LITMIR.BIZ

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TP had claimed that many – if not most – of the bags of excrement she retrieved from the moor, she automatically carried back home with her (only leaving the unmanageable excess behind) and placed them, double-wrapped, into her dustbin (alongside what I imagine would be the considerable quantities of excrement collected from her own four, chronically obese dogs which – as you know – she keeps penned up, 24/7,⁷⁷ inside that criminally small and claustrophobic, purpose-built concrete compound⁷⁸).

      The day I visited Hursley End was a Monday, which is the day directly before refuse is collected in the village. I decided – God only knows why, it was just a random urge, I suppose – to peek inside her dustbin (literally deafened as I did so by the hysterical barks and howls of her four frantic German shepherds). By my calculation, I estimated that there would need to be at least forty-two dog faeces – from her own four animals – stored away inside there.⁷⁹ In addition to these I also envisaged a considerable number of stools collected from her nightly hikes on the ‘filthy’ moor.⁸⁰

      Once I’d made these quick calculations I steeled myself, drew a deep breath, grabbed the lid, lifted it high and peered querulously inside. Imagine my great surprise when I found not a single trace of excrement within! The bin was all but empty! I say again: the bin – TP’s bin – was all but empty!! I quickly pulled on a pair of disposable gloves⁸¹ and then gingerly withdrew the bin’s other contents, piece by piece (just so as to be absolutely certain of my facts). I removed two large, empty Johnnie Walker bottles,⁸² four family-size Marks and Spencer coleslaw containers, three packets of mint and one packet of hazelnut-flavoured Cadbury’s Snaps biscuit wrappers, and the stinking remnants of two boil-in-the-bag fish dinners (Iceland) and one, ready-made, prawn biryani meal (from Tesco’s excellent Finest range).

      I stared blankly into that bin for several minutes, utterly confounded, struggling to make any sense of what I’d discovered. It then slowly dawned on me that TP might actually have two bins – one of which was specifically to be used for the storing of excrement. Bearing this in mind, I set about searching the untended grounds of her property⁸³ with a fine-tooth comb,⁸⁴ even going so far as to climb on to an upturned bucket and peer, trepidatiously, into the tiny concrete compound to the rear, where TP’s four German shepherds barked and raced around – like a group of hairy, overweight banshees – frantic with what seemed to be a poignant combination of terror and excitement.⁸⁵

      No matter how hard I hunted, a second bin could not be found. I eventually abandoned my search on realizing how late it had grown;⁸⁶ Shoshana would definitely be worried, I thought, and if I tarried any longer I could be in serious danger of missing Countdown.⁸⁷ I left Hursley End, depressed and confused, only turning – with a helpless half-shrug – to peer back over towards the property once I’d reached the relative safety of the road beyond. It was then, in a blinding flash, that I had what I now refer to – somewhat vaingloriously, I’ll admit – as my ‘Moment of Epiphany’.⁸⁸

      As I looked back at TP’s property from a greater distance, I was able – with the benefit of perspective – to observe that recent renovation works to the bungalow had resulted in the temporary removal of large sections of the external fascia,⁸⁹ so that all that now remained of the property’s original structure was the roof, the window frames and a series of basic, internal walls and supports, many of which had been copiously wrapped in thick layers of protective plastic (to safeguard the property against the worst of the weather, I suppose). By dint of this expedient, I suddenly realized with a sharp gasp, TP’s home had lately been transformed (voluntarily or otherwise) into a giant simulacrum of a monstrous, semi-transparent poo-bag!⁹⁰

      As this – admittedly strange and somewhat hysterical – thought caught a hold of me, a second thought,⁹¹ running almost in tandem with it, quickly overtook my mind: if no evidence of excrement could be found in TP’s garden – not even faeces from her own four dogs – then where on God’s earth might it actually be…?

       What?!

      I suddenly froze.

      ‘MARY, MOTHER OF JESUS!’ I bellowed, then quickly covered my mouth with my hand.⁹² But wasn’t it obvious?! Hadn’t the simple answer to this most perplexing of questions been staring me in the face all along?!

      The moor!

      Our beautiful, unbesmirched, virgin moor!

      TP had not – as she’d always emphatically maintained – been piously and dutifully collecting/bagging excrement left by other, irresponsible dog owners, during those long, dark, nightly hikes of hers. Oh no! Quite the opposite, in fact! TP had actually been carefully bagging prodigious quantities of HER OWN FOUR DOGS’ EXCREMENT and then CHEERFULLY FESTOONING THE LOCAL FOOTPATHS WITH IT!!!

      ‘Good Lord!’ I can almost hear you howl, your smooth, firm cheeks flushed pink with rage and indignation. ‘But… but why?’

      I’m afraid that this is a question which – for all of my age and experience – I cannot answer. I can only imagine that TP must derive some sick and perverse feeling of excitement/ gratification from performing this debased act. Perhaps it is an entirely sexual impulse, or maybe she has some deep yet inexplicable grudge against the people of Burley Cross which she is ‘acting out’ through this strange and depraved pastime. Or perhaps the good people of this village have unwittingly come to ‘represent’ something (or someone) to TP from her tragic past and she feels the uncontrollable urge to punish/ insult/degrade us all as a consequence of that. Or maybe – just maybe – a whole host of entirely different impulses are at play here. Shoshana had the fascinating idea that as a small child TP might’ve developed ‘issues’ during her anal phase⁹³ brought on by an overly strict and prohibitive potty-training regimen. She discussed this idea with a neighbour of ours who might properly be called an ‘expert’ in the field, and they explained to her – at some length – how as children we have an innocent, perfectly natural conception of our own faeces as a kind of ‘gift’⁹⁴ which we generously share with our parents.

      Shoshana wondered whether TP’s emotional/psychological development as a child was halted/blocked at this critical stage, leading to an unusual fixation with faeces in adult life, which, many decades later, still gives TP the childlike compulsion to ‘share’ this ‘precious’ substance with all of her friends and neighbours.⁹⁵

      Whatever the real reasons for TP’s extraordinary behaviour, the hard fact remains that she is currently posing a serious threat to the health and safety of the general public and must be stopped as a matter of some urgency. To this end I sent a lengthy email to Trevor Horsmith, insisting that he take some kind of positive action to deter TP from her foul and aberrant path.

      Horsmith,⁹⁶ while professing himself to be ‘very interested’ in my theories, calmly informed me that unless he was able to catch TP red-handed (transporting faeces from her home and depositing them on the moor) then he would be unable to take any kind of prohibitive

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