The Legend of le Tuff: (5) O Scrotsmuir

Like so many, I left my heart in that wonderful mansion by the sea.

Parking my car outside the high lilac walls of the property on that sunny day, I pushed heavily on the grand gates, and suffered a mild hernia. Only later did I discover that those remarkable iron contrivances were so designed as to pump water, with every visitor's entry, from a neighbour's swimming pool to a cosy little lake in the Scrotsmuir grounds. "Saves a fortune in water rates and chlorine," he told me years later. Le Tuff is nothing if not inventive.

My footfall was crunchy up the gravel drive that wound lazily around the hillside like a white serpent. With considerable exertion I climbed the wide front steps, caught my breath, stepped to the immense, Byzantine Hardiplank doors and rapped loudly on the great bronze knockers.

Le Tuff's faithful manservant and amanuensis was at the door within tens of minutes. "Oh do come in," he said musically, "Master has been expecting you." It was to the tune of Favourite Things, I think, but that is neither here nor there.

As I followed the humming Crippen through the labyrinthine corridors and halls, my neck also became herniated as I stared around me at an opulence like unto nothing I had seen since my days in ... well, where those days were spent is of no importance compared to the opulence of Scrotsmuir.

When I was finally shown into the library of the great man, I found him comfortably prostrate on a Queen Anne chaise longue of noteworthy design (it being some three times the length of my new friend).

"Good morning, le Tuff," I ventured. But nothing was replied. As I inched forward through the fashionable darkness, I noted that his charming tricoloured eyes were closed. Crippen saw my nervousness, and came to my aid.

"Master is suffering a slight bazzitude today, sir," he said, gentle as the morn.

A terrifyingly loud thunderclap rent the sky outside. "Bazzitude?" I asked, endeavouring not to appear ignorant.

"Yes, sir. Bazzitude. It has been in the last two Greater Oxford Dictionaries, ever since Master's novella memoire, 'Sack and Burn the Back Streets of Detroit'. Have you not heard the word?"

I shamefully confessed that I had not, though of course I knew the masterpiece intimately.

Crippen sensitively crooned Ted Nugent's Dog, Dog, Dog Eat Dog as with telling compassion he slapped le Tuff across the face with a short piece of 4 X 2 pine.

"Wakie, wakie, hands off snakey, sir. You have a visitor." ...

To be continued

(Part of today's episode was suggested by a reader, Sylvia from London. You suggest it, I'll try to write it.)