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Entry 10: Local off-licence ransacked by tramps, tourists

This week Ketsbaia has been rocked by revelations that so called "untoward events" are occurring in Ketsbaia Municipal Botanical Gardens. The details were leaking onto the Internet after a diary extract was uncovered and secured by local sheriffs. The identities of the writer and the secret monks have yet to be established, though a moaning figure was recovered near the scene by some bins.

The uncovered note reads as follows:

Extracts from a charred note book found near Ketsbaia municipal swimming pool.

Life hasn't been easy since my attempt to circumnavigate the world in an aeroplane hastily assembled from a soiled mattress, discarded ironing boards and the engine of a stolen Virgin Sky Bus ended in disaster as I veered miles off course and crashed in a strange town, which doesn't appear on my London A-Z. I shall attempt to chronicle my experiences in the hope of becoming a rich and famous anthropologist if I ever get rescued.

Day 26

I've taken up residence in a small park inhabited by what have I determined to be an order of monks, bound by duty to protect the enchanted swings from hoards of cursed midgets who attempt to push and sit on said swings in a most disrespectful manner. For days I observed them ritually sup from their divine tin amulets while chanting sacred rites.

I arrived at the decision yesterday to attempt contact with the monks. Communication with the locals has previously proved problematic. Most recoil in horror at the severe facial scaring and accelerated beard growth I suffered on crashing. Others require no invitation to pelt me with berries and hail, despite my attempts at chanting the sacred rites "feerkkkrrrrffwnnkeeerrrrs", "geerrrrrrrowwttheprrrrrrrkyrrrrtwwrt", "whyyyydrrrrdyeeeeeerleavemrrrrrsandra". Clearly repetition of these Holy phrases by an outsider is construed as an insult to their religion.

A change of tact was required in order to make acquaintance with the Holy Men, so I hit upon the idea of providing an offering of the blessed juice which so clearly focuses the mind on their divine work. Venturing out of my bush-house, garbed in the least conspicuous of my suits (fashioned from discarded crisp packets and cheese strings), I made my way towards the temple where I had previously observed the monks procuring the juice.

Not wishing to risk a severe pelting, I devised an ingenious plot to distract the Guardian of the Juice by creating a small fire outside the temple. For kindling I used a bundle of paper tickets emblazoned with the monarchs face which I had found in a brief case chained to the arm of a deceased gentleman in the park earlier in the week. The fire caused quite a commotion and the guardian was indeed distracted from his position. I saw my chance and ran into the temple, where I was able to bundle 4 tins of the cherished water into my knapsack. I also managed to scramble a mysterious artefact marked with the insignia "Curly Wurly" which should make a fine tie for my suit.


The juice worked a treat, as the monks greeted my offering by ceasing their increasingly agitated chanting and inviting me to sit with them on their mysterious wooden throne. Despite the language barrier I was welcomed into their Holy community, and even charged with midget scaring duty at one point during the evening.

Today has been spent in a most devout way, with much supping of the blessed drink and chanting of the sacred rites.

Day 27

I'm beginning to have my doubts about my chosen path. It started this morning when I witnessed the tallest monk urinating on a sleeping dog. My doubts were strengthened further when the widest monk clearly punched a goose without remorse as I observed him from a tree. I may abdicate tonight and return to my leafy hovel.