Prince Toby has started his own diary for National Novel Writing Month. You can follow his adventures here.
Saturday 19th November 2022
Weight: 1293g (I’m surprised it’s not 0g after being starved all day), cucumber consumption: 0 slices (NO FOOD AT ALL – WHAT IS HAPPENING???), escape attempts: 1 (but only for Toilet-Related Emergency), interruption of Very Important Human Tasks for No Reason Whatsoever: 0 (they weren’t even here for half of the day so I didn’t even get the opportunity to interrupt), interruption of Very Important Human Tasks for Toilet-Related or Other Emergencies: 2 (the first one was payback for neglect)
7.35 am: Am awake! Am ready to write!
7.37 am: Hmmm, actually, am still a bit tired so think I will have a power nap first.
8.32 am: Lovely raspberry ripple #Haturday hat today. Weird thing is, Human No. 1 hasn’t offered it to me to eat yet. In fact, there is no breakfast at all. WHERE IS MY BREAKFAST???
8.41 am: Hmmm. Humans are being fancy and having pain au chocolat for their breakfast, but still seem to have forgotten about mine. Rude!
9.22 am: Aaaaaargggghh! What’s happening? Human No. 1 is putting me in the bath. BUT IT’S NOT BATH DAY!!!! Today is my UNBATHDAY. UNBATHDAY!!! Send help immediately!!!
9.27 am: Gatsby has suggested that, if I have drinkies from my bath, the humans might let me out early, but I have drunk and drunk until nearly all the bathwater has gone (another good bath-avoiding technique, or it would have been, if Human No. 1 didn’t keep adding more water) and they still haven’t let me out.
9.28 am: Scrabble time! (By which I mean scrabbling up the corner of the bath, rather than playing Scrabble. Would be a bit weird to play Scrabble in the bath.)
9.31 am: Am now sulking in corner of bath.
9.35 am: Am out! Hurrah!
9.38 am: Hahahaha! Have had my revenge! Human No. 1 was drying me off in my snuggly towel and she asked ‘are you going to do a wee for mummy?’ (She often refers to herself as ‘mummy’, which is super-weird as she’s not a tortoise. Also, she’s nearly forty years younger than me. But I suppose referring to herself as Human No. 1 all the time might get a bit tiresome.) Anyway, she asked ‘are you going to do a wee for mummy?’ (by which she must have meant herself even though, in the immortal words of Eastenders’ Zoe Slater, ‘you ain’t my mother!’) and so, I was super-duper good and immediately obliged. All over her hand. And my clean towel. And possibly her PJs. For some reason, she let out an almighty squeal and nearly dropped me, which I did not appreciate at all! Honestly, humans are so sensitive. I was only doing what she asked me to do!
10.01 am: Hmmm. Still no sign of breakfast . . .
10.45 am: Honestly, how am I supposed to write a literary masterpiece in these conditions?
11.15 am: No sign of brunch either. Well, I suppose I ought to make a start, otherwise I won’t get anything done.
Prince Toby Presents
Sherlock Tobes and Dr Tortson in
The Tort of the Baskervilles - Part 1
I was sitting in 221B Baker Street, as I often did, examining a walking stick which a mysterious visitor had left behind the night before.
‘What do you make of this stick, Tobes?’ I asked, waving it under his nose as he crawled into the room, having just awoken from his slumbers.
(I should mention that this was way before he disappeared over the waterfall in Switzerland with Professor Tortiarty – I just didn’t bother to publish this super-duper exciting case, probably the most thrilling case we had ever investigated, and the one everyone will remember and make into dozens and dozens of films until people get thoroughly sick of it, when it actually happened and I definitely haven’t just invented it because I’m short on cash and miss the attention that being the humble biographer of the great Sherlock Tobes bestowed upon me).
Sherlock Tobes squinted at the stick and said, ‘I shan’t bother asking you for your opinion, Tortson, just so I can belittle you when all your observations turn out to be complete nonsense. We have already established what an utter idiot you are, so I see little point in torturing myself, yet again, by dwelling on the woefully inadequate intellect of my closest companion.'
'How generous of you,' I muttered, wondering if anyone would bother to arrest me if I accidentally battered him over the head with that stick in his own living room.
'It is quite obvious to me that the stick belongs to a tort called Dr James Tortimer and that it was given to him by his friends at the Charing Cross Tortoise Hospital,' Tobes told me with a self-satisfied smirk.
‘Astounding!’ I said, watching him carefully. ‘Really, Tobes, I don’t know how you do it.’
He sighed and handed back the stick. ‘It’s engraved on the stick, Tortson. You see, but you do not observe. Actually,’ he added, ‘you don’t even see. Perhaps you need glasses. Human No. 1 just got some very nice designer ones from Specsavers. You can get two for one!’
Just then, the doorbell rang, before I had chance to quiz Tobes about the Specsavers two-for-one offer, and Dr Tortimer himself appeared at the door.
‘Hello, folks,’ he said, smiling at Tobes.
‘I expect you’ve come for this,’ Tobes said, handing him his stick.
‘Yes,’ said Dr Tortimer, ‘and to tell you a wonderful legend about a curse and a nefarious tort called Torto Baskerville and a monstrous giant tort covered in phosphorus called the Tort of the Baskervilles, who has terrorised the Baskerville family ever since.’
(Hmmm, actually, he might not have said the phosphorus bit. Probably best if you forget all about that very minor and completely insignificant detail for now.)
‘Perhaps I’m getting ahead of myself,’ said Dr Tortimer. ‘Torto Baskerville fell in love with a beautiful young tort maiden and abducted her, but she escaped and so he set his fearsome guard torts on her. She died of fright as they chased her down (Torto Baskerville, scoundrel that he was, told them that she had stolen their entire cucumber supply, so they had whipped themselves up into a frenzy by the time they caught up with her). But when Torto’s companions came upon her lifeless body, they found Torto Baskerville himself lying next to her. His throat had been ripped out and, standing over him, was the most terrifying sight they had ever seen. A huge tort with blazing eyes and dripping jaws stood over him. His friends scarpered quick-sharp, and the Tort of the Baskervilles has roamed the moors ever since and is said to have been responsible for a number of mysterious deaths in the Baskerville family. The most death was of Sir Torts Baskerville, who had only lived in Baskerville Hall for two years. He was a kind and generous man and, I fear, the latest victim of the Tort of the Baskervilles.’
‘Good God, man,’ I said. ‘Are you mad? Surely it’s just a legend?’
‘I thought so too, until I went to the site of Sir Torts’ demise. His servant, Tortymore, said that there were no footprints near Sir Torts’ body, but in this he was deceived. I saw them, Mr Tobes,’ he said with a dramatic wave of his claw.
‘Did you indeed?’ said Tobes calmly, unimpressed by his theatrics. ‘And were they human footprints?’
Dr Tortimer looked between us, a strange expression on his face as he responded in a voice so low that we had to lean in to catch what he was saying.
‘Mr Tobes. They were the clawprints of a gigantic tort!’
To be continued . . .
1.35 pm: Ooooh. How dramatic! I wonder what happen next? Tune in tomorrow to find out. Same tort time, same tort channel. (By which I mean on Human No. 1’s blog, whenever she gets round to putting it up.)
1.48 pm: Hmmm, the humans are bogging off to the Human Grandad’s craft fair this afternoon and leaving me all alone. First, they give me a bath on unbathday, then they forget to feed me (after taunting me with delicious #Haturday hat) and now they are abandoning me for the afternoon.
1.50 pm: They had better bring me back a present, otherwise I think I might be in the market for some new humans . . .
2.01 pm: May as well have a snooze as there’s nothing else for me to do.
4.45 pm: Humans are back from the craft fair. Am tucked up in my shell ignoring them. Will see if they have presents for me later and, if they don’t, there will be big trouble!
6.00 pm: Human No. 1 poked me awake. Rude! She plonked me on the scales, but she still hasn’t offered me any food. Am wasting away. Imagine I weigh absolutely nothing at all by now.
6.04 pm: Human No. 1 showed me what she bought from the craft fair. Apparently, the lovely Bulbasaur wood-burned artwork is for me, except she took it away pretty quickly and I’m sure I heard her saying something about putting it up in the living room. Not falling for that one!
6.32 pm: Strictly tonight. Except I’m not sure it’s worth the bother now that Tony Adams has left. Think I might have to boycott it and go for a snooze instead.
6.43 pm: Am a bit worried that humans might be doing the wind down thingy with me in preparation for hibernation. That’s what Cousin Grace is doing, isn’t it? Lots of baths? No food? I don’t know about wind down. It sounds more like wind up to me!
6.47 pm: Hope I have enough energy to continue work on The Tort of the Baskervilles tomorrow. May have faded away into nothingness by then . . .
You can follow Prince Toby on Twitter @PrinceTobyTort (and Instagram, where he is now frantically trying to learn the ropes in case of Twitter explosion, also @PrinceTobyTort). 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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