Prince Toby has started his own diary for National Novel Writing Month. You can follow his adventures here.
Sunday 13th November 2022
Weight: 1311g (7g cucumber weight gain), cucumber consumption: 4 slices (hurrah!!), escape attempts: 732 (on account of fluffy soil and lack of rose petals in bath), interruption of Very Important Human Tasks for No Reason Whatsoever: 227 (got stuck in my corner a lot during escape attempts), interruption of Very Important Human Tasks for Toilet-Related or Other Emergencies: 230 or 3 (depending on whether or not you count getting stuck in my corner as an emergency)
7.30 am: Aaaaaargggh! Fell asleep in Strictly! Humans didn’t wake me up again! Is conspiracy!
7.35 am: Arsenal beat Wolves (hurrah!), but think voting closed before end of match so hope Gooners remembered to vote for Tony Adams in my absence. Also worried that they missed Strictly and so wouldn’t have been prompted to vote by Tony Adams’s dancing excellence.
7.38 am: Human No. 2 says that people would be more likely to vote for Tony Adams if they hadn’t seen him dancing. Hmmm. Perhaps we’re okay then.
8.23 am: No sign of Human No. 1 yet. Must be having lie in. Perhaps she has forgotten about bath day . . .
8.30 am: Torchy sent me a video of a tortoise eating some apple whilst having a bath. I want some apple! Baths might be bearable with apple.
8.32 am: Just discovered that Gatsby has rose petals in his bath. Think this would improve bath substantially. Albie agrees.
9.05 am: Am sure Human No. 1 will have seen Gatsby’s rose petals by now. Confident that bath will be strewn with luxurious rose petals and will be bath breakthrough moment. Will be new tort. Will absolutely adore baths. Hurrah!
9.33 am: Am in bath. No rose petals. WE HATES BATHS FOREVER!!!
9.48 am: Am out of bath. Soil is fluffy again. Must go for a stomp and climb up corners!
9.55 am: Gatsby suggests that roses might be out of season, but I have seen them. They are big and yellow and growing at the bottom of my outdoor pen. Humans are just too lazy to go outside in their PJs to fetch me some. Rude!
10.00 am: Have covered myself in soil as protest against lack of rose petals in bath.
10.10 am: Think I’ll tramp some soil through my water dish too.
10.22 am: Am climbing again. Got a bit stuck in corner so hopefully humans will notice that I’m being quiet soon and come and investigate.
10.33 am: Have finally been rescued! Not very impressed with service. Think I will have a climb up the other corner to show my dissatisfaction.
10.37 am: Am stuck again.
10.47 am: Human No. 1 has just come in to warn me that I need to be well-behaved tort whilst they watch the Remembrance Sunday service. Don’t know why she’s getting so het up about it. The humans don’t event watch the whole thing. They only switch it on for about fifteen minutes to listen to Nimrod and do the silence bit and judge people’s hats.
11.05 am: Apparently Boris Johnson was a bit scruffy, but that’s not exactly news, is it?
12.45 pm: Am tired out after all my protesting against lack of rose petals in bath. Think I will sit under my heat lamp for a while, looking as if butter wouldn’t melt. (It would, though, because it’s quite warm under my heat lamp.)
1.03 pm: Human No. 2 has returned from supermarket and keeps opening the back door. It’s DRAUGHTY!!! BRRRRRRRRRRR!
1.05 pm: He’d better have bought me some cucumber. Getting a bit tired of this hunger strike and my tummy is rumbly!
1.08 pm: CUCUMBER!!! HURRAH!!! Human No. 1 has just offered me some, but I refused. Need to make her work for it. She’s now waving it in front of my face.
1.09 pm: I’ll just have a tiny nibble . . .
1.21 pm: Am refusing cucumber again in protest against poor treatment (lack of cucumber, no rose petals in dreadful bath, Strictly disenfranchisement).
1.27 pm: Shall not break. Am strong, principled tort.
1.36 pm: Ha! Have freaked out Human No. 1. Was sitting here looking all angelic when she noticed that I had trampled soil all over my food again. ‘But he hasn’t mooooooooooved!!!’ she shrieked at Human No. 2. ‘Did you hear him move?’ Human No. 2 didn’t hear me move. Am Ninja Tort! They should have read the sign on my pen: ‘Beware of the Ninja Tort!’
1.39 pm: Hmmm. Human No. 1 has now confiscated all food. Think that might have backfired on me.
2.23 pm: Humans have been watching The Wheel on iPlayer and have been COMPLETELY IGNORING ME. HELLOOOOOO???? AM HUNGRY!!!!! WILL HAVE CUCUMBER NOW!!!
2.41 pm: Phew! Had some cucumber finally. Human No. 1 tried to make me eat healthy things too, but I shan’t!
3.13 pm: Oh yes. Am supposed to be writing rollicking detective tale about Sherlock Tobes and Tortiarty. Must get started on that.
3.25 pm: Might just read the original again first . . .
4.05 pm: And watch this YouTube video about baby tortoises having a bath . . .
4.13 pm: Right. Am starting now.
Prince Toby Tort Presents
Sherlock Tobes and Professor Tortiarty in
‘The Final Cucumber’
Once upon a time, ooops, that’s not how this one goes. It is with a heavy claw that I take up my pen to write these last words about the pure genius of my bestest friend in all the world, Mr Sherlock Tobes. In tortoise terms, our time together was fleeting, but in that time, he put his considerable intellect to work on a whole host of problems that left the police baffled – ‘A Study in Cucumber’, ‘The Red-footed Tort’ and ‘The Kale Treaty’ to name but a few. But this case, I must warn you, was to be Sherlock Tobes’s final problem.
There have been all sorts of rumours flying around about the shocking encounter between the esteemed Sherlock Tobes and the despicable Professor Tortiarty. None of these accounts reveal the depths of villainy to which Professor Tortiarty would sink to get his dastardly way. And so, it is up to me, your humble servant, Dr Tortson, to illuminate the facts of a case so bewildering that surely Sherlock Tobes himself would have struggled to solve it. But alas, he cannot solve it, for he is no longer in the land of the living.
(Er, actually, you’re not supposed to know that bit yet, so ignore it for now.)
Sherlock Tobes (who wasn’t dead then and definitely isn’t now) came to me one stormy night looking rather pale and worn.
‘Fancy a holiday, Tortson?’ he said as he peered through the window, looking for hidden enemies.
‘Where?’ I asked. In truth, it was getting a bit cold in London and I quite fancied escaping to warmer climes.
‘The Continent,’ he said vaguely.
It sounded warmer than London, so I readily agreed.
‘And why are we going?’ I asked.
‘Oh, nothing to worry about, old chap,’ he said, with a wave of his claw. ‘I’ve just been waging war against some mathematical genius criminal nemesis of mine and he’s a getting a bit shirty with me because I’m about to bring down his entire evil enterprise and crush him underfoot.
‘That sounds a little dangerous, Tobes,’ I spluttered.
‘Not at all, my dear boy,’ he said, patting me on the shell. ‘He’s only tried to kill me three times in the past twenty-four hours.’
‘What does he look like, this Tortiarty?’
‘Oh, well. He’s a Napoleon of crime. A spider at the centre of his web.’
‘Yes, but what does he look like?’ I insisted, peering out the window at the throng below, wondering if Tortiarty might be within its midst.
‘Well. He looks like a professor,’ Tobes said. ‘He’s cleanshaven—’
‘Naturally.’
‘With beady black eyes,’ he added.
‘Anything else?’ I pressed.
‘Oh, well, yes. His face protrudes forward and is forever slowly oscillating from side to side in a curiously reptilian fashion.’
‘Well, that’s hardly surprising, is it?’ I scoffed, ‘seeing as he’s a tortoise.’
Tobes frowned. ‘Oh, and he also wears a huge purple silk top hat with the words “Professor Tortiarty” emblazoned across it. Does that help?’
‘It might,’ I said.
‘Well, anyway, here are some completely bewildering directions,’ said Tobes, handing me a very long list of instructions. ‘Meet me tomorrow in this secret place and I’m sure we’ll get it all sorted.’
We travelled across the Continent, with Tortiarty in hot pursuit. I must own, it wasn’t the relaxing spa break I had anticipated and, when we stopped that final time, I was dismayed to see that snow had recently fallen. This is not tortoise weather and I had a good mind to tell Tobes so, except that he was so nervous and irritable already that I was worried that he might shoot me if I opened my mouth to complain.
One day, we came upon a roaring waterfall and Tobes spent a good few minutes peering over the edge, mumbling something about cucumber. I was about to suggest that we went for some lunch when a little Swiss tort came charging up to me with a note of summons to the bedside of an old English tort whom I had never met. And so, naturally, I immediately left Sherlock Tobes alone on that sinister ledge, staring into the abyss, ruminating on the dangerous enemy who pursued him, whilst I went off to aid a perfect stranger who demanded my assistance simply because we were both English.
So, off I went, but a very odd thing happened. I got back to the hotel and there was no old English tort. I was gripped by a feeling of dread as I realised what had happened. I had been deceived and had left my bestest friend in all the world in the clutches of the despicable Professor Tortiarty.
I rushed back to that sinister spot and followed two sets of clawprints to the edge of the falls. There were none returning. I turned back, fearing the worst. My fears were confirmed when I found Tobes’s cigarette-case, which he always carried with him (I don’t know why, for tortoises never smoke). Beside it was a small square of paper, on which he had conveniently written a very detailed account of everything that had occurred in my absence (which is fortunate because I fear my story would have been rather dull without it).
My Dear Tortson [it said], Remember my criminal nemesis, Tortiarty? Well, funny story, it turns out he’s been following us all over the Continent and, now that he’s caught up with me, he’s decided to push me over the waterfall. Fortunately, he agreed to let me write this note to you first, letting you know what had happened, because I told him you’d only worry otherwise. He was actually very reasonable about the whole thing. He even loaned me his pen when I ran out of ink partway through (on account of writing such a long explanation to you). Rather sporting of him, don’t you think? Anyway, never fear, Tortson. I’ve come up with a cunning plan and, when Tortiarty pushes me over the edge of the waterfall, I’m going to take him along with me. Drat! Think he just read that bit over my shoulder, so I might have to come up with another plan now. Oh well. Perhaps I’ll just push him over before he pushes me over. Yes, that would work. Oooops. He saw that too. Perhaps I’ll just think of a plan in my head so he can’t read it over my shoulder. Good idea.
Okay, I’ve thought of a plan now but I’m not going to write it down here (which is a shame because it’s a really good one – even better than the last two). Anyway, all that fighting, I should tell you, was over the final cucumber in Mr McGregor’s garden. I’d had my eye on it for ages, but Professor Tortiarty stole into the garden in the middle of the night and nabbed it. Well, I wasn’t having that. And so, it has been a game of cat and mouse (or tort and tort) betwixt us ever since. Several times have I had the cucumber in my clutches, only for him to steal it back again.
Oh, he’s also done lots of terrible criminal things like blackmail and murder and political espionage and suchlike and I’ve put all the evidence in a big file marked ‘Tortiarty’ in pigeonhole T. (Can’t quite remember where pigeonhole T. is, come to think of it, but I’m sure you’ll find it eventually.)
Right, I must go. Tortiarty is getting a bit impatient and I think his pen might run out soon anyway. Give my best to Mrs Tortson, and believe me to be, my dear tort,
Very sincerely yours,
Sherlock Tobes.
P.S. If you’re wondering what happened to the cucumber, it went off eventually, so we had to throw it away. Still, I’m almost certain that it was worth fighting to the death over.
So, Sherlock Tobes and Professor Tortiarty are no more. The cucumber is no more. And so, alas, this story is no more.
(Except to say I never did find that file and so Tortiarty’s criminal network continued to wreak havoc across London and the Continent. Oh well.)
THE END.
5.43 pm: Hmmm. That took ages! Think I might stick to torty-tales in future . . .
6.00 pm: Time to wheedle some more cucumber out of Human No. 1 and then will see if I can manage to stay awake for Strictly results. Tony Adams had better get through!
You can follow Prince Toby on Twitter @PrinceTobyTort (and Instagram, but he has no idea what he's doing there). Also, play Tortmaster on Twitter! The prize task is now open! Look out for a new task every Thursday night during the first break of Taskmaster.
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