came upon the Professor relaxing in his conservatory and perusing a dog-eared copy of the unauthorised biography of that fine sportsman William 'Gutta Percha' See. (In my view, the unauthorised and, some say, imaginary biography of Larman Register is a more insightful read - but I forbore from mentioning this). Naturally, we found ourselves in a reflective mood and spent a pleasant hour or so over a cup of broken orange pekoe and a flaky scone reminiscing about the tragi-comic act of the indisputably illustrious Clotworthy Brothers in which they attempted to impersonate trees in the vicinity of late Neolithic stone circles around various parts of our Sceptred Isle.  Of course,  their later work, in which they strayed into the Early Bronze Age and the minefield of interpretative dance has never been as well received by critics and other malefactors, but we were not so hasty in our judgement on that blessed afternoon.

The Professor's family is famed for their alternative version of croquet. The game does include a ball and mallets (they're not fools and they own no flamingos) but it also requires a dialogue prior to each play in which the protagonists argue why the ball should be hit in any given direction. Indeed, there is no obvious need to hit the ball through any hoops since that is considered a distraction. The scoring system, moreover, is a thing of great beauty and emotional resonance, but is also completely incomprehensible to anyone other than Biskan Cannikeeper, Professor Emeritus of Mathematics and Loggats at Knave-Go-By University, who devised it. It is not clear if anyone has ever actually won a game. Although, this is not thought to be important. The Professor's Great Aunt Torrididdle was perhaps the finest exponent of this version of the game. She failed to win a single match but reduced any number of politicians, judges and other turncoats to states of silent bewilderment...

The Professor is very much the archetype of a rational man (he denies this) but, the other day, I did venture to ask him if he had any experience of the paranormal. His answer sent a chill down my spine. “Some years ago, while taking an afternoon constitutional in the walled garden of Lord Parvanimity of Foddington's estate, I came across the ghostly figure of a cowled monk. He pointed directly at me and declared in a portentous voice that I should repent before it was too late.... or something like that. Anyway, we got chatting and it turned out that his name was Brian and that he was doomed to walk poorly-attended gardens and deliver vague messages of impending doom.  We went off to the local pub (The Trombone and Gooseberry, I believe it was called) and, after a few pints of fine local ale, parted on good terms. As he drifted off into a cloud of diaphanous mist he gave me a tip on a horse called Elozable Mineshaft in the 3:30 at Chepstow the following day. I'm not normally a...

I had been pressing the Professor to reveal more of the details of his questionable family history with patchy results. Eventually he pulled a faded photograph from a dog-eared copy of Wisden (circa 1949, I believe) and began to tell a sad tale:  “Let me tell you about Great Uncle Purlicue. His notable skill was to entice an audience to a remote, bucolic location on the pretext of delivering a speech of national importance or distributing free tickets to a Minor Counties match with associated hog roast before unexpectedly removing his hat and delivering a heartfelt rendition of ‘Who Were You With Last Night?’.” The Professor stared wistfully from the window overlooking his fine display of prize dahlias, statuettes of first-class umpires signalling wides and enamel buckets before going on in subdued tones:  “Sadly, Great Uncle Purlicue was so successful at gathering a crowd that he was accidentally elected to various positions of dubious authority. This proved to be his undoing...

I have often urged the Professor to cast a little light upon some of the less documented periods of his life. Eventually one Tuesday afternoon last spring, as he sipped a cup of particularly doubtful Lapsang Souchong, he recalled a quite unexpected episode of many years ago:  “I must confess that there was a disturbing period of approximately 3 weeks in which I was pursued by a robot. At the time I was attempting to publish my now-famous and, dare I say, groundbreaking paper entitled ‘Formidophobia in the Sermons of the Reverend Mawkin Barcarole’. I was so unnerved by this paranormal episode that publication was delayed by some months. I surreptitiously took this photograph at the time.” I studied this image for several minutes before venturing to suggest: “Forgive me Professor, but I can't help noticing a striking resemblance between the robot in this photograph and Professor Atrabilious of Kirmond le Mire University, dressed in a ludicrous costume. Professor Atrabilious is, I bel...

 Back then, beside the lake, we discussed the nature of time endlessly. She cut the water with a pocket knife and it was still water. Although, far from still.  "Remember that." she said. I do remember, but I don't believe that she's still there watching the same water. Perhaps she's watching other water and forgetting.

One day recently, as the Professor was working on his paper discussing the social and metaphysical ramifications of deploying a deep square leg, he suddenly looked up from his endeavours and asked me if I knew the story of the year his brother * entered the International Hedge Climbing Contest in Claxby Pluckacre.  I did not. To this day, I still do not know the story. * The Professor is widely believed to be an only child.