Some painters transform the sun into a yellow spot;

others transform a yellow spot into the sun.

Pablo Picasso (1881-1973)

There was no doubt about it; it had gone.

He’d had it yesterday when he was sporting with Mrs Fitzsimmons, and he knew she hadn't removed it, she was far too frail and exhausted. Bobby the Snout didn't have it, nor did Mr Crabstick the butcher whom he regularly visited for his tripe pudding supplies. It was indeed most curious; the vibraphone had vanished.

Ambrose adjusted his socks and repositioned his hat. He would find the missing vibraphone, and nothing or nobody could stop him.

In pausing to open the solid mahogany front door, Ambrose's attention was drawn to a gleam from an object on the floor. On closer inspection, in turned out to be a ladies hair clip, clasping several strands of bloodstained hair. Noting that it was not Mrs Fitzsimmonds' colour, he placed it in the turn-up of his left trouser leg, for safekeeping. Most peculiar. The possibilities buzzed through his head like a swarm of African Killer Bees. Without warning, the entire swarm made a sharp left (to attack a particularly cute small puppy), and the moment was lost. Shutting the door behind him with a highly satisfying "clunk", he wondered if he would ever see his home again. He spun on his heel, only to discover that the house was, in fact, still there!

The sun was a muddy puddle in the grey pavement sky. It was the kind of day where the birds didn’t sing, they huddled together in groups smoking cheap cigarettes and listening to Walkmans. Ignoring the faint Tsst Tssst of the birds’ Walkmans, Ambrose thought thoughts. The hairs on the hair clip where red. He only knew two ladies who had red hair; one was Davina "Vibraphone" Venticle, and the other Mrs. Emilia Hangnail, an Eighty Seven year old pie shop waitress. Making a few brief notes on his briefs, he put two and two together, divided by the result he first thought of, cast some runes, sang "If a sugar lump hasn’t got spots on, I’ve just put some dice in my tea", stood on one leg, crossed him self, recited the SamHaaa ritual and tied a cats gut around his mid digit. Ambrose had reached his decision. He turned north by Northwest South, and made his way toward Pie City and Mrs. Emilia Hangnail.

The journey to Pie City was uneventful, save for a minor distraction, when Ambrose pulled a pair of left-handed pinking shears from his breast pocket and cut the headphone lead of a sparrow, who had persistently refused to turn his Walkman down. The sparrow was extremely surprised, as he had never seen a pair of left-handed pinking shears before, and flew off muttering something involving seeing his MP as well as getting compensation. He went on to write what would turn out to be an avian-award winning thesis on "The things you miss through living in an essentially right-hand dominated world". Ambrose, of course, knew nothing of this.

Pausing outside of the riot of Day-Glo and neon that formed the façade of Pie City, Ambrose gathered his thoughts. This took a little longer than expected, due in no small part to one particularly shy thought (something to do with ladies underwear) that ran off screaming to hide in the depths of his cranial cortex, and refused to come out until he’d managed to persuade it that none of his other thoughts would make fun of it. A piece of greyish dough clung to the inside of the heavily smeared window to the right–hand side of the door. Barely retained within its floury grasp, was a small postcard.

FOR SALE

Vibraphone

One careless owner

Enquire within

Desperately trying to ignore a nagging feeling that this was a dead end, Ambrose grasped the door handle firmly and pushed. After several minutes of this, he finally discovered the small sign by the handle, which said, "PULL". Any surprise Ambrose may have felt at discovering a talking sign, stunted though its conversational skills may be, was quickly washed away as, with a feeling of doors opening before him, he entered Pie City.

If Caesar’s Palace had the most exquisite and luxurious interior in the known world, Pie City is the bit that an Auntie with failing colour, depth and good taste perception, had given as a present that has to be hidden away and only ever taken out when Auntie pops round for a visit.

Gaudy was not the word…actually gaudy was the word.

Neon yellow columns stood in every corner, huge ferny plants sprouted from golden pots, fake rococo cornices sprung from the corners, the ceiling was a depiction of Nelsons last battle in crayon, the floor was decorated in a Jackson Pollock motif that carefully hid stains. The floor had never been washed so the shop had a certain smell.

Ambrose wiped the tears from his eyes and tried not to breathe in the foetid air. The patrons of the shop all turned to stare at Ambrose. He struck a dashing figure.

"Don’t run indoors" he told the running man he had just knocked out, " You could trip and fall."

The eaters turned back to their pies as Ambrose manfully strode through the shop and up to the counter. Upon its pink, fur lined top was one of those little bells that hotels have when you want some attention. Taking a perfectly formed finger that wasn’t his own, Ambrose rung the bell.

RING it went RING, RING.

From the kitchen came the sound of shuffling, then a slapping sound, then someone shouted "SNAP!". The kitchen door swung greasily open and out shuffled the bent and wrinkly form that was Mrs. Emilia Hangnail.

"Yeeeeesssss?" she asked in voice that sounded like bees being shaken in a jar.

Ambrose eyed the walnut-like personage that crouched before him. He had to play this one carefully; great tact was needed.

"Where is my vibraphone, you thieving wizened old Harridan!!" he yelled, causing Mrs. Hangnail to swallow her teeth, which she had been sucking on.

"Oohhhhhh" she buzzed "you’ve come about the vibraphone."

"That is because it is MY vibraphone you wretched daughter of a street walking tart!!" Ambrose struck his fist upon the counter with such force that Mrs. Hangnail regurgitated her teeth.

"Thank you for your compliments sir, but I’m afraid you’re too late. It’s been sold."

"WhaaaAAATTT" screamed Ambrose in the style of Brian Blessed.

"I sold it not more than twenty minutes ago" she answered in the style of George Formby.

"To who?" inquired Ambrose in the style of Frank Spencer.

"I’m afraid that’s confidential" said Mrs. Hangnail, who had stopped doing impressions and was now pretending to be trapped behind an invisible wall.

Ambrose gritted his teeth - icy weather was coming and he didn’t want slippery teeth. With great care he began to strangle the old woman and bang her head on the counter.

"Who did you sell it to? Who? WHO??"

The repeated contact from the counter eventually jarred loose one of Mrs. Hangnails’ hair clips. Ambrose stared at it in confusion. He extracted the carefully stored hair clip from his left turn-up, and compared the two. The limp form of Mrs. Hangnail slid, senseless to the floor. Considering the state of the floor, this was probably just as well.

Years of training in the field of forensic science were called into play as Ambrose inspected the two hair clips. He pulled jars of exotic substances from inside pockets purpose designed to hold them, mixing their contents in a small beaker, with some of his own spit. He lit a small Bunsen burner under the beaker and focused the light that passed through the beaker using a small, flat crystal. Holding the hair clips side by side, in the light of the crystal, realisation dawned. The first was carved from ebony, cut from a tree in a region of South Africa that he had managed to fix within a two-mile radius. The second was machine moulded from bright yellow plastic, used only by a certain manufacturing company in Hong Kong. The two were different!

Curiosity bubbled up in his mind like something unpleasant floating in a chemical toilet. There was no chance now of him finding his vibraphone, it had gone, sold to some poor soul who had not previously owned such an item. Never mind, Ambrose thought, I shall stick to my euphonium.

But now there was something else. Why would anyone go to such trouble to steal it in the first place? They had gotten past all his defences:

His pentagrams and charms

The god with many arms

His dog with teeth like nails

His mantraps, knives and flails

A great big pointy pit

A bucket filled with shit,

And a tape recording of an Alsatian barking.

Ambrose scratched his chin, then patted it and opened up a tin of Chin food for it. The only link he now had was the ebony hair clip, that meant a journey to the distant land of Africa, the continent of great mysteries, lions, hidden temples, forgotten races, lions, diamonds and lions.

Ambrose braced himself, took a step forward, fell over, unbraced him self and set of in the direction of along.

*******

Africa, land of contrast; land of surprises; land of elephants; land of hope and glory – none of these thoughts went through Ambrose T. Hedgetrimmer’s mind. One or two of them thought about it, and disappeared in a puff of recursive logic. The others took one look and decided that it was far too crowded in there already. Uncharacteristically, Ambrose was in two minds. One was the mind of a teenage call-girl in a sleazy bedsit in Surbiton – he was beginning to think he spent far too much time there – and the other was, oddly enough, his own – he was beginning to think he should spend more time there, just to check up occasionally, see how things were going, that sort of thing.

*******

42f Wangthorpe Street was situated above Dr Graham Jarbucket's World of Contusions, a surgery, of sorts. Ambrose wearily climbed the back stairs. The shrieks and yells of pain from World of Contusions reverberated and bounced of the mock, flock William Morris patterned paper, which was also peeling, that lined the walls.

Inserting his hand into his velvet lined pocket, Ambrose removed the door opening device that was held within, and sliced the sellotaped door seal that held the portal to his abode shut. Ignoring the cries of hunger that emanated from his sea urchin tank, Ambrose made a b line, or was that a bee line, maybe it should have a capital, Bee line…B line? Whatever is was, Ambrose made it to his pogo stick which was leaning against the seven foot tall, wax effigy of the woman who used to play the girlfriend in Please Sir, that nineteen seventies classic starring the bloke who played James Herriot in the film version of All Creatures Great and Small, a small screen hit which had, amongst its fine cast, an actor who played Dr Who. Ignoring the statue’s history - which was hard because Ambrose had it on tape and programmed it to play every time he touched the pogo stick - he climbed astride his noble steed, flicked the on switch on and took a small hop, which got stuck in his throat and made him cough. Ignoring the excruciating pain now in his throat, Ambrose began to bounce up and down, growing higher with each bounce. Whilst Ambrose bounced, he realised how many things he had had to ignore since returning home, his sea urchins, the taped statue history and the screaming white hot pain in his throat. He made a small note, E sharp, to throw all the stuff out he was ignoring so he wouldn’t have to not notice them in the future. Although if he got rid of them he wouldn’t be able to ignore them, which would mean he would notice that they weren’t there in the first place to ignore. These thoughts soon flew out his mind like a flock of migrating albatross in the Spring, because he realised that he had not opened his sky light and, for the last three minutes he had been striking his head against a sheet of three inch thick plate glass, which he had been ignoring.

"Curses!" he yelled as the glass finally shattered and Ambrose shot into the ether, which is shame because he was aiming for the sky.

*******

Now the Ether is a strange place at the best of times, which this was not. It’s full of weird creatures, doing weird things for weird reasons no one understands. So, on balance perhaps weird would be a better way to describe it, which is one of the things that makes it so strange. Anywho, Ambrose cared nothing for any of this. Below him (or was it above?) lay the world spread out like a chicken vindaloo on the pavement outside The Bangalore Taj on a Saturday night after ten pints of Lion Roar Lager. This being the first time astride his trusty Hops-a-lot Pogo Turbo 2000 XL Ghia, 37 litre, 16 valve, four bedroomed, semi-detached, no children after 9 PM, non-smoking, genetically modified pogo stick, Ambrose was a little perplexed (although he was still hoping to become a big perplexed with just a few more sessions at the Gym). In fact, he couldn’t even remember how the pogo stick had come into his possession (won in a game of "spoon" with a spectacular double-implant half way through the third chukka, followed by a celebratory binge involving everything from Absinthe to Jeyes fluid, resulting in the memory loss). So it was with some shock that Ambrose eventually landed, by pure coincidence a mere three and a half thousand miles from his intended destination.