Hello, Rubble Clubbers, this is your little friend Madge Dumpling at your service again, happy to accommodate you in my parlour for this week's pet rock fanciers' gathering. Now today I would ask you to keep a careful eye on your pet rocks, and not let them go frolicking off together round my parlour because it has come to my attention that we are in the middle of something of a mating season. Perhaps it's just the Blackpool sunshine going to their heads and causing all the swellings, lumps and bumps that I am noticing on some of my prime specimens, but my highly developed Dumpling family magical instincts tell me otherwise. If I am right, expect to see them on the shelves in the pet rock department of the Magic Wand Factory shop in Dickson Road, hanging their heads in shame, lumps, bumps and all, looking for new homes.
Oh, crikey! As I speak, one of them is hatching out. If they all hatch out, we are going to be overrun with baby rocks. I'll have to have a nursery wing built on to my parlour if I'm going to cope with it all. I mean, it's not as if I just have my little rockies to care for, because as you know I am also a world famous caterer. My crunchy rock buns and gravel tea are the toast of Undergrowby, and I'm sure lots of Rubble Club members only put in an appearance for that little Friday taste of heaven that I alone can give them. I had not bargained for becoming a full-time pet rock midwife, as it seems I am fated to be. Rubble Clubbers, I think it is your duty to make your way to the magic wand shop from wherever you are and adopt one of these errant one- parent families and give them a new roomy start in life, far away from my overcrowded little parlour. They could be used as free baby-sitters for all your little pet rock orphans. It's about all they are fit for because they are too hormonal and obsessed with parenting to be reliable at anything else, and lovable as they may be, they all like to think they are earning their keep, after all. I must warn you though that they will not part with their precious new offspring for hundreds of years and will therefore be useless specimens for entering into the annual pet rock show. There is, as you may or may not know, no category for one-parent families, but if I am left with them all, perhaps I will have to create one, (not that I am just in it for the glory of winning prizes, in case you were thinking the worst of me [although I do have a cupboard full of red rosettes, as you would expect from a world famous expert like myself])
I would now like to make a public announcement. The large broken boulders which have been toppled from the rockeries on the artificial 'cliffs' leading down to the sea on Blackpool's north promenade are none of my doing. I know I told you that I spend most of my days wandering through tunnels behind the rocks looking for rock samples, but I am only six inches tall and am incapable of throwing huge boulders down the cliffs. No, it was not me. It was the work of some naughty young male vandals who took no notice of me when I told them off for doing it. I was shouting at them"Stop! Murderers!" through a slit in the rock face, but they were heartless creatures without a care for the hundreds of pet rock seeds that fell to their death that day. Anyway, I have given Granny Gray a full description of them and if they come into the shop they are not allowed to adopt any pet rocks, ever. That should punish them. I can't think how else to proceed. I loved those boulders. I have a moments' silence every time I walk past the gaping holes where they once were.
On that sad note, I have to leave you before I start to fall into a depression, which is against my nature, being made of rock hard true grit as I am, like all those who are born in the earthy, grit-laden gnomestead known as the Rocky Headlands of Undergrowby.
Before I go I must just tell my new prefect and trusted ally, Linedancer, that her yellow prefect's badge is now ready. I found a pin for it finally. I found it on the steps leading down to the sea, attached to a rude badge which I tore from a cowboy hat which lay next to a sunbathing linedancer. Perhaps it was you, Lineancer, in which case, shame on you for the rude badge. Your prefect's badge will be a much more fitting fashion accessory for a gorgeous trend-setting Rubble Clubber like yourself.
I shall be seeing you all next Friday,m meanwhile I remain your devoted chairman and friend, Madge Dumpling.
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