Entry 10: Local off-licence ransacked by
tramps, tourists
This week Ketsbaia has been rocked by revelations that so called "untoward
events" are occurring in Ketsbaia Municipal Botanical Gardens. The details
were leaking onto the Internet after a diary extract was uncovered and
secured by local sheriffs. The identities of the writer and the secret monks
have yet to be established, though a moaning figure was recovered near the
scene by some bins.
The uncovered note reads as follows:
Extracts from a charred note book found near Ketsbaia municipal
swimming pool.
Life hasn't
been easy since my attempt to circumnavigate the world in an aeroplane
hastily assembled from a soiled mattress,
discarded ironing boards and the engine of a stolen Virgin Sky Bus ended in
disaster as I veered miles off course and crashed in a strange town, which
doesn't appear on my London A-Z. I shall attempt to chronicle my experiences
in the hope of becoming a rich and famous
anthropologist if I ever get rescued.
Day 26
I've taken up residence in a small park inhabited by what have I determined
to be an order of monks, bound by duty
to protect the enchanted swings from hoards of cursed midgets who attempt to
push and sit on said swings in a most disrespectful manner. For days I
observed them ritually sup from their divine tin
amulets while chanting sacred rites.
I arrived at the decision yesterday to attempt contact with the monks.
Communication with the locals has previously proved problematic. Most recoil
in horror at the severe facial scaring and accelerated beard growth I
suffered on crashing. Others require no invitation to pelt me with berries
and hail, despite my attempts at chanting the sacred rites "feerkkkrrrrffwnnkeeerrrrs",
"geerrrrrrrowwttheprrrrrrrkyrrrrtwwrt",
"whyyyydrrrrdyeeeeeerleavemrrrrrsandra". Clearly repetition of these Holy
phrases by an outsider is construed as an insult to
their religion.
A change of tact was required in order to make acquaintance with the Holy
Men, so I hit upon the idea of providing an offering of the blessed juice
which so clearly focuses the mind on their divine work. Venturing out of my
bush-house, garbed in the least conspicuous of my suits (fashioned
from discarded crisp packets and cheese strings), I made my way
towards the temple where I had previously observed the monks procuring the
juice.
Not wishing to risk a severe pelting, I
devised an ingenious plot to distract the Guardian of the Juice by creating
a small fire outside the temple. For kindling I used a bundle of paper
tickets emblazoned with the monarchs face which I had found in a brief case
chained to the arm of a deceased gentleman in the park earlier in the week.
The fire caused quite a commotion and the guardian was indeed distracted
from his position. I saw my chance and ran into the temple, where I was able
to bundle 4 tins of the cherished water
into my knapsack. I also managed to scramble a mysterious artefact marked
with the insignia "Curly Wurly" which should make a fine tie for my suit.
The juice worked a treat, as the monks greeted my offering by ceasing their
increasingly agitated chanting and inviting me to sit with them on their
mysterious wooden throne. Despite the
language barrier I was welcomed into their Holy community, and even charged
with midget scaring duty at one point during the evening.
Today has been spent in a most devout way, with much supping of the
blessed drink and chanting of the sacred
rites.
Day 27
I'm beginning to have my doubts about my chosen path. It started this
morning when I witnessed the tallest monk urinating
on a sleeping dog. My doubts were strengthened further when the
widest monk clearly punched a goose
without remorse as I observed him from a tree. I may abdicate tonight and
return to my leafy hovel.