Silly Short Story #5



By Simon J Tatt  One could be forgiven for thinking that the Avon River is a somewhat surprising stretch of water when one considers how rare it is to spot a water bird with large bubbles the size of bantam eggs bubbling up from under its bottom as it serenely paddles itself down stream and under the Pickle Bridge. 

Cecelia Weatherby gazed longingly at her Rolex and throwing caution to the winds, quietly opened her purse and counted her loose change. A habit that she had acquired whilst working for the department of TOSSA`s, Terribly Overdressed Secret Service Agents.

Cecelia was used to recoiling in disbelief from the phalanx of secret agents who – due to budgetary restraints – were no longer quite so secret.

The Ministry of Defence had cut the TOSSA`s expenditure to £380 per annum and as a result the only undercover attire that they could accrue was a second hand golfing wardrobe of hodgepodge brightly coloured flannel stuff and tightly fitting plus-fours.All this left in a pile on St Andrew’s 18th hole by a rather dejected Tiger Woods who had given up golf to start a wedding planning business.

Cecelia would be quite taken aback at the sight of ten well built Secret agents dressed in purple trousers, yellow shirts and white and brown coloured studded golfing shoes. The M.O.D shook its collective head and wept.

Without warning, the placid waters of the Avon were disrupted by the small bow waves of a V formation of swans heading upstream and rather jerkily, it might be said.

Cecelia reached into her purse once more and pulled out a pair of binoculars this time. Squinting fudgingly through the eyepieces she focussed on the trail of bubbles behind the formation of swans. “Huh!” she exclaimed “…Huh…!”

Well groomed ladies often say `Huh` during autumn and occasionally whilst struggling with umbrellas, seldom while gazing into the river Avon through binoculars though.

Either the V-formation was breaking wind in unison or it was leaking oxygen through its feet….neither made sense.

All of a sudden the leading swan stood up and stretched its legs, there was a policeman attached to its bottom and the policeman was consulting a street map.

Cecelia rested the binoculars against a nearby dog and lit a cigarette – her first in 27 years.

“Well, oi`ll bee blowed” she chortled, cruddingly. “Oiz aynt seen summit kwite so stroinge in all mee loif.” Stamping her pointed feet lovingly on the chewing gum strewn pathway.

“Hello…” called the secret agent, whilst nine other similarly adorned colleagues scooted up next to him. “Can you tell me how to get to Peddleford Pond please?”

Rather non-plussed yet severely griddled by initial shock, Cecelia gesticulated in the direction of a lovely young lady searching for a home in London who stood twenty two feet to her left.

“I know where it is said Debbie.” “I`ll show all of you how to get to there if only you could find me a delightful 3 roomed flat for threepence in London, somewhere near an eye-liner store.”

It should be mentioned that due to the budgetary bugger-up the TOSSA`s

were no longer happy in their spandex golfing attire and they had grouped together and decided that the best way to stretch the meagre budget was to buy inflatable swans and wear them on their heads. Placing small surveillance cameras inside that look out through the beaks allowed the team of Terribly Overdressed Secret Service Agents to walk along the riverbed and take surreptitious squizzes at the surroundings without raising undue suspicion.

“Jolly good,” replied the lead swan, “we`ll be off to investigate this Peruvian plumber then, near Peddleford Pond I believe. Ta ra.” With that the entire formation rotated 180 degrees, assumed there submerged positions and leaving their swan-like headpieces resting convincingly on the surface, waddled off eastwards. Debbie turned and headed for Big Ben, chewing thoughtfully on her Cajun chicken sandwich………”Mmmmm…..tastes good……….aaaaah…! Lightly roasted cygnet on rye, now there`s an idea!”


( idea for undercover/underwater agents with swans on their heads from my good friend Dror Fidler of Israel – thanks Dror).

This Silly Short Story#5  entitled “How Do They Do It?” is copyrighted to the author, Simon J Tatt. No persons may reproduce any part of the story in any way for the purposes of financial gain or for any other reasons without the express permission of Simon J Tatt. Law 6785/67 of the Intrinsic Writers Code of 2009 protects the above mentioned work and any infringement thereof will result in a fine of $20 000 and/or a jail term of between 5 and 7 years.


~ by Simon Tatt on March 22, 2010.

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