Murder, she typed

"I come from the International Time Travellers Association," she said proudly, but seeing my blank expression she added, "Well, all right, the International Time Travellers and Jaffa-cake Association, but that is hopefully getting changed soon."

I blinked as she removed her furs and a wig, revealing straw coloured hair and a simple dress of blue cotton.

"The ITTJA? We fix paradoxes, have a laff-a and eat boxes of that wonderful Jaffa? Our slogan? Helloooo?"

Somehow, I still felt dubious.


4. Twitter overtaken by frogs


Cassandra told me to write a few entries about myself, to warm up my writing muscles, as she put it. The first was to be about my house, which seemed a bit juvenile to me. I felt like I was back in infant school again with kindly Mrs Potts asking us to draw our Mummies and Daddies and our house. But she insisted I do so and this is what I emailed her:

Entry 1

My house may be a concrete flat in a block but at least it has heating.

This is my answer to anyone who asks where I live.

"So Karen, what's your house like?" Some friend of a friend would ask politely.

"My house may be a concrete flat in a block but at least it has heating!" I would laugh, confusing the person entirely, therefore being saved from small-talk for the rest of the evening.

Inside are half a dozen blankets, squashy sofas, an old battered typewriter and an extremely excitable spaniel. So it's not bad.

The spaniel's name is Eugene because I enjoy unusual names on dogs (although I do get weird looks when I am shouting after him). I walk him every single day in the nearby park. It is remarkably big for such a built up area, with rolling hills, countless trees, intriguing pathways and even a small lake (or a large pond) near the centre.

Back in my house, the walls don't really need painting because of the homemade wallpaper. Drawings and postcards and pictures and paintings, either made by me, taken by me or found at some market. My favourite is a picture of my best friend Flossie and me sitting on a rock in japan with Mt. Fuji in the background.

And that is my house


She soon replied with several smiley faces and a link. Surprised, I clicked on it and found myself on BBC news website. A reporter stood on a patch of grass in the outskirts of London, looking serious. The headline said: Murder of a Lord, aged 67. Apprehensively, I clicked play on the clip.

A blurry picture of a man with ridiculous hair flashed on the screen. It then faded into the stern reporter.

"Lord Mungo Frinton was killed last night in his Estate. Found this morning by his distressed wife, police are investigating his death. No official statement has been released about cause of death but police have confirmed it was murder," With pursed lips, the woman attempted a smile, "Back to you in the studio."

Lord Mungo Frinton... where had I heard that before? The name was unusual, no doubt, but still it rang a bell in my mind. I searched on the internet and found a tribute page. At the top it said in elaborate font:

Lord Mungo Frinton... Forever loved.

Well known for his kindness, he was a charitable man. Much of his fortune was passed on to the respite care home for injured frogs. Having an interest in the life of frogs he often visited there, using his spare time. Although his family dislike frogs as they took up his time and money, let us show our support for the Lord by going on twitter. Despite the fact he had no idea what twitter was, he would have been touched to see hundreds of messages like this. To partake in this tribute, simply tweet RIBBIT #lordmungo. Go my little networking fairies, spread the word!

Intrigued, I went on twitter, where all the tweets were along the lines of this:

@chattygrrl:  RIBBIT #lordmungo who is he again?

Twitter had been overtaken by frogs... and who was Lord Frinton?

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