AMP: Artists' Meeting Place and Resource Collective

For earlier Chapters and an explanation of this dreadful story, see blog: The Cardiff Grandma. WARNING: This novel contains fake Welsh.
In the previous episode, the lady killers are quelled by a voice. In another part of Caerdyff, who is Plenty Capable? And just out of curiosity, why does the American President of America keep saying other people are her?
The Cardiff Grandma Chapter 54

From the Chronicles of Plenty Capable;

‘It was while the great private ear, Short Mat Bowls, musical gumshoe, was graciously allowing me, his humble servant and longtime friend, to follow behind him scribbling these notes that you, the reader, now see before you, that… urk!’

‘What are you reading?’ enquired the young man.

‘I’m not sure, some kind of journal or diary I think. There are several volumes of the stuff here, look.’ She looked and he began to read again from the volume he had picked up:

‘…with his eye for detail, ear for music and legs for standing on…’

‘You’re right, some sort of journal. It says ‘From the chronicles of Plenty Capable Semicolon.’ What an odd title!’

‘…he was a man of extraordinary grace and charm, with rapier like wit, a heart of gold, an ounce of butter and two of flour..’

‘What!’ was his mildly surprised exclamation of mild surprise.

‘Oh sorry, I turned two pages at once then…’ She flipped back one page of the lovingly scribed tome, then returned once more to where she’d left off.

‘mix evenly, slowly adding three cups of milk and a spoonful of sugar…’

‘Yeah, it goes into some kind of recipe I think. I’m not an expert on Western foods.’

‘Hmm, so what do you make of it?’ he asked in a deliberate manner.

‘Some kind of pastry I say,’ she said.

‘No, not the recipe… Oh, never mind.’ There was a pause. Time passed almost imperceptivity. Almost, but not entirely. Those present couldn’t say for sure how much time had passed, which direction it had gone or what colour it was.

‘What do you think we should do?’

Having stumbled across Plenty Capable’s chronicles, tripped over her well worn pocket dictionary and narrowly avoided landing on a carefully wrapped sandwich (lovingly labeled as ‘Meat?’), the two considered a future course of action

‘It seems as if this Plenty Capable person needs a new bag,’ the girl stated.

Not waiting for a question to prompt further expansion on the matter she quickly added, ‘It appears that all this stuff has fallen out of a bag, or some other form of carrying device hitherto unknown to medical science.’ She was on a roll. Long words slithered off her tongue like goats down a mountain during a landslide.

‘All very clever I am sure. You’re standing on a roll by the way Mrs Holmes!’ he retorted sarcastically. ‘And what shall we do now?’ It was a good question, valid and fair. He was a fair young man. It got him a few odd looks as the sight of a blond Oriental was not something often seen where he came from. Blond hair was not his only distinguishing feature; after a freak accident as a child he now walked with a pronounced lisp.

‘Why we must track this person, locate her location and see to it that we return (most) of the possessions she has lost possession of,’ announced the girl, biting into the now squashed bread roll. ‘Mmm, chicken.’

The task of tracking Plenty Capable, for that was the task they had just assigned themselves, began with great ease. All along the pavement in front of them was a long trail of assorted objects and artifacts. These all seemed to have flowed from the very same opening in the very same bag of the extremely same Plenty Capable: if, that was, it was indeed Plenty Capable who had been carrying the leaking bag, and not her pet chihuahua.

The pair proceeded and scooped up the items in turn, stowing them neatly in their shopping cart as they went. This, it seemed, was part of their mission. They had been tasked to carry out an assignment by their boss.