Caleb Flicks 'em on

There was a definite, early morning nip in the air now, even a bit of frost to scrape from the windscreen before I left for work. I warmed my thighs on the radiator, sipped my start-of-the-day coffee, and looked out the office window at the thriving metropolis of Market Place.

Bletchford Town Council was having a field day. Two fellas in a cherry picker were stringing up coloured lights from lamppost to lamppost and another set of lads with ladders were sticking up lights on the outside of the shops. All under the watchful eye of a fat bloke with a clipboard and a barking voice.

Ah, the run up to Christmas. Shops hoping to catch a whiff of easy spending. To be fair, everyone was giving it some effort this year, the Chamber of Commerce had even leant on me for contribution. This year they had organised a Grand Christmas Light Up. Haydenford FM would be there to cover the whole thing, and some woman I'd never heard of who had been a bit part in a TV comedy show was coming to "flick 'em on". She seemed to have quite a following though, and they were expecting a big crowd on Thursday night.

I watched as the cherry picker moved on to the next lamppost, not having bothered to lower the cradle and get out. The fat man was waving his clipboard aggressively at the fellas and giving them what for.

It made me chuckle. I finished my coffee and went back to Mrs. Smith's tax return.

I swear Robbie the Bobbie can smell a boiling kettle, or maybe I was just too regular with my mid-morning coffee breaks. Still, it doesn't hurt to keep the local constabulary on your side. We watched the fella walk across the flat roof stringing lights along the guttering, 'Mornin', gov.' Honestly, it'll look like Blackpool.'

'Ta very much,' Robbie raised his cuppa in a salute, 'colder than a witch's tit out there it was this morning.'

'Yeah, wasn't it though' I smiled, praying he'd have a fast refill and maybe push off quicker than normal.

No such luck.

'Still, it's all very odd. We've been getting crank letters to the station via the Royal Mail. Some nut job sending letters made up of words cut from newspapers and magazines.'

Robbie the Bobbie liked to run a few mysteries past me, partly I think for conversation, and partly as our tussle with "the Troll" had brought us closer and Robbie had noticed how Sergeant Fairly seemed to take me into his confidence too. Somehow, I had become part of an inner circle.

'Yeah, odd letters with riddles. Just up your street I thought.'

I laughed, 'What makes you think I'm any good with riddles?'

Robbie smiled, 'Well, if you can make sense out of what it says. Anyway, this one letter, I took a copy of it. What do you reckon?'

I looked at it, "You'll be sorry what you did. You'll flip when you switch."

I mused. Robbie looked hopeful. 'Beats me.' I gave the note back. 'Not a clue.'

Precision. That was what was needed for this task. He'd wasted three boxes of twelve bulbs before he'd got it right. You couldn't unscrew the bayonet as he had first planned, without breaking the bulb. But a fine, tile drill bit in an old-fashioned hand drill and you could easily make a hole in the bulb.

He smiled, and reverently picked up a cloth-wrapped bulb from the vice, carefully blowing the glass dirt out of the way and examining the perfect hole.