Turkey soup

I get an email from my friends Dot and Doug. After two years in Uganda they are moving back to the UK. Two years ago, bored with London, they decided to go to Africa and open a monkey orphanage for baby monkeys whose parents had been killed by poachers. In Africa, they call this feeding the family, but owing to our Westernised fluffy bunny syndrome, some call it murder. The locals were very helpful in setting up the sanctuary; I think they thought Dot and Doug were opening a monkey meat farm. For the next few months, their Facebook page was filled with cute pictures of Macaques, Chimps and Baboons sucking on baby bottles, snoozing peacefully in the cradled arms of Dot and Doug with their pet dog, Mildred, looking on like a proud surrogate mother. Of course, monkeys have a habit of growing up. Within a year it was total chaos. The Chimps and Baboons had fallen out and were permanently ambushing each other from the trees, the larder was raided every night, the once proud Mildred just cowered in the kitchen watching the gremlin like antics, too scared to go out since being attacked and robbed of her teddy bear and Diamante collar. Every evening, on the veranda, the Macaques treat Dot and Doug to a monkey orgy. The dominant male, named Dobby, would service at least half a dozen females, whilst the other members of the group watched from the rafters, screeching and screaming him on, and occasionally indulging in a nasty little habit. The end to this dream was finally signalled when Dot and Doug came home one day and found the Chimps had broken into and trashed the house, raided the freezer and were sat in the lounge eating ice creams watching ‘Escape to the Country’ which had been left on to deter burglars.


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