Friday, January the 23rd, 2004

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Preamble to a Report on the 26 Lighthouses of Hoon

I am Cedric Spraingue, and I have inspected all the lighthouses of Hoon. This is my report. On the fourteenth of July, having had my crutches freshly varnished, I set out for the Port of Tongs, my knapsack packed with mustard cakes, celery stalks, a flask of slops, my notebook and pencil, several pins, a length of string, a wristwatch with a frayed strap, and many, many other things which at present I cannot divulge.

I had to wait for three hours at the railway station, during which time I shunned the other human beings in the waiting-room, preferring to crouch in an alcove to jot down some prepatory notes for my tour of lighthouse inspection. There are twenty six lighthouses in Hoon, and rigorous planning would be necessary.

I had decided to begin with the Port of Tongs lighthouse for three reasons:

1. It is the lighthouse furthest from my home in Hooting Yard, being precisely forty six and a half motes distant. That figure has been verified—as have all the motages in my report—by Dobson's bittern-robot measuring device. Each time I note the distance from one site to another, you may imagine this splendid metal bird soaring across the sky at unimaginable speed, its beak spewing forth ticker-tape.

2. It is the oldest of the Hoon lighthouses by a good half-century.

3. There is a toad hospital on the outskirts of the port, and Lillian, my toad, is sick. She has been struck by repeated fits of the chumpots, and I will be able to collect supplies of serum, paste, and toad-pills.

The train journey was remarkably eventful. The guard's van was struck by lightning. A pig wandered onto the track and missed death by seconds. A passenger, florid of face and decked out in clerical garb—a Jesuit perhaps—broke his ankle while attempting to step over a suitcase abandoned in the corridor. We suffered a temporary derailment. The toilets were flooded. Seven or eight handkerchiefs, donated by passengers, were needed to stem the ticket collector's nosebleed. A small child frantic with mischief pulled the communication cord, causing a halt of some hours. Bacteria released from a mysterious package made all those in the rear carriage violently sick. A monomaniac with grubby fingernails walked up and down the length of the train declaiming his theories on colourless gases.

There were other incidents, to be sure, but eventually the train arrived at the Port of Tongs. End of preamble.