Well, well, well. It seems that my partner is going to have to admit that she was completely in the wrong regarding the ghost-buzzard scrattin' away in my airing cupboard, which has been tormenting my sanity since early August. Oh yes.
My partner did not get a single wink of sleep last night. She kept fidgeting about, getting up to go to the bathroom and coming back again and was in a general state of agitation. Nothing seemed to soothe her. I merely concentrated on pretending to be fast asleep and trying not to look smug. I overheard her talking to someone about her predicament. Although I didn't catch all of what was said, I distinctly heard her mention something to do with "a thrush".
Later, once the acceptable part of the day had dawned, I watched as my partner - in a distinct state of crossness - stripped our bed of its linens and put them in the washing machine, replacing them with cleaned, fresh coverings. And yes - yes, my friend, - this involved her in having to pay a visit to our airing cupboard. There was my first clue. I also heard my partner muttering about aggravating itchiness - "itching", as we all know, is another word for scrattin'. A second clue. At work today, I mentioned the subject to Fizzy. Sympathetic to my ghost-addled predicament and anxious to make amends for our previous disagreement over the kittens, she helped me to get a reference book down from the bookshelf in the office and together we looked up "a thrush". It is, apparently, a charming little song-bird with a beautiful voice. My third and final confirmatory clue - if one were needed (which it wasn't).
"Ah-ha!" I cried triumphantly, "That's where I've been going wrong! It isn't a ghost-buzzard - it's a ghost-thrush! I knew my partner would have to admit that I was right all along in the end! Jasper Stafford is vindicated once more!"
"You're SO clever, Jasper!" coo-ed Fizzy, admiringly. Ewan spoiled my moment of triumph by laughing and snorting when he saw that the Latin family-name for the Thrush is 'Turdidae'. But, at least, now that my partner agreed with me that the ghost-bird (whatever its species) was real, steps could be taken to finally get rid of the hellish spectre.
My partner decided that some kind of holy cream, which could be procured quite easily, was the answer to our problem. I can't remember the name of the stuff, but I think it came in a "canister". I followed my partner upstairs, to watch her spread this miracle cream which was to exorcise our phantom and restore my peace of mind. However, when I saw where my partner was applying this cream, I became doubtful as to how that was supposed to be dealing with the ghost-thrush. My partner seems much happier now, though, so perhaps this somewhat unorthodox method will prove ultimately successful. I am still looking forward to her abject apology and admission of the fact that I was right all along. Never doubt the perceptive and superior mind of Jasper. Oh no.
This triumphant episode has led to the postponement (again, for which I apologise) of my next Evolution instalment (as well as that of the tale of Ewan becoming inadvertently wired-up to the National Grid). I will endeavour to complete those editions tomorrow. But I am sure you will agree with me that such an epiphany in my partner's understanding cannot go un-remarked.
I do concede that I had mistaken the species. But ghost-buzzard or ghost-thrush; this cream will, once and for all, banish the phantom feathered-one from our temporal world back to the realm of the spritual, from whence it fluttered. What a happy day!