Nostradamus Ate My Hamster Read Online Free PDF Page A

pretty unsettling stuff and made all the more unsettling by the fact that it does seem to have the ring of truth to it. But, as those in authority will reliably tell you, belief is not proof. And until something huge happens and the mothership drops down onto the White House lawn, those who suspect what governments know to be the truth, and broadcast these suspicions to the public at large, will continue to be labelled paranoid conspiracy theorists.
    My Uncle John did, however, tell me one tale about the contents of box 23. It is a story so fantastic that its telling might well cast doubt on Uncle John’s sanity and therefore question his reliability concerning all the foregoing. But it is a great story, so I have no hesitation in telling it here.
    The temptation to embellish the tale is a difficult one to resist, but I have done so, adding only an ending of my own, clearly labelled to avoid confusion. Those of a nervous disposition or prone to night terrors are advised to skip over this ending and go straight on to the next chapter which is all about Russell and so pretty safe.
    UNCLE JOHN’S TALE OF BOX 23
    To set the scene, the year was nineteen sixty and Uncle John had recently moved to Brentford to serve as a constable with the force, based then in the old police station, now demolished, on the Kew Road near to the Red Lion. Uncle John came from Shropshire and the year before he had married Aunt Mary, my father’s sister.
    They moved into one of the new police flats just off Northfields Avenue. These were fully furnished and we used to go up for Sunday lunch and a walk in Lammas Park with Uncle John’s dog Frankie. [9]
    The story begins in the summer of that year, when the normally law-abiding borough of Brentford had unaccountably been struck by a mini crime wave. The crimes started in a petty fashion but grew and grew. Seemingly unrelated, they spanned a vast spectrum and were so audacious that they soon had the Brentford bobbies in something of a lather.
    First reports involved doorstep milk bottle theft, these went on for weeks. The culprit was sighted on several occasions and described as a stubby ginger-haired youth in grey school uniform. A simple enough matter on the face of it. Uncle John was dispatched to the local primary school to give the pupils a looking over. No stubby ginger-haired youth was to be found. A truant perhaps? No truant fitted that description and in a small town like Brentford where everyone knew pretty much everyone, heads were scratched and gypsies blamed.
    The next crimes involved shop-lifting. A young blond woman in a “modern” pink coat walked into the ladies-wear shop in the high street, snatched up an armful of summer frocks and took to her heels. Later in the day she repeated the performance, swiping a pop-up toaster from Kays Electrical, a number of chocolate bars from the tobacconists and a hock of ham from Barlett’s butcher’s shop.
    More was to follow.
    A tall gaunt man, with black sideburns and a centre parting, helped himself to the contents of the cash register at The Red Lion when the landlord wasn’t looking. And The Red Lion was almost next door to the police station.
    The Brentford bobbies were not best pleased.
    The crimes continued and they followed a pattern. A stranger of distinctive appearance would arrive from nowhere, carry out a series of crimes all in a single day, then vanish away never to be seen again.
    The eyes of the Brentford constabulary turned towards Ealing. Obviously these criminals were “out-borough” denizens of the new council estate a mile up the road. Day trippers of evil intent. Uncle John was sent up the road to talk to the boys at the South Ealing nick.
    No joy. The descriptions did not match those of any known offenders. And Ealing was a small town and everyone knew everyone there. And the folk talked to the policemen and nobody knew anything about anything.
    Odd.
    And the crimes continued.
    A fellow resembling Father Christmas, with