Oh, Rubble Clubbers, I’m sorry I am so late to arrive at the meeting. It’s past midnight! Mind out of the way and let me get into the kitchen. I’ll soon have the buffet ready. It’s nice to see you all entertaining your pet rocks with an umbrella-swapping party as I have trained you to do in my absence. One day, perhaps next week because I am too tired tonight, I will teach you the useful secret language of the pet rock umbrella. For now I can see you are waiting for me to feed you with your weekly batch of rock cakes and I am determined you will not be disappointed. If you had looked for me earlier, you would have seen I was just outside, losing track of time, halfway up the quarry face chipping away at the rocks, doing my husband Malcolm’s job, (remember he broke his back last week so now it’s down to little already-overworked me to run the Stone Quarry single-handed). Malcolm, over there in the bed cupboard, could have told you to give me a shout and tell me to get the kettle on, but he is too busy feeling sorry for himself with his broken back, and watching the football on my magic laptop, surrounded by the pet rock England supporters that no one has adopted. (No wonder England are struggling, all the pet rocks are stuck in the sick bed with Malcolm. That can’t be a lucky spot for them. They should be sitting on top of hundreds of tellies throughout the land, in homes where there are no broken backs.)
On to the mailbag. Nobody has entered the competition, despite Granny Gray the shopkeeper promising me that she has been putting heavy pressure on every Rubble Clubber who has entered the shop this week, and despite many of them promising her faithfully they would enter. I think she is telling me fibs, but I have had no time to sit under the counter checking up on her conversations this week, since I have temporarily become the full-time Quarrymaster (and mistress), on top of all my pet rock whispering duties. Needless to say there is no Gazette this week. I am, therefore, falling behind the boring old Undergrowby Gnews in popularity and it is killing me.
Linda from Kilmarnoch, the Deputy Head Prefect, is as chatty as ever, keeping me posted with her comings and goings. She, like me, is battling against the odds, looking forward to better times lolling about in the sun very soon. Linda, if I had been there in the Blackpool crowd that you saw on the telly, I would have waved back at you but martyr that I am, I was too busy covered in stone chippings up the quarry face to put in an appearance. Just in case there is some more personal appearance waving for me to do on the telly, I have told Malcolm he has another couple of days to get himself better and that’s it! I’ll be off up the Promenade looking out for T.V. cameras.
Suz, welcome home! It’s lovely to hear from you again. Shame you missed the competition.
Now that I’ve served the buffet, before you all fall asleep because it is now the middle of the night, let me dig into the family album again and find you another picture to remember me by till next week when I hope to be on top form.
Till then, I am your exhausted, quarry-weary Chairman and faithful friend, Madge Dumpling.
P.S. The picture is Duncan the Dunce, expert pencil-sharpener, who lives just across the waterfall from the Seven Schools. He is one of my most passionate pet rock collectors and is asleep over in the corner by Malcolm’s bed cupboard as I speak. I see he has cadged one of the England supporters from Malcolm. He carries all his little rockies around in his rucksack wherever he goes. Apart from pet rocks he collects feathers, shells and knitted hats. This is a picture of him going into the Magic Wand Factory, home of Wanderella Windmeddler, in the Wandmaker’s Forest. I have a sneaky feeling he is collecting magic wands as well, though of course he would never admit it to me.
