AGNES GRIMTHORPE IN A GEOLOGICAL STORY OF OUR TIME

AGNES GRIMTHORPE

in

A GEOLOGICAL STORY OF OUR TIME

My name is Agnes Grimthorpe and I had gained quite a name for myself as a bon vivant and raconteur extraordinaire – an image I was happy to maintain as it hid my true identity. One day, half past the year Nineteen Twenty Nine, I began pondering the ultimate metaphysical symbolism of the quintessential ethos surrounding the basic meaning of it all.

After cogitating for some considerable time I began to get the faint inkling that I did not understand the question that I had posed myself. In fact, I was completely baffled.  Being the life and soul of the party is heavy on the brain cells. However, my early morning reverie was broken by the clarion ringing of the red HOT LINE phone. As ever, its raucous peal reminded me that once again I would be summoned to use my unique talents to save the world. Nursing my throbbing head I wearily raised the receiver - after donning asbestos gloves this was truly a hot line - and spoke.

“Hello?”

“Agnes darling, it’s Binky Meredith here. Humble apologies but, Poopsie, unfortunately we have a little bit of a flap down here in H.Q.”

“Why Binky, whatever can it be? Old Mrs Blatherwort dosing the tea and biscuits with something more lively than bromide again?”

“Be serious old girl. That little incident was last week. This time it’s something BIG and altogether more sinister.”

“The plot thickens.” I murmured.

“The what? Oh yes that too, anyway old love, we can speak freely now - I’ve got the scrambler deployed...”

“MMMmmm – is that the fluffy pink one your mum knitted?”

“What? Don’t interrupt with frivolities and silly jokes m’dear – you know how it raises my blood pressure. Anyway, I repeat, the bally Capitalisationilists have this plot afoot to subvert all the world’s major oil fields to their neck of the hot, steamy and impenetrable jungle in Ecuador by extensive use of fault networks.”

“Egad! How do they expect to do that?”

“Funny little geologists with remarkable likenesses to semi-dormant decaying slugs have been mapping these structures and have discovered that by extensive use of strategically placed explosives they can open the appropriate faults, hence propagating migration of hydrocarbons to them whereupon they suck the stuff up and sell it for exorbitant sums.”

“The swine, the cunning swine, they will be able to hold the West not to mention the East, South and North to ransom.”

“I thought you weren’t going to mention them. Well, obviously there is only one thing we can do, we have to stop them.”

“How?”

“That m’dear is up to you.”

“I thought it might be.” I remarked drily, replacing the receiver.

Quickly I set my plans. Packing required little time. A toothbrush, underpants and ultra-modern spy equipment - that always works on the advertisements but not when you get it home - take up the briefest moments of packing and even less space.

I was prepared. Firstly though, I had to have serious talks with two of the most brilliant, hunky and sexy geologists I knew – Nugget Nigel Benthall and Malachite Mac Mackenzie. Where these brave lads had been was nobody’s business. In fact, they hadn’t been anywhere but that didn’t prevent them from the gaining the reputations for bravery and derring-do that they so richly deserved. I knew I could not complete my mission without them.

Shortly I arrived at their unpretentious little Georgian mansion and, after the butler had opened the front door and gesticulated to where the lads were, let myself into the conservatory. As usual the lads were idly swapping gay banter over a bottle of Chateau Rothschild ’52 regarding the importance of micro-fractures in chalk and the significance of xenoliths in the Strontian Granite.

“Darling!” cried Malachite Mac, hurling me to the ground and making mad passionate love to me. “How are you?”

Nugget Nigel was more discrete and was quietly trying on my discarded silk clothing behind the Aspidistra.

“Quite well, thank you lads,” I smiled, managing to look uncrumpled and serene despite it all, “Need your help though.”

“Oh sorry old love,”  mumbled the charming Malachite, “Business. Thought you had come here for a bit of…..”

“No dear, not this time.” I patted him fondly on his blushing cheek.

As time was pressing I hastily revealed all. After I had re-clothed myself I told them why I was there. They didn’t hesitate, resolved to help forthwith and packed instantly. Soon we were all bound for Brooklands Aerodrome where my private ‘plane and faithful pilot, Beauregard Boggles, waited. Beauregard was chewing fretfully on his leather flying cap. He desisted when he saw us coming and leapt to attention informing me that the aeroplane was fueled and ready to go.

After a long tedious flight of many days we eventually all piled out of the cargo door and parachuted down into the jungle of Ecuador. At first the heat was like a solid blow, but soon the problems of the trek manifested themselves. Malachite Mac was only just rescued in time from a highly poisonous snake that made at him like a paratrooper from one of the higher branches. As ever, being the fastest gun in the West, I pulled my blat-o-splatt gun and one more of nature’s increasingly rare creatures bit the dust.

After two weeks of back-breaking marching we arrived on the plateau over-looking the secret base of the power hungry geologists. The site was well chosen. According to seismic interpretation the Quatealottabotl fault lay beneath at several kilometers depth. Here was the key to the door of the world.

Waiting for the cover of darkness my chums and I discussed various aspects of interstitial liquids. Eventually this had the desired effect; soon we were all fast asleep and so the time passed quickly.

After infiltrating the base, my plan went smoothly into action. These men’s profiles let alone their lack of chins immediately presented the solution. All were rounded up and brought to the training room where they were lectured, non-stop and heroically by the three of us, on every topic of geology under the sun. Very soon each one dozed peacefully off and died of boredom. I had been right. These madmen had little geology but many faults.

The End