Le Tuff's generosity knows no bounds. Today the post brought me a gift parcel containg some 19 items of charming silverware bearing the monogramme of the Bishop of Toronto. Attached was a card in that familiar spidery hand: "Wilson, if you don't get on with the story I'll kick your teeth down your throat".

Oh, the wit of the man! Righty-o, le Tuff!

The Legend of le Tuff: (8) The depth of his insight, and an entomological observation

"Wilson," le Tuff said to me after a little time (it now being about eleven), "let me show you something you won't soon forget." Needless to say, the prospect thrilled and enthralled me.

At this he methodically removed his paper turban and artfully flung it on a rusty hook, donned an Argyle cardigan over his yellow raincoat, then almost theatrically removed the cardigan, all in a series of moves as though choreographed by Diaghilev himself. It troubles me not at all to concede that le Tuff's intellectual acuity far outshines my own, and that I was, quite frankly, baffled by this brilliant ballet.

"You have no idea what that means, do you Robertson?" he said, no doubt punning on the middle name of one of my uncles.

"None whatever, I'm afraid le Tuff," I confessed with a nervous laugh. He sighed just ever so cacophoniously.

"So I have to show you again. Watch this time, for God's sake, man, or I'll tell the press about ... your little secret!"

I gave a due smile of admiration. Trust le Tuff to plunge into a man's heart and soul with such perspicacity! I watched closely, as closely as one might in a large room frugally lit by a small fluorescent camping lamp painted in psychedelic patterns with flaking acrylic paint.

Again, like a clever magician, Indian fakir or showman of the stage, he adroitly removed his cardigan and then replaced it on his fine, slightly lopsided torso. He lay down again, this time on the Ford Fairlaine seat by the refrigerator.

"Mean nothing to you, eh?" le Tuff said, then he quickly rose up, fell back onto the seat, rose again and walked purposefully if a little unsteadily (his war wound, I suppose) to the window, pulled back the Flinstones curtain, hawked very loudly, and vigorously expectorated as only a man of tremendous thoracic strength might do.

"Crippen!" he called to his loyal manservant and ward, "you left the window closed all day!"

What could the donning of the cardigan mean? Although his eyes never met mine (for he had commenced to groom his toenails, as only a man with extraordinary eyesight would dare to do in such poor light and with such cutlery), he somehow intuited that I did not comprehend.

"Bees," he said.

"Bees, le Tuff?"

"Yes, bees, idiot. That was how I discovered the principle of how bees moderate the temperature of their hives."

"Oh, splendid!" I cried. "That has been such a boon to the apicultural industry. Well done, old bean!"

His inscrutible reply was meant for my edification, I'll be bound.

"What on earth are you talking about, you stupid, boring little man," were his only words, but words to encourage me, I felt certain on that pleasant evening, and so I believe to this very day.

"The bees, le Tuff. And the cardigan. That is fantastically wonderful!"

Le Tuff moved close to me and took both my shoulders in his differently appendaged hands. He drew his rheumy eyes to within an inch or two of mine, and, although we were new friends, whispered softly as though we had been firm pals for many, many years:

"Williams, you are out of your fucking, fucking mind."

To be continued ...

The Legend of le Tuff: (7) Mementos of genius

I wonder if in the Great Book at Judgment Day there will be less than an entire chapter devoted to Baz le Tuff and his deeds.

It was on my very first visit to Scrotsmuir that I pondered this question, as around me I beheld mementos of a wonderful life lived to the full.

The great man's loyal manservant and catamite brought in tea, and even so humble an offering as that refreshment was remarkable, served as it was from an enormous pot of finest Parramatta porcelain and poured into the most delicate Tibetan cups I had at that time ever seen. Both forms of utensil, teapot and skull, told of wide travel and daring adventure.

On the western wall of le Tuff's chamber, above an arras of pink and green, was the switchboard of the vintage monorail that ran right around the room and out to goodness-knows-where. I asked my gracious host why the switch was placed at so high an elevation, and his reply was concise and brilliant. Regrettably, to impart that to you, dear reader, would require the breaking of a confidence and consequent legal considerations. Suffice to say, there was a certain involvement of a vintage toy train collector, a news boy, the Rector of St Swithins, a delightful young German actress, two kilos of Norco butter, and a Barnacle goose.

"Cigarette?" le Tuff generously offered, and I accepted the filterless Sobranie Black Russian. Such is le Tuff's foresight that he has a ready supply of them in the basement, or so Crippen told me on another occasion. Apparently his master keeps White Russians as well; although I admit I have never heard of such a cigarette, I should very much like to try one.

As I drew on my cigarette and waited for the great man to speak, my eyes surveyed this wonderful room. Indeed, they did so for quite a time, as le Tuff does not condone idle conversation, a character trait he kindly suggested I should endeavour to cultivate (and I am learning, thanks to him).

As the sunlight outside dimmed and the beautiful gloom in the chamber enveloped all, some three or four hours after I had extinguished my Sobranie, I had ample leisure to take in a good half of the visible objets d'art and objets trouvées in the room before le Tuff roused from slumber and spoke with that unique, grating, and slightly slurred voice of his that we have all come to adore ...

To be continued