Extract from Chapter 24 of mystery-comedy novel, 'The Investigations of the Para-Usual':

‘Woo. What do you know about hamsters?’ enquired Cohen, in the manner of an aggressive quizmaster. ‘Any thoughts?’

‘I have few,’ answered Woo, confidently, revolving in his office chair by means of little tap dancing steps.

Cohen was circling Woo’s desk in a high state of agitation. He had come to the IPU offices straight from the Ministry and the action.

‘Have some more. Tell me what you know,’ retorted Cohen, emphasising the ‘know’.

‘I can have more thoughts on hamsters, sir, though, of course,’ replied Woo, sitting up in his chair. ‘Naturally. It’s only a matter of retuning one’s mind. Hamsters. There you see, I’m thinking of them right now. So much so… so much so… that I’m saying ‘hamsters’ again, verbalising what I am thinking.’

Poindexter entered the office, a little flushed from the exertions of trying to keep up with his boss. Cohen signalled for the secretary to give what was in his hand – a newspaper – and to wait outside.

‘We find ourselves in familiar waters,’ resumed Cohen as soon as he had Woo to himself.

‘Hamsters,’ said Woo, interrupting, to prove his mind was on the right track.

‘We try pleasing some people at the risk of displeasing others,’ sighed a distracted Cohen, unfolding the newspaper on the desk and pressing down the creases.

Woo looked blank for a moment trying to understand the connection between the travails of governing and hamsters.

‘Those damned displeased people, sir,’ answered Woo, plumping for a sympathetic response.

‘Yes, but if the number of displeased grows, we the government find ourselves increasingly unpopular. And if we are unpopular, people will not vote for us and I will be out of this job before I even get the chance to move on and upwards.’

‘That would be a sad day, sir.’

‘Oh, yes, Woo, you would feel sad, because you also would be out on your noisy arse.’

Woo sought to control an urge to panic. ‘Pfffft! Let me see. Let me see now,’ he dithered. ‘Hamsters, of course, are the traditional choice of pet for the younger person or child.’

Extract from Chapter 21 of mystery-comedy novel, 'The Investigations of the Para-Usual':

‘I did a bit of research into this area,’ said O’Singh, warming again to the delayed discussion. ‘You know you have your Snoop Doggy Dogg?’

‘Do you?’ asked Dr Pratt, quite surprised to hear so.

‘Yes, he is one of these rap pop stars, you see. Now we might very well expect a person with such a grandiose appellation to be employed in this type of profession. We are more surprised, on the other hand, to encounter somebody like a Snoop Bob Perkins in Accounts.’

‘Who’s that other chap Matilda listens to?’ responded Dr Pratt. ‘Oh, Prince. You don’t get many Prince’s in the office environment either. You know, just Prince? No surname.’

‘He was that fellow, yes, changed his name to a symbol and from then on nobody was allowed to call him “Prince”. “The Artist Formerly Known as Prince”, I think was how he then asked to be addressed.’

O’Singh turned sideways on to the fresh action to address his colleague.

‘So, here is a thing. Just bear with me please, just a moment,’ said O’Singh, lit up with some notion. ‘In a para-usual scenario we could have a Snoop Bob Perkins delegating work to his secretary.’

“The Secretary Formerly Known as Doris, can you take down a dictation?”’ asked O’Singh, in an Estuary accent, assuming the character of Snoop Bob Perkins.

‘“Bo! The Secretary Formerly Known as Doris!” might be a more fitting greeting for Perkins,’ proposed Dr Pratt.

‘Yes? Bo?’

‘It’s an exuberant expression. A friend of a friend of Matilda’s uses it.’

‘Oh, yes, well let us see how that sounds,’ said O’Singh, clearing his throat, preparing to be Snoop Bob once again. ‘“Bo! The Secretary Formerly Known as Doris, can you take down a dictation?”’

‘Of course Doris ignores him,’ chipped in Dr Pratt.

‘Oh yes?’ replied O’Singh, as himself.

‘The payroll clerk then comes into the office delivering the staff’s payslips,’ continued Dr Pratt.

‘Yes?’ said O’Singh, intrigued.

‘She says “Perkins?” Perkins says “Yes!” She gives him his payslip.’

‘I follow,’ said O’Singh.

‘“Who’s this?” the clerk says – she can’t make out the writing on the slip. “Can’t make out the handwriting,” she says.

‘“That’s mine,” The Secretary Formerly Known as Doris says, snatching the slip.’

‘Of course,’ said O’Singh. ‘The illegible handwriting is not that at all. It’s a squiggle – a symbol of sorts.’

Extract from Chapter 18 of mystery-comedy novel, 'The Investigations of the Para-Usual':

Upstairs in the Natural History gallery, the operatives found themselves in a maze of tall, oppressive, dark, wood-framed glass cases hosting an array of stuffed animals frozen in postures apparently natural to them in life. A fox prowling in undergrowth; a stoat on hind legs in mid-‘Eek!’.

‘Taxi!’ bawled O’Singh, testing out his earlier observation that he might be able to hail a passing taxidermist. A decrepit gallery-minder sat just inside the door stirred from a doze and yelled, ‘Two sugars, please Eileen!’ and promptly fell back asleep. An agitated lady visiting with her young son somewhere over by the bats called for some quiet with a ‘Do you mind?’ based on the assumption that the guilty parties would or should.

Dr Pratt followed O’Singh, peering into the gloomy cabinets, arrested briefly by the model of the dodo keeping the company of other defunct birdlife. The passenger pigeon was there, as numerous as locusts in 19th Century America, as multitudinous as the dodo in the early 20th. A flock sighted in Ontario in 1866 was described as being one mile wide and 300 miles long, taking 14 hours to pass, estimated to comprise more than 3½ billion birds. The great auk, also, represented again in model form, the last breeding pair and egg destroyed in 1844 by three Icelandic fishermen with a positive attitude to ‘specicide’.

Extract from Chapter 17 of mystery-comedy novel, 'The Investigations of the Para-Usual':

‘So what is very para-usual about Two Swords?’ asked Woo, mispronouncing the waxworks founder’s name.

‘Tussauds,’ said Dr Pratt, pronouncing the name “Too-sor” in an exaggerated French accent, something approximating an Estuary Bordeaux.

‘You’re not French!’ rejoined Woo, testily.

‘Madame Tussaud’s museum would have been one of the first venues for public entertainment in Victorian England,’ ventured O’Singh, hopeful that a flashpoint had simmered down.

‘Indeed. People would come from all over London to see the waxworks of the French Revolutionaries,’ said Dr Pratt, unperturbed by Woo’s presumption over his national identity.

‘Like the nightclubs or discotheques – the modern entertainment spots – people would queue outside waiting to pay their admission.’

‘But, but, the difference is in the door policy – what the 19th Century doorman would allow to be brought into the premises.’

‘Allow us to demonstrate,’ offered O’Singh. ‘I will be a Victorian doorman new to the job. Dr Pratt, you can be the nightclub visitor, happens to be Madame Tussauds.’

O’Singh stood with his legs astride, rolled his shoulders and worked his jaws, pretending to chew gum, aloof to the approach of Dr Pratt’s madame.

‘Allow me please just to say at this juncture, that this is the very scene that I intended Dr Pratt to participate in using the mannequin head,’ qualified O’Singh, briefly stepping out of character.

Dr Pratt took his cue from O’Singh and approached as he had before. O’Singh’s doorman held out a hand and gestured for Dr Pratt’s Tussaud to stop and open up her imaginary bag.

‘“Uh, oh,” the bouncer thinks,’ said O’Singh, again withdrawing momentarily from his character. ‘Alarm bells go off in his head. Someone with a severed head in their bag. Looks like trouble.’

‘“Is this your head, madame?”’ asked O’Singh’s Victorian doorman, pretending to slowly lift one such body part from the bag.

‘Oui, oui, but er…,’ stammered Dr Pratt’s madame.

‘So our doorman turns to his superior, a senior doorman, who recognises Madame Tussaud,’ explained O’Singh, half-turning to assume the veteran’s guise, ‘and says: “She’s alright, mate”.’

‘He waves her on,’ interjected Dr Pratt, releasing himself from his waxy dame persona. ‘Permits madame entry.

‘Usually one would expect a person posing a security threat to be refused admission. But the para-usual situation here at Madame Tussauds was that the complete opposite was true – those deemed undesirable would have been welcomed in the 19th Century.’

Extract from Chapter 17 of mystery-comedy novel, 'The Investigations of the Para-Usual': 

‘You know one can be rather stung by the suggestion that one is less important than a common scientist, sir,’ sniffed Woo, in an injured tone as Higgins made his departure.

‘Spare me,’ said Cohen. ‘What’s your proposal?’

‘The traditional, sir!’ announced Woo, suddenly brightly, triumphantly, scrambling across the lab to reveal the operations board scrubbed clean and the operatives’ diagram replaced with the one word, ‘TRADITIONAL’.

‘I’m sorry, I….’

‘I offer you… I present to you, “The Investigations of the Traditional”, the “I-O-T”,’ said Woo, snatching the cap from his head to point out the letters on its peak. ‘This blasted obsession with discovering what is new, sir – the para-usual. I don’t care for new ideas. You know where you are with traditional things.’

‘Your point?’

‘We all know what we are talking about when we speak of the traditional. It provides an instant reference.’

‘Where am I? You’re losing me.’

‘Example. I hasten into a barber’s shop. I’m in a hurry. “Whadda would you like, sir?” the barber asks. He’s Italian by the way, from Italy, a traditional haircutting nation. “A traditional haircut,” I return.’

‘Meaning?’

‘Short back and sides,’ retorted Woo, attempting to conceal a sneer in his reply.

‘Again, with time at a premium, I bustle into a sandwich shop. “Yes, duckie?” the sandwich hand chirps. “What would you like?” “A traditional sandwich”, I reply. Automatically she knows.’

‘And what’s a traditional sandwich?’

‘Cheese and pickle.’

‘I see.’

‘I may speak of a “traditional tree”. Again my audience recognises that as the oak.’

‘Right. And where is this going?’

‘I research and document here, in this fine centre of research, all that is traditional. Construct a compendium of my discoveries. Think how economic our daily communication could be if we standardised what is traditional.’

‘Right. Allow me to try this out. By your logic, what is, let us say, a traditional dinner?’

‘Bangers and mash,’ replied Woo, directly.

‘Could be fish and chips, though,’ countered Cohen.

‘Well, yes there could be one or two alternative traditional dinners in total,’ stammered Woo.

‘Traditional pet?’

‘Ah, well that’s rather easy. The dog. A traditional dog being the Golden Labrador.’

‘Or the Black Labrador. Or the traditional pet could be a cat. Which do we understand each other by?’

‘Well, I… It’s quite simple,’ faltered Woo, quickly finding his theory on stony ground.

‘Is this what you have for me?’ thundered Cohen, rising with indignation. He tore at the air in frustration, swung around and without further ceremony made directly for the door.

‘But…’ called Woo, catching up with Cohen in the corridor. ‘The Investigations of the Traditional is much better than The Investigations of the Para-Usual. It is, it is, it is,’ blubbed Woo, crying crocodile tears.

 Extract from Chapter 14 of mystery-comedy novel, 'The Investigations of the Para-Usual':

The Minister of State at the Department of Energy, Climate Change and Green Stuff, Mohammed Cohen, surveyed London from the bulbous hill in Greenwich Park under the shadow of the Royal Observatory. The heat was up. London shimmered in full panoramic view.

‘Lovely day!’ Up the incline came the day-appreciator, Woo, picking his way with the aid of a wooden cane. ‘A traditional summer’s day – blue skies, sunshine, tinkling ice cream vans.’

‘I need a thinktank!’ said Cohen, cutting off at the first available opportunity the possibility of any small talk with the Head of the IPU.

‘A think tank, sir?’ wheezed Woo, breaking the modern buzzword in two. ‘A reservoir of thought, eh? I shall be gladdened to advise.’

‘Uh!’ spluttered Cohen, rolling his eyes. ‘I need the kind of scientific analysis the operatives bring.’

‘I could do science, sir – pfffffffffffffffffffflt!’ interjected Woo, indignantly. ‘That’s my ringtone, sir. Excuse me.’

Woo whipped out his mobile phone and made an act of listening intently to some pressing communication. Meantime, he could not help but betray with a slightly crestfallen expression that his flatulence alibi had deprived him of driving home his rebuttal.

‘Can’t you see I’m busy?’ he harrumphed down the phone and feigned terminating the call. ‘Excuse me. A sales call,’ explained Woo, lamely, pocketing his phone.

Extract from Chapter 13 of mystery-comedy novel, 'The Investigations of the Para-Usual':

Dr Pratt cast a fretful look at his watch, then jumped as the latch flipped and the door of the cab sprung open. Professor O’Singh’s head appeared and loomed grotesquely as he struggled to squeeze his shoulders through the opening. His face was fully made up. Lips painted, cheeks rouged, eyelashes plumped and curled.

‘You!’ exclaimed Dr Pratt, arm raised in the manner of somebody warning a bomb disposal expert of making a false move.

‘Sorry, so sorry to keep you waiting,’ wheezed O’Singh, flumping onto the back seat opposite Dr Pratt, setting the whole vehicle asway.

‘You have the head of a lady!’ blathered Dr Pratt, at last able to verbalise what he was seeing. He, at the same time leant forward to cup O’Singh’s head in his hands, a convenient visual to aid the hard-of-understanding.

‘But which lady?’ returned O’Singh, enigmatically, jamming his knees around a department store carrier bag he was attempting to conceal.

The cab engine started with a splutter.

O’Singh caught his breath and saw that Dr Pratt was still staring, transfixed.

‘I confess, I have been so tired of late,’ offered O’Singh in apology.

‘Oh,’ ventured Dr Pratt, curious how O’Singh’s sudden bout of transvestism could be brought on by fatigue.

‘This is more activity than I have enjoyed for a very long time. I fell asleep in there…’ explained O’Singh, nodding his painted head in the direction of the hulking department store whose side entrance he had just emerged from. ‘I was negotiating my through the Cosmetics Department and I just had to sit down. I found a stool. The next thing I knew I had awoke wearing the full range from Clinique.’