004 Uncle Bartlow crosses Magdalene Bridge
It was not far from the hospital to the centre of the city. Not even far enough for Dianne Plank to wake up and discover that she was perched on a gently undulating hill moving improbably through the streets of Cambridge. By 10.30 a.m., all the Gogs had tramped through the city, across Magdalene Bridge, and up towards Castle Hill--a distant relative who lived on the northern outskirts of the town. All except Bartlow that is, poor old Uncle Bartlow.
In his younger days Bartlow had been quite a sporting hill, lean, rugged, and steep. But in his dotage, Bartlow had spread sideways, a state of affairs not helped by his penchant for pizza with extra toppings and cheap red wine. Bartlow, let's not mince our words, was fat. And so Bartlow brought up the rear, puffing and panting with the effort. "Wait for me, wait for me", he called out occasionally, all the time silently wishing that that dammed atmospheric scientist had never shown his face.
On and on Bartlow puffed. He had some trouble extruding his portly frame along King's Parade and past the world-famous colleges. Indeed, for a while he had to turn sideways and shuffle carefully between the venerable old buildings, trying not to dislodge the gargoyles sticking out into his path. But then he reached Magdalene Bridge. The rest of the Gogs had easily crossed the bridge, albeit with their eyes closed to avoid seeing the water flowing beneath. But Magdalene Bridge was just too small for old Bartlow. He heaved, he pushed, he breathed in, he breathed out. All to no avail. He was stuck, as indeed were the hoards of undergraduate students who freewheeled down Castle Hill on their bicycles and into Bartlow's flanks.
More and more students poured down and soon the heap of semiconscious students had reached the top of Bartlow's greying crown. The few remaining stragglers, anxious to reach their 11 o'clock lecture, were now able to carry on peddling, right over their groaning colleagues, over Bartlow, and down the other side into town.
Bartlow, meanwhile, had twigged that he was stuck on a bridge. And a bridge only meant only one thing--a close proximity to water. The very thought sent a pulse of fear coursing through his veins and he began to hyperventilate. Now Magdalene Bridge had survived large juggernauts thundering across its ancient brickwork for many years. But Bartlow's rapidly fluctuating chest was enough to lever off the sides of the timeworn bridge, sending an avalanche of masonry and ironwork into the River Cam and instantly freeing the old hill. "Wait for me, wait for me", he whimpered, as he once more struggled to catch up his relatives.
By now the other Gogs had paused near Castle Hill to get their breath back and to try to persuade said hill, a distant cousin, to join them on their journey north. But he was having none of it. "I don't believe in global warming", he chortled. "All a fuss about nothing. No evidence, none at all. Besides, it's very dangerous for hills to start moving around. Remember what happened the last time." Silence. "The dinosaurs, the extinction of the dinosaurs", he muttered, surprised at the short memories of his relatives. "Come on, sit down for a moment and have a cup of tea. I'm expecting a visitor who you really should meet before you go tearing up your roots to head north." And so, the Gogs settled down in a large circle to wait for Castle Hill's human friend, the Professor, to arrive.
What does the Professor tell them?
Find out in the next episode.
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