Agatha Armitage: Why You Should Always Eat Your Mushy Peas

Dear Friend,

When I last wrote, I was having a jolly time on a boat-van but things have changed rather drastically since then. (Also, I hope you like the especially silky paper today. It was a gift from a bespactacled walrus who, like us, has a penchant for letter-writing).

Gerry was, you’ll remember, quite insulted when I (the official Flatterer, of all people!) told him that the boat was leaking. He took it rather personally, and was quite upset. He was so despondent indeed that he refused his daily mushy peas (it’s said that a spoonful of peas keeps the cobbler away - and the mafia does not like cobblers for some reason), and then spent the whole morning singing to a starfish.

In his absence, I practised flattering my boat-van-mates, and complemented everything from beards to portmanteaus. They were quite pleased, I think, and the walrus blushed profusely when I complimented his whiskers. He promptly asked for my hand in marriage but I told him that, while flattered, I was not interested at this present time.

It was after supper that things turned south — which is to say, that we started heading closer to (the equator / the warehouse off the coast of Cornwall where, apparently, the mafia keeps their vinegar stores safe).

As we crossed the high seas, waves frothing beneath us like rabies-ridden racoons in search of a good roast dinner, I heard the calling. A slow cawing, not that unlike a racoon actually… though maybe I’m just saying it because racoons are on my mind. They really are quite wonderful creatures? (How many other mammals have a stripe down their back which lets them cosplay as a stereotypical robber?).

The boat-van crew started to panic when they heard the wailing. I know this because people started banging pots together and screaming raucously and almost knocking over the EVA-approved fish tank.

“They’re coming! They’re coming!” the crew shouted, and I saw Gerry’s face pale.

“What is it?” I asked.

“Quiet, Flatterer,” he said. “This is serious mafia business.”

It was a ship — a ship with luminous green sails and ropes with eyelets which scraped from the hull.

“Someone hasn’t eaten their peas,” the Treasurer whimpered softly, the realisation dawning on him as he shouted the words louder. “Who didn’t eat their vinegar-forsaken peas?!”

Gerry opened up the bucket of mushy peas and started to shove handfuls of them into his mouth, but it was too late. The damage was done.

Gerry was sobbing, tears running down his cheeks (which actually looked very green, thanks to the smudges of mushy peas which he hadn’t the time or energy to wipe away).

“I’m sorry! I’m sorry!” he called to the company as the other ship’s crew boarded.

I have read stories of such things of course… where flag-wielding pirates board ships and throw innocent sailors to alligators. But I have never seen it in person — which, it must be admitted, has always been something of a sore spot. After all, you know what they say, You Can’t See the Light Until You Have Been Abducted At Sea (and as someone rather partial to lamps, this one has always resonated). But these particular pirates though were not like any I have seen before…

Oh deary me. I must stop doing this, but I’m being invited for a game of Fish Darts and there shall be firm words if I am late.

I shall write soon,

Agatha

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