Nativity of Enid Blyton (1897)

You'll remember, if you're of a certain age, how many Enid Blyton books would start when the adults had somehow been ushered off-stage leaving only the plucky kids to stand up to an assortment of criminals. Who, almost inevitable, were either stage-Cockneys, or shifty-looking foreigners of undefined, but probably Mediterranean, heritage. The requirement would be for the kids to be on a deserted island, or a boggy swamp. Or maybe a reputedly-haunted castle. The kids would triumph through pluck, ingenuity and British spirit. And the girl who was most fond of wearing jodhpurs would be declared to be "spunky". An odd world, and not one we normally think of much these days.

Except the Archdruid's away. And last night, as Hnaef and I wended our way back from the White Horse to the Great House (reputedly haunted by the ghosts of the Archdruid's parents, after that incident with the hay baler) we  heard screams from the upper storey.

Naturally, we worry not about the upper storey. That's where the Archdruid's brother is kept imprisoned by his "keeper". As long as Daisy Rochester has her strength (and believe me, we keep her well nourished) we have nothing to worry about from Mycroft Fitzroy-Russell.

But still, there were shadows moving in the shadows. Which is pretty scary. If you want to see something moving in the shadows, it's not the shadows. Hnaef, however, told me that we are British and Quite Posh, and we should keep our Peckers up and Upper Lips Stiff.

Imagine our shock when we got back to the Great House to witness the return of Mr Jovanovich, the man who owned the house for six months last year when Eileen was last in Wessex. It turns out that, he was trying to claim the house on the grounds of forged deeds. Not his - they're all bona. No, it was Eileen who forged the claim, although I helped with the Land Registry computer.

So we had a shifty foreigner, blood-curdling screams from a spooky stately home, odd and amusing locals (the Beaker Fertility Folk, off for a frolic in the woods) and some Plucky Brits. The only thing we were missing was the almost-human animal that would get involved and, through preternatural intelligence and a certain amount of British Pluck, drive the dodgy foreigner away.

Enter the Earless Beaker Rabbit, lumbering back from an evening chasing foxes.

You can get a nasty nip from a rabbit at the best of times. But this one has a real bad attitude. Mr Jovanovich took one look and fled, dropping the deeds in one of those fortunate and fortuitous pieces of timing. The next thing we knew, the only document that proved the purchase of the Great House last April had disappeared, as the Beaker Bunny quickly ate it. She likes a bit of fibre in her diet. Foolishly, and imagining she was Timmy the Dog, Hnaef and I both bent down to pat her to say well done.

Which is why I'm typing this with two fingers - all the others being bandaged up.

I'm going to be lighting some tea lights in Enid Blyton's memory. I'm hoping it's the sort of foreign idea she'd have hated.