The ancient greystone mansion house that was Mooroolbleak Manor, stood isolated and alone upon the high cliffs of Mooroolbark Island, overlooking the calm, yet at times treacherous, jet-ski infested waters of Bayswater Bay, on the southern coast of Croydonia.

A low-lying causeway linked the island to the mainland village of Warranwoodant, a quaint, yet troubled place, due to it’s close proximity to the lycra cladded, butterfly placarded, Elthamicans.

The island could only be reached by the causeway during the brief periods of low-tide, before the Bayswater waters returned in their daily occurrence to spew forth again their aquanated abundance, inundating the causeway back to submergence.

The manor had seen better days since the tragic drowning of it’s Lord and Master, Lord Offaly. A keen amateur photographer, Ken had popped across the causeway to the village to pick up some photos from the chemist and three potato cakes with vinegar for lunch. Sadly, in his haste to view the photos in the privacy of the manor, he had attempted to return home just a tad too soon before the incoming tide, and as a consequence took in far too many liquids for his own good.

It was well known that Lord Offaly’s love life was of a purely voyeuristic nature, so no one was terribly surprised, when, upon finding his body, he was found to be carrying 24 recently taken photos of the upstairs maid Agnes taking a shower.

Consequently, he left no heirs, and Mooroolbleak Manor began it’s steady decline, having been knocked back by the National Trust to take it over, due to the horrific death that had taken place there in the stables, involving: a woman’s saddle, a rusted bucket, a tin of baked beans, a bicycle pump, a long handled mirror, and a vacuum cleaner – with an extended hose.

Death By Misadventure, the magistrate ruled, and as tragic as it was that the postman’s life had been sucked out of him, Hilda the housekeeper remarked, drily, “Well, looking on the bright side, at least the scullery maid’s virginity remains intact, um, technically speaking anyway.”

Dawson, Mooroolbleak’s broody chauffeur, sat brooding in his room above the garage, that now housed the 1998 Hyundai Excel manual, the shit-heap that had replaced the ’52 Roller during the cost savings period.
He had become infatuated with Cook, but he knew deep down that she didn’t care for him, not really anyway, she was just using him as a taxi, teasing him with her barely covered breasts that had been siliconed up and out again by Warranwoodant’s butcher, Warren, who did boob jobs as a sideline, the venture doubling in turnover when he stopped sticking best-before-dates beneath his client’s nipples.

Suddenly, Dawson’s Ericsson mobile phone jiggled about in 2G silent mode. It was Agnes, the upstairs maid. “Hello Dawson, it’s Agnes the upstairs maid here,” she said, “You’ll never guess what.”

“I’m not in the mood for guessing games,” he said, “I’m brooding whilst looking out the window.”

“Well, wait ’til you hear this then. Cook’s just quit, she’s packed her bag, and she’s heading across the causeway to Warranwoodant on her girlie’s bike.”

“Bloody hell,” swore Dawson, “She can’t do that! The high tide is due in at any moment! She’ll never make the crossing in time! If she drowns! I’ll never forgive myself! Why, I love that damn woman and her culinary ways.”

With that, he put the 2G back on charge, closed and locked the window carefully, checked that everything was switched off, and raced down the stairs to the awful pink coloured Hyundai, started it up, whacked it in first, and sped off towards the causeway.

Meanwhile, Cook was making her way across the crossing to the Warranwoodant LiquorLand to buy another cask of Riesling, that was amazingly still on special.

As the Hyundai thundered flat chat onto the causeway, he could see Cook’s bike up ahead, reaching her just as the waters began to rise above her tyres. He drove along next to her, shouting, “The tides coming in Cook! Climb in through the window, there’s no time to lose!”

But the Hyundai’s engine stalled and shuddered to a stop, and began to lift in the now swirling waters. With a super human effort, Dawson clambered out of the driver’s side window just before the Excel floated away.
Left there like a shag on a rock, Cook managed to circle back to him, “Jump onto the handlebars Dawsie, and I’ll dink youse to the village!”

He was up on the handlebars like a shot, avoiding the bell, with Cook pedalling through the waters like buggery, her breasts jiggling about like a couple of basketballs in a plastic shopping bag, left on top of a vibrating spin dryer carrying a full load.

Having reached the mainland just in the nick of time, puffing and panting, wet and tousled-haired, they fell into each other’s arms. She gazed searchingly into his eyes, “I didn’t know you wore contacts”, she said, “And I should tell you, I’ve had some work done on my womanly bits.” And then, all coy like, eyes downcast, fingering her hem, “In case you hadn’t noticed, ya big lug!!”

“So have I”, he confessed, his eyes downcast you-know-where, “I had a penis enlargement procedure done last year that went horribly wrong, which is why my right foot is now three inches longer than my left.”

“Oh you poor bugger,” she said, “It must be hellish buying shoes. But who cares, eh Dawsie? They can all get stuffed, because I love you, I fair dinkum do.”

“And by Christ, I love you too Cook, or Cooksie if I may?”

In an instant female mood change, she retorted coldly, “It’s Bridget by the way,” she said “My name is Bridget, it’s not Cook, my mother didn’t name me Cook, it’s fucking Bridget. You men! I mean really, what is it with you chauvinistic pigs, that makes you think…”

He waited for her to finish her feminist tirade, (the first one in Warranwoodant), and kissed her, gently at first, but as his pent up needings rose as if on Viagra, he thrust his tongue so deep into her mouth, that he could almost taste the leaking silicon that would eventually deflate her built up areas, and ensure that their babies would be bottle fed.