Prince Toby has started his own diary for National Novel Writing Month. You can follow his adventures here.
Sunday 20th November 2022
Weight: 1292g (still no food – woe is me), cucumber consumption: 0 slices (am wasting away), escape attempts: 23 (overexcited by fluffy soil), interruption of Very Important Human Tasks for No Reason Whatsoever: 23 (they shouldn’t make my soil fluffy then, should they?), interruption of Very Important Human Tasks for Toilet-Related or Other Emergencies: 1 (too busy being a literary genius to go to the toilet)
7.36 am: Human No. 2 did a lot of poking and shaking as he put me under my lamp this morning. Bog off! Am sleeping! (And still sulking from yesterday.)
10.30 am: Had a super-duper lie in today. Hurrah! Too cold to move. Shall just sit under my lamp all day, getting toasty.
10.34 am: I know it’s bath day today but, as I had one yesterday, I’m pretty confident there won’t be another one today.
10.37 am: Aaaaaargggghh! Bath! Thinking of renaming Human No. 1 Inhuman No. 1.
10.57 am: Am out of bath, but had to suffer indignity of being poked in the neck for five minutes whilst humans tried to extract a big clump of soil. It’s only dirt, humans! What harm is it going to do me? I’m just going to cover myself in soil again as soon as you put me back in my pen.
11.00 am: Back in pen. Have covered myself in soil! Hurrah! Time to charge round and round in circles testing the fluffiness of my freshly watered soil.
11.17 am: Seems nice and fluffy. I’ll just have a final check . . .
11.30 am: Yep. Still fluffy.
11.45 am: Think it’s time to go back to my literary masterpiece:
Prince Toby Presents
Sherlock Tobes and Dr Tortson in
The Tort of the Baskervilles – Part 2
‘The clawprints of a gigantic tort?’ said Sherlock Tobes, clearly not as impressed as Dr Tortimer expected him to be.
‘Huge,’ Dr Tortimer insisted. ‘And that’s not all. There have been reports of a glowing gigantic tort roaming across the moors.’
‘And you think it’s this Tort of the Baskervilles?’ Tobes asked. ‘The old family curse at work again?’
‘Well, there’s certainly something afoot,’ Dr Tortimer said. ‘And I’m worried that some evil fate may befall young Sir Torty Baskerville, should he take possession of Baskerville Hall.’
‘He is Sir Torts’ only living relative then?’ Tobes enquired.
‘Oh yes,’ said Dr Tortimer. ‘Well, there was Torter Baskerville – Sir Torts’ youngest brother, but he was an evil, sinister man who looked spookily like his thoroughly disreputable ancestor, Torto Baskerville, and we’re pretty sure he died in a far-off land, even though we have absolutely no evidence whatsoever to back this up. I’m not sure where the story came from, actually. It’s all a bit vague. Anyway, forget about him – he’s hardly going to come back from the dead, is he?’
‘Yes, a giant glowing tortoise haunting the moors and ripping people’s throats out is much more likely,’ Tobes agreed.
‘Exactly,’ said Dr Tortimer, entirely missing his sarcasm. ‘Anyway, young Sir Torty Baskerville is super-nice and I don’t want him to be murdered by a spectral tort.’
‘Well, he’s as likely to be murdered by a spectral tort in London as he is at Baskerville Hall,’ said Tobes, ‘so you may as well send him on his way.’
‘Righty-ho,’ said Dr Tortimer. ‘Oh, I nearly forgot, he got this warning note telling him to stay off the moors.’
‘Hmmm,’ said Tobes. ‘It looks like the words have been cut out of the last month’s Specsavers newsletter. What I’ll do is call upon my little tort urchin, Tortwright, and get him to forage through people’s recycling bins, looking for a copy of the newsletter where the letters have been cut out. And, while he’s at it, I’ll ask him to see if anyone has accidentally left their Golden Ticket in there for 50% off an additional pair of glasses – I could do with a new pair of sunglasses, you see. And, whilst Tortwright is doing all the work, I’m off to the art gallery! Tally-ho!’
Later on, we met young Sir Torty Baskerville, who was very upset that one of his new boots had gone missing, and then one of his old ones, and then the new one was returned to him, which seemed like an odd but important clue to everything that was going on, but Tobes dismissed its significance immediately.
‘Did you not observe, my dear Tortson, the mischievous little tort running up and down the hallways of the hotel?’
I owned that I had not.
Tobes shook his head in despair. ‘His name, I believe, is Albie, and he is always looking for nice comfy boots to snuggle in. I suspect that he found the new boot not to his liking – it hadn’t been broken in yet – but the old, worn boot would be much more snuggly.’
‘Should we not do something about it, Tobes?’
‘Oh, let him have his fun,’ Tobes said. ‘I have no doubt that he will work through his criminal inclinations in his youth and grow up to be a model tort. A respectable member of society . . . Or, otherwise, the greatest boot thief that ever lived, which is, in itself, an admirable achievement.’
Just then a telegram arrived from Tortwright:
Been through all the recycling bins in London. Couldn’t find the Specsavers newsletter with the words cut out anywhere. On the plus side, I did find you a Golden Ticket. – TORTWRIGHT.
‘Not an altogether wasted effort then, eh, Tortson?’ he said with a smile.
‘But it doesn’t help us with the Baskerville case,’ I reminded him.
‘No. I suppose not. Young Sir Torty is still in mortal peril.’
‘Couldn’t he just not go out onto the moors in the middle of the night, like the warning letter suggested?’ I asked.
‘Well, yes, I suppose he could do that,’ Tobes admitted. ‘Jolly good. That’s settled then.’ He patted me on the shell. ‘We’ll pack Sir Torty off to Baskerville Hall and just tell him to keep off the moors.’
‘But what if there’s an emergency, like a pony that needs rescuing from quicksand, or a strange noise that needs investigating, or if he has to go out to dinner late at night with a man who seems to have no significance to the story whatsoever and so must really be deeply involved in it, and then has to walk back across the moors alone?’
‘Hmmm. Good point,’ Tobes admitted. ‘This is a most troubling and dangerous case, Tortson,’ he said gravely. ‘It will take the greatest of intellect’s to solve it. And anyone who goes to stay with Sir Torty at Baskerville Hall is likely to come to the same horrifying end that threatens our young heir. Well, off you go and pack then, Tortson. There’s a good tort.’
‘M-me?’ I stuttered. ‘Aren’t you coming?’
‘Oh no,’ he said with a wave of his claw. ‘I’m much too busy here with, well,’ his eyes darted around the room until they rested on his battered old pair of sunglasses, ‘my Golden Ticket! Yes, I have to use it within six months of buying my two-for-one glasses and I’m running out of time.’
‘But you only bought your glasses last month,’ I protested.
‘Yes, well, you know how long it takes me to choose, dear tort. I had better get cracking on it. Tally-ho! Good luck! Oh, and Tortson, try not to die. You know I can’t make the rent without you and it would be so tiresome to find myself a new flatmate – I barely tolerate you!
‘Charming,’ I muttered.
‘Aren’t I just?’ he agreed.
And so, off I went to pack for the journey to Baskerville Hall, hoping that my sojourn there would not be as perilous as Sherlock Tobes anticipated. Had I had known then what fate would befall me on those dark moors, I would never have crossed the threshold of 221B Baker Street and thrown myself into the chaos of a cruel and unforgiving world.
To be continued . . .
2.15 pm: The plot thickens. Can Dr Tortson stop Sir Torty from running around on the moors in the middle of the night? Will Sir Torty be hunted down by the terrible Tort of the Baskervilles? Will Sherlock Tobes be able to pick out a new pair of sunglasses without the trusty Dr Tortson by his side? Tune in tomorrow to (maybe) find out. Same tort time. Same tort channel.
2.30 pm: Phew! Am exhausted. Going for a nice Sunday afternoon snooze.
5.50 pm: Lots of snoozing today. This wind down (wind up) business is all a bit exhausting. Perhaps I won’t get up at all tomorrow.
6.12 pm: Please excuse me whilst I snuggle in my corner and ignore the noisy humans eating their tea. (They’re really rubbing it in now with this eating business. Why must they insist on having all their meals right in front of me in my Tortoise Parlour? Rude!)
6.41 pm: They’ve bogged off now. Hurrah! Peace and quiet at last!
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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