Saturday, September 01, 2007


WATSON: I say, Holmes.

HOLMES: Yes, Watson?

WATSON: I'm bored.

HOLMES: Where's Hudders?

WATSON: Out window shopping again, what what what.

HOLMES: Oh. And you've got nothing to read? No learned research papers? Or a decent comic?

WATSON: I've read The Medical Impersonal from cover to cover. And The Dandy is just not up to scratch this week.

HOLMES: What about a crossword? A conundrum, even.

WATSON: I fear I don't have the patience. I mean, it's Saturday, Holmes. We should be outside, perusing, solving crimes, catching unsavoury villains. Instead of which, here we are, sitting in our moth-eaten armchairs, twiddling our thumbs, gazing at the ceiling, wondering when it's all going to end.

HOLMES: Speak for yourself, O Hippocratic One, I am engaged in deep contemplation.

WATSON: Oh, really? On what subject?

HOLMES: I am contemplating my navel, old bean. Its shape, size, essence, spiritual significance and imposing presence.

WATSON: (chortles) No, don't, Holmes, I'll pee myself. Contemplating your navel. Oh, Jeeves, that's most whimsical.

HOLMES: Why do you laugh? Did I say something rib-ticklingly hilarious?

WATSON: Your navel... oh, really, no, I can't... (giggles like demented choir boy)

HOLMES: I rib tickle ye not, Watty Botty. The navel is all-encompassing. You ignore it at your peril.

WATSON: Ignore it? I don't ignore it, old thing. Never knowingly, anyway. I haven't seen it for 15 years. I suppose it's still there but it passed out of view before I became fully aware of its um... true meaning. I could get Hudders to examine it.

HOLMES: Oh, I'm sure she's done that already. Do you have an outee or an inee?

WATSON: I beg your pardon?

HOLMES: Does your tummy button protrude or invert?

WATSON: I'm afraid you've lost me past the formaldehyde, Holmes. One craves an explanation.

HOLMES: Watson, it's VERY important which one you have. I have an outee, that is to say, it protrudes, it projects, it is... proudly prominent, like yours truly.

WATSON: Hmm. Well, all I can tell you is that I have terrible trouble washing the abominable thing.

HOLMES: Sounds like you do indeed have an inee, which would explain your reticence, uncertainty and general morbidity.

WATSON: Do you really think so?

HOLMES: Well, it's not an exact science but according to a survey in The Doctor's Ingest Bi-Monthly nine out of ten people revert to type.

WATSON: Good Lord!

HOLMES: And it is said in Quacked Incorporating Whacko Weekly that the navel contains the the living history of one's ancestry. Thus, I was contemplating my navel.

WATSON: But but but... It can't be true.

HOLMES: Well, maybe it is. I always get a twinge when thunder is on its way. And it definitely moves when I tell a fib, which admittedly is not often, but still. Sometimes, it seems as if it has a life of its own. Quite extraordinary.

WATSON: Oh, for Horatio's sake, Holmes! Next you'll be saying it talks to you.

HOLMES: Yes, I believe it does, sometimes. In navel speak, so to speak. It wibbles when it's time for tea.

WATSON: Good Lord!

HOLMES: And dwibbles when it's time for bed.

WATSON: Good Gosh!

HOLMES: And bwibbles when it's time for... well, let's leave it there, shall we? But yes, it is a living thing with a will of its own. Or is it? I truly can't decide. If only more people would contemplate their navels more often, perhaps we would find the answer to this perplexing question.

WATSON: Holmes, you've been at the Warfarin again. Why, your navel is no more alive than... than... Hudders' beloved Tabby that was flattened by a Hackney carriage but last week.

HOLMES: Show me.

WATSON: Show you what?

HOLMES: Get your navel out. Let's see if it responds to questioning.

WATSON: Now you're just being plain daft.

HOLMES: Whip it out, I say. Let scientific method decide.

WATSON: Oh, all right. If this will break your blessed obession with your Umbilicus. There! Happy now?

HOLMES: No more than I am on any other weekend. Now pay attention. Think about having a hearty lunch.

WATSON: Now you're talking. Oh, yum. Yes, a Sunday roast with lashings of gravy and Yorkshire pudding.

HOLMES: Look! There! It moved!

WATSON: What's that you say?

HOLMES: It wibbled.

WATSON: But but but...

HOLMES: Now yawn a bit, stretch your arms. Think about slumber.

WATSON: Oh... (yawns and stretches)

HOLMES: Ha! It dwibbled. Who's the cracked quack now, hmm?

WATSON: Poppycock. And anyway, as I've already, I can't see the blighter so you could say whatever you liked.

HOLMES: Here, take this pocket mirror and observe.

WATSON: Hmm, well, all right then.

HOLMES: A piping roast with delicious Yorshire pud!

WATSON: Good Lord! It wibbled!

HOLMES: I rest my case.

WATSON: But that's impossible.

HOLMES: Watch. I'm stretching my arms and pretending to yawn.

WATSON: Good Lord! It dwibbled! It's alive!

HOLMES: O ye of little faith.

WATSON: That's absolutely remarkable. I say, Holmes.

HOLMES: Yes, Watson?

WATSON: Let's sit here and contemplate our navels together.

HOLMES: Right you are, old chum.



WATSON: Wibble at eleven?

HOLMES: Not 'arf!


Donia said...

It's Saturday morning here and I'm already wibbling, bibbling, and dwibbling.

Nonnie Augustine said...

Gosh! You mean I have a friend, something simpatico to my needs and wants. a kindred spirit, right there on my bellybutton, which, by the way, I can see perfectly well? Thank you! This could be the key to changing my life!'s an innie. That's bad, huh?