Paris Photographer – Louis Paulin

It seemed that everyone had now decided that those wonderful gems were real, as Mr Cushing began to hum the theme song, ‘Diamonds Are Forever’, while The Old One was grinning as he said, ‘I was an extra in that one, I was just behind Sammy Davis Jr. who was a casino player,’ – ‘how extraordinary,’ said Mr Cushing as he stopped humming and his eyebrows shot up for a moment.

‘Shirley Bassey,’ yelled the red-headed woman, ‘I saw her on King Street, Manchester (that was a long time ago), she’s small… just like me,’ as she smiled with glee.’ *

The two gargoyles waddled to the far end of the shed to make sure that the great big doors would open; ‘we can do it, and we won’t need to force it, we are sure.’ So they heaved and hoed, and it opened just enough, and they both grinned since they could see a useful gate quite near: ‘all we need now are those pretty diamonds,’ as they waddled back.

‘Not so fast,’ said Inspector Clouseau, as he entered the shed, ‘Em off my pheune and I’m just waiting for back up,’ as he waved his gun and held up his truncheon.

Now things became complicated since several actions occurred at the same time: someone ran to turn off the main switch; various people grabbed something, hoping it were some diamonds on that particular shelf; and the last piece of the jigsaw, when it was light again, a black panther appeared.

(*that was completely true, by the way)

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

Paris Photographer – Louis Paulin

A moment later, Inspector Clouseau said, ‘em stepping out with my pheune,’ (meaning a phone, they gathered), he popped back to say, ‘don’t move.’

The red-headed woman stared after Clouseau, as he left the shed and closed it firmly; she then stared at all her friends, she wondered what might happen, and she wondered who would speak first, while she began to fidget a bit.

It was Francis who spoke: ‘Today is going to be a milestone,’ he said gravely, as he looked around and nobody else spoke, as that last shed seemed to echo around that particular shelf, ‘we will need a strategy, a plan and a plot no doubt, we will need to set out some rules, as well.’

‘Hold on,’ said Joan, ‘how do we know all those diamonds are real, kosher, genuine… you know what I’m saying,’ – ‘real I’m sure,’ grinned Scatty, ‘although, legitimate is a completely different kettle of fish,’ – then The Old One said, ‘sorry, why are we talking about fish again?’ – and then Mr Cushing said, ‘yes, why are we talking about fish, surely we were talking about escargots?’

Meanwhile, one of the gargoyles muttered, ‘they’ve lost the plot,’ as the two of them edged closer to that particular shelf, they looked at each other and grinned, then they looked back at those bright and beautiful diamonds.

The two of them glanced to the far end of the shed, and then they looked at the main electrical fuse just beyond, they both winked.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

 

Paris Photographer – Louis Paulin

The red-headed woman mused while she tramped across the field on that farm, listening to everyone’s accents, she hadn’t really thought about that before, since all her friends sound pretty normal – mostly French, Paris in fact, although Scatty was originally from Ireland, and of course, she herself was from Liverpool, and there wasn’t much difference between the two of them the way they could speak together if they wanted to.

However, Inspector Clouseau was a completely different kettle of fish (as one might say), since he spoke very oddly indeed, was he really a Frenchman? she wondered, as she peered at him once again, as he marched along with his over-sized magnifying glass.

It was a long way to walk still, and the red-head woman continued to muse to herself; she thought all the things she had done in the past – breaking in, and breaking out, on various schemes, like that big safe, for example, and she and the two gargoyles had kind of helped – even thinking the three of them should have plotted a heist of their own.

She stopped… dead… as she pondered to herself, was she heartless? was she uncaring? even ruthless..?

‘Come on,’ grinned Scatty, ‘do you need a hand?’ as the two of them linked arms.

Just a few metres and all of them were there, as they crowded in that last shed -and yes, it was amazing… diamonds galore on that one shelf, as Inspector Clouseau said: ‘I am an Office of the Leu.’

*listen to this on YouTube!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

 

Paris Photographer – Louis Paulin

‘So here he is,’ grinned the red-headed woman, as all of them got out of that wonderful limo; she walked up to him, offering a firm handshake: ‘such a pleasure to meet-and-greet you, the amazing Inspector Clouseau,’ as she smiled radiantly.

The Inspector Clouseau was wearing his usual trenchcoat, it was very cold and he had been stomping around for a bit, but it was clear that he had been thinking thoughts though; although it seemed he wasn’t going to share much at the moment.

The farmer appeared, he was wearing his work jacket blues, with his beret up top and his wellington boots, as he mumbled to himself, ‘such a shame, such a devastating calamity, even though I’m often shunned, since not many people like to look after snails, but what a waste… and money, so much money.’

‘We mustn’t give up yet,’ said Francis, ‘since those jewels must be somewhere, and you, Monsieur Farmer, you shouldn’t succumb with despair yet; I’m sure these things are connected, don’t we think?’ – all of them agreed, as they began to walk around the place, especially all those sheds.

‘See that channel,’ said one of the gargoyles, ‘no, not that way, look the other way, over there,’ – ‘oh, I see, I can see a dip,’ – ‘okay, lets go have a little look,’ – so both of them set out across the last shed, while bickering a bit, as usual.

‘Hey, everyone come here, look what we have found, you’ll be stunned at this!’

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

 

Paris Photographer – Louis Paulin

They had been singing for ages and loudly too, the songs, the lyrics and the melodies were all off key, but none of them cared, since this was a great outing; they hadn’t been all together for such a long time, more than half a year, but time is a strange idea if some of this lot are immortal.

Mr Cushing was driving, as always, in his purring limousine, and The Old One sat next to him; they had both been living in the south of France – very clement and useful too, since they both love going to the Cannes Festival and hang out with the hoi polloi (not).

Francis was sitting in the middle row, he had been reading the newspapers avidly, almost desperately to find anymore news about those jewels which had been stolen from the Louvre; it was only he who wouldn’t sing, while his wife, Joan, and her best friend Scatty, were clapping their hands on the other side and singing their hearts out.

The two gargoyles sat in the back and looked out in the rear of the car, eager to see a particular police car, since Inspector Clouseau could be just behind them.

The red-headed woman had been moving around in that gorgeous long car, talking to all her lovely friends; she was very keen to see what would occur, and she shouted: ‘we must be almost there at that farm.’

And a moment later she grinned: ‘it’s that it… all those big sheds.’

~~~~~~

Just in case you’ve missed this lot, here’s a bit: https://lunas-online.com/2025/01/30/back-on-the-road/

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~