Blamey Sea and Hoodley Swindle continued to stay in the shop, and they often performed in the hotel. They attracted some new customers at first. People would come to meet Hoodley, but when he started insulting people, a lot of customers stayed away. Hoodley was starting to really annoy Harry, Roy and Barbara, and he was getting a bit scary too. He seemed to be able to do things on his own. One day he was on the sofa while Roy was sitting on the armchair, watching TV. Roy went to change the channel and he noticed that the remote control was next to Hoodley on the sofa. He had no idea how it got there, so he went into the shop to tell Harry about this, and when they went back into the living room, a different channel was on the TV.

Business slowed down again, and Barbara was able to devote more time to the stock-taking and re-pricing, but she was yet to get beyond the bottom shelf. She always knew that this would be the most difficult shelf. Most of the items on it hadn�t been touched for decades. Decades worth of dust and mould covered everything. Almost every item on the shelf was unfit for sale, but Barbara was determined to identify all of them.

The contents of one box was easy to identify � hundreds of paperclips � but Barbara couldn�t figure out why it was on the bottom shelf. Paperclips are something that they might actually sell.

Harry was able to explain that one. There�s a small river that runs by Mizzenwood, and there�s a myth about a particular place in the river, about half a mile from the town. They say that if you stick your head into the river here, you�ll have the perfect hairstyle when your hair dries. Some say that the myth originated from a group of men who wanted to see certain women in wet clothes, but the official story is that it started hundreds of years ago and no one knows why. And people always believed it worked too. They�d put their head in the river, and when their hair was dry they�d convince themselves that they had the perfect hairstyle, no matter how bad it looked. Everyone knew that the most fashionable things often look awful. In the early 1970s, hundreds of little plastic Yogi Bear figures were dumped in the river. Some of them got stuck in people�s hair when they put their heads in the river, but they still thought it was a very fashionable hairstyle. Having Yogi Bears in your hair became a fashion craze.

There was a man who owned a furniture shop who was owed money by a company that went into liquidation. He was paid with half a tonne of multi-coloured paperclips, and he couldn�t find anyone to buy them off him. This was during the height of the Yogi Bear fashion craze, and he got an idea from that. He put some of the paperclips in the river, about a hundred yards upstream from the spot where people put their heads in the water. The paperclips floated, and were carried downstream. He started selling them in his furniture shop as �hair paperclips�, and people didn�t know what they were at first, but then they saw a few women around the town with multi-coloured paperclips in their hair and it became the latest fashion. The Yogi Bears looked stupid when people started wearing paperclips in their hair. People wouldn�t buy the ordinary paperclips � they had to be the hair paperclips from the furniture shop. Paddy must have tried to cash in on the craze, but he obviously didn�t sell too many of them. The box was still full when Barbara found it.

Harry was slightly concerned that they had to rely on the regulars to keep the business going, but an opportunity came along to attract new customers. A marathon was to be held in Mizzenwood. East Street was part of the course and there were thirty-nine laps in the race. The organisers were expecting over a thousand entries, and people wouldn�t be afraid to come into the shop because Blamey and Hoodley were due to perform in another town that day. Harry put a poster in the window advertising the performance just to let people know that Hoodley wouldn�t be there.

The Historical Building Renovation Committee were organising the race. The fee to enter the race was going to the Renovation fund to demolish the old castle by the river, and next year they hope to renovate it by building an apartment complex. Most of the entrants would be fun runners, so Harry was convinced that they�d get a lot of customers if a thousand people passed in front of the shop thirty-nine times in one day.

The race was due to start in the square. The course would then take the athletes down Abbey Street and then onto East Street. At the end of East Street they would climb the hill, go around the castle and then head back down towards the town; onto a narrow street with no name; past old abandoned sheds, derelict houses, a chemist, an iron-roofed shoe shop, more houses, an internet café, Martin�s hardware shop on the corner, and finally back onto the square.

Early in the morning on the day of the race, the sky was alive with birds, the lake was filled with the reflection of a cloudless, bird-filled sky, and the mayor�s rucksack was filled with dead birds. He had been asked to fire the starting pistol in the race, so he was getting some practice in.

The day turned out to be the hottest day of the year, so Harry put a sign in the window advertising bottled water. There were only about fifty serious runners, and the rest were fun runners. Mayor Pony fired the starting pistol at ten o� clock in the morning (he missed). Roy and Barbara heard the shot and went to the window to see the runners go by. When the front-runners had passed the shop, Barbara left the window but Roy stayed there, looking out.

�They�re so graceful,� he said, �like antelope gliding effortlessly across the vast plains. Morning on the Serengeti. The animals of the Serengeti burst into life at the sound of the gun. The graceful antelope, a hippopotamus running to raise money for a local charity, a man with a horses head, a group of nuns collecting money for the convent, Elvis, a cow whose head is running faster than the rest of his body, Winston Churchill lying on a bed being pushed by six Arabs, an elephant holding hands with a bearded nurse. The animals of the Serengeti running in the beautiful natural harmony of an African dawn, in the natural splendour of the Serengeti��

An hour later, Roy was still standing in front of the window, staring out, but his mood had changed. �Why all this useless running. Running� running� always running.�

Harry came over to Roy at the window. �Calm down, Roy. It�s only running. It�s not evil.�

�That�s what they want you to believe. Why do they have to run? Why can�t they settle down with stationary people? Get a nice job sitting or pointing. Why do they have to run? Have you every asked yourself that? There�s something evil about this.�

�Maybe you should just ignore the running for a while,� Harry said as he tried to lead his brother away from the window, but Roy wouldn�t go.

�Don�t touch me!� he shouted.

�Roy, you�re completely over-reacting here. You�re scaring away the customers.�

�What�s wrong with him?� Barbara asked Harry.

�I don�t know; I�ve never seen him like this before. I think I better call the doctor.�

Roy continued staring out the window as the doctor examined him. Harry explained what was wrong. �We just can�t get him to avert his gaze from the marathon. I tried putting this magazine with a picture of Michael Bolton on the cover in front of his face and he stabbed me in the leg with a compass.� The compass was still stuck in Harry�s leg.

�I�m afraid he�s become addicted to the marathon,� the doctor said. �He�s reached the stage where it�s too dangerous to forcibly avert his gaze, although that was a particularly bad choice of picture. For some reason, marathon-addicts have a terrible fear of Michael Bolton. I�ve seen cases like this before when I was working in Kenya. The best thing to do now is to just let the race run its course.�

�At the start he was so happy, talking about how majestic they looked,� Harry said. �Then very suddenly it turned nasty. Then about five minutes ago he started making fun of the fun-runners.�

Roy shouted at someone outside, �Hey Elvis, stick to the day job in the supermarket.�

�Yes, these are the same stages every marathon-junkie goes through,� the doctor explained. �There�s just nothing you can do at this stage. You have to catch this thing really early to stop it, but when the marathon finishes he should be okay.�

The doctor left and Roy continued to stare out of the window, occasionally shouting at the runners outside. No one dared enter the shop. Roy�s menacing stare was enough to put them off.

Two hours later, Roy was still staring blankly out at the race. He was covered in sweat. All of the serious athletes had finished, but most of the fun-runners remained. Some of them were starting to regret running in such heavy costumes, but then some of them hadn�t realised how long a marathon would be. The elephant started to hallucinate, and thought he was being chased by ivory hunters, which provided a moment of light relief when he tried to strangle the mayor.

Martin came into the shop and said hello to Roy, but got no response. Harry explained how Roy had become a marathon junkie, and it was too dangerous to forcibly avert his gaze from the race until the end.

�He could be there for a while yet,� Martin said. �The main race has finished but some of the less serious athletes have a fair bit to go still.�

�I hope it ends soon. I�m not sure how long Roy can hold out. He�s never done any training for this type of thing.�

�He�s not looking too good.�

�Are you okay there, Roy?� Harry said.

�Why are they going so slow?� Roy said, and then pointed at one of the runners. �Look at him; he�s on crutches.�

�That�s Ron Mitchell,� Martin said.

Roy shouted at Ron, �You bastard, why couldn�t you enter the wheelchair race?�

Martin explained how Ron lost his feet at a party and he�s too embarrassed to admit that he was too drunk to remember where he put them.

�He�s moving fairly quickly for a man with no feet,� Harry said.

�I just hope he gets around before midnight - it�s Watson�s Day tomorrow. None of the race officials will want to work then.�

Barbara came over to the window to see how Ron was doing. �He�ll easily get around before midnight,� she said.

Harry thought so too. �Yeah, he�s not moving all that slowly.�

�Ye sound fairly confident about that,� Martin said. �Do ye fancy placing a little wager on this?�

�A bet on Ron getting around the course by midnight?�

�Yes,� Martin said. �Fifty quid says he can�t make it around by midnight.�

They accepted the bet, and after Martin had left, Barbara said to Harry, �Our money is safe there. He�ll surely get around by twelve.�

�Yeah, that�s what� fourteen hours?�

�He has plenty time.� Barbara and Harry left Roy at the window and returned to the counter. Barbara was curious about something that Martin had said, about the race officials not wanting to work on the following day. �Why is everyone so adamant about not working on Watson�s Day?� she asked Harry.

�That�s a tradition that goes back a long time.�

�How did it start?�

�I could give you the long, tedious textbook version of the story, or I could give you my more condensed interpretation.�

Barbara thought about this and said, �I�ll go with the textbook version.�

�Okay, this is my interpretation of the textbook version.�

The History of Ireland, Chapter 5. Translated from English by Harry Edwards.
The tradition of Watson�s day started many years ago. It�s difficult to say exactly how many; the British having banned counting, so that only twenty of the intervening years have been counted, but the actual figure is likely to be much higher than this. The story begins when Cuchulain married Beatrice, and when Michael Collins died they became King and Queen. While Cuchulain was off counting the British soldiers, Queen Beatrice spent her days with her servant, Watson, mostly in the woods. She would teach him the names of all the woodland animals and trees they came across.

�Look, my dear Watson, that�s a squirrel.� Beatrice said.

�Yes ma�am.�

�And you�re Watson, my dear Watson.�

�Yes ma�am.�

�And this tree here, that�s Watson.�

�No ma�am, I�m Watson.�

�No, my dear Watson; you�re my leg now.�

�Yes ma�am.�

That night, Watson wrote to his mother to tell her of his new role as the Queen�s leg. His mother was so proud she died and went to Navan, where she wrote all those Sherlock Holmes books, which were loosely based on the story of her son�s life.

Watson, however, wasn�t so happy being the Queen�s leg, but he reluctantly carried on with his role so as not to disappoint his mother.

One day in the woods, as Beatrice sat on a log, with Watson standing nearby, the Queen said, �Watson, kick that peasant.�

�Yes ma�am.�

Watson walked over to the peasant, kicked him in the shins, and walked back to Beatrice.

�Thank you, my dear Watson... Watson, my foot hurts. Take off your shoes.�

�Yes ma�am.�

Watson took off his shoes.

�Thank you, Watson.�

And then one day as they were walking through the woods, they met the evil Doctor Moriarty, who bowed before Beatrice and said, �Queen Beatrice, what a pleasure it is to see Your Highness.� He then turned to Watson and looked closely at him. �But it troubles me to see you have a problem with your leg, Your Highness. I couldn�t help noticing you limping as you walked towards me.�

�Yes,� Beatrice said, �it�s been troubling me for a few days now.�

�As a qualified 19^th century physician, I must recommend amputation. If this were the 20^th century we�d be able to operate, but since the British stopped us from counting years, who can be sure what century we�re in? We must err on the side of caution. Your leg must be amputated as soon as possible.�

�Amputation! Oh dear, that�s a pity. Will something have to be cut off my body?�

�No ma�am,� Doctor Moriarty said.

�That�s a relief. Will something have to be cut off Watson�s body?�

�No ma�am.�

�That�s a pity. What exactly does having my leg amputated actually involve?�

�You must leave your leg here, this very instant, and never see him again.� Doctor Moriarty led Beatrice away as he said this.

�Goodbye, my dear Watson,� Beatrice said, looking back over her shoulder as she walked away. �Thank you for your loyal service. You were the best leg I ever had.�

�Goodbye, Your Highness.� Watson waved goodbye to the Queen.

When Beatrice�s other legs heard of what happened they were outraged. Watson was like a father figure to them. They knew from the start that Doctor Moriarty was up to no good, and soon he had them running aimlessly around tracks or kicking bulls. They hated him, so they came up with a plan to get Watson back. Without any warning, they went on strike. One morning Queen Beatrice woke up and realised her legs weren�t working.

�I�m paralysed!� she screamed as she lay in bed.

�Do not worry, ma�am,� said Doctor Moriarty at her bedside. �I promise I will have your legs working again by noon.�

�You better have.�

�Rest assured ma�am; as a 19^th century physician, I�m fully versed in the many different ways of inflicting physical pain.�

Doctor Moriarty threatened the legs with every kind of torture. Some people say it was at this very moment that the concept of a marathon was born, and however frightening that idea is now, it was doubly so back then, in the days before counting. Thirty-nine laps could have gone on forever. When these threats failed, Doctor Moriarty tried bribing the legs; he even got down on his knees and pleaded with the legs, but they stuck to their guns and refused to work. When Queen Beatrice realised that Doctor Moriarty couldn�t fix her legs, she fired him and brought back Watson, at which point all of her other legs decided to work again. But on that day every year afterwards, all the legs, including Watson, refused to work, just to remind Queen Beatrice where she�d be without her legs. This tradition soon spread to other workers; they all refused to work on that day. They�d say, mockingly, to their employers, �I�m paralysed.� Of course, the correct term was �paralytic.�

�And this tradition has carried on ever since?� Barbara said as Harry finished the story.

�Yes. The day became known as Watson�s Day - a day on which no one works to remind us how important our legs are. Some people even go one step further and strive for a state of being in which they can�t feel their legs on Watson�s Day. It�s our national day of celebration.�

�I thought St. Patrick�s Day was our national day of celebration?�

�St. Patrick�s Day? As far as I know that�s a British invention to attract more visitors to Cheltenham. Typical Brits, using our strongest weapon against us: tourism. And horseracing as well. Y� know, there was a time when the little people used to guard our gold. Now they ride horses for the British.�

Barbara remembered the race. �How�s Roy doing?� she said. �Or more to the point, how�s Ron doing?�

Harry went over to the window. Roy was still staring out, covered in sweat. �Ron is still going along at a fair pace,� Harry said. �He�s still well on course to make it around by midnight.�