Illuvatar University

1


The new students were feeling a mix of feelings: trepidation, excitement, dyspepsia, and a host of other feelings too many to list; yes, a host are a lot of feelings, (strictly speaking listable, true) some of them harder to differentitiate from similar ones, like 'trepidation' and 'fear', for example. They are different to a degree, though can be interchangeable, even tautological if placed in the wrong hands, but never in the hands of a Great Writer, not if He (or, theoretically possible, She) has a solid editor. Not a fat one, mind, but a thin professional one. Which is not to say fat editors are always incompetent, and I did say 'solid', not 'fat', which would not be politically-correct-speak, if you know what I mean, and I fear you do. I did say 'solid' with the inference to Him (or, theoretically , Her) being competent. No, I did not suggest that 'solid' and 'fat' were being used tautologically (or ambiguously for that matter), or not deliberately so; the main thing is, no one should feel offended, rightly or wrongly, and that's the main thing, don't you think?

Julia Candytones, a student with rather fine  breasts displayed in milky whiteness above her low cut top, and wearing a splendid almost non-existant miniskirt, was feeling a bit ill in the stomach. She wasn't feeling trepidation (or fear), just ill in the tummy after eating that chilly cod last night. The cod may have been off, though one could never say it had not been a rather tasty bowl of Rum Vodka Chilly Cod with rice. Anyhow, it did not interfere with her carefully checking out two of the other Forumshire Students in the Great Room of the University.

The two stood out for her.

One, a rather wild looking Scotshobbit, clearly with nothing worn beneath his kilt (and who should perhaps have crossed his legs), and his sporrin was an especially fine sporrin made of silky black haggis skin, possibly scrotum skin, Julia was no expert.

The other, a rather brutal looking Ozhobbit who proudly showed he too had nothing worn below the waist (and perhaps who should have worn khaki shorts with less volunimnous leg-holes as he slouched in his chair); his slouch hat gave him a rather laconic primitive air.

"Petty McCracken and Bifforous Banks," she breathed as she studied the University Intro Photo Book again. "I will have to catch up with them. They neither of them look intelligent types, but they do exude a rather fetching aggressive sensibility. Not that I'm 'that' kind of girl, mind, and I best not forget that."

A voice cleared itself. The voice was in the Dean's voice box. "So, remember, my name is Odovacar Banks-Moneybags, the Dean of this fine place of study," said a rather long faced gentlehobbit who stood at a lectern at the the front of the Greeting Room. "I hope you have taken notes about the Rules of Propriety of Illuvatar University, those which I have been expousing this last hour or so. Now, off to your dorms. Your lessons begin tomorrow at oh-800 sharp."

"Huh?" Julia huhhed. "Oh dear, I've been checking out those two brutish boys for an hour! Dear! I hope I didn't miss anything important."

Quickly thereafter, Julia accidentally bumped into the two hobbits of her interest in the hall outside the Greeting Room.

"Oh terribly sorry," Julia gasped with fluttery eyes and helped them pick up their University Handbooks which she had knocked from their paws.

Petty and Bifforous could not help but admire the flash of white beneath her miniskirt as she elegantly retrieved their Handbooks.

"Gor! Bloomun bute bloomers!" said Bifforous. "Wot a neece par ov bootooks, Putty!"

"Ock tha noo!" cried the other complimentarily. "Thay bee fine bootucks und muck noo mustook!"

"I don't suppose you fellows are up for a dram of Old Wynyard at the Cock and Muffin, pray tell?" Julia asked decorously as she stood up and straightened her miniskirt demurely. "So long as you don't think I'm 'that' kind of girl."

"Wot keen a gul wood thart bee, lussie?" Petty asked suspiciously. "Noot won hoo drunks a laddie beneeth tha tooble too muck heem seem boot hulv a Scootshoobut, ayed be a'hoopin!"

"Nota bonza birdie that iza a butt two good ut doorts, aye hoop," said Bifforous, suspiciously. "Eye lik mee woumen dallycart und fuminun und poor ontha dartz, bye jingoo!"

"Trouble yourself not a bit - or nit a butt!" Julia smiled celibately. "Then it's a date."

And she took a muscly arm of each and propelled them out of the University and down to the pub.

Dear gawd, how I do love discovering a new story from the Bugle has popped up!

This seems promising.

''his sporrin an especially fine sporrin made of silky black haggis skin, possibly scrotum skin, Julia was no expert.''

you are right. I am NO expert.

2

"I have great expectations, of course..." Julia was saying as she sipped yet another glass of Old Wynyard that Petty had bought her in undergraduate hopes.

"Aye! As do eye!" Petty nodded furiously. "To be the first McCracken to avood tha cool mins. Aye, eye doo."

"Muh?" Bifforous said philosophically. "Muh, eye wood bee un akitetek, cept ime noot smartenuff."

"How pray tell did you manage to get to Illuvatar?" Julia asked tipsily as she admired Bifforous' strong Ozhobbit jaw. "I had to work my butt off to get here."

"Itz hiz Nunkle Oddu's mooney... Deed ya see you wirkud yor boot orf?" Petty said thoughtfully, eyeing Julia's comely form, not for the first time.

"No, not what you think." Julia said gaily. "Though I was short of money sometimes, so I performed the odd lute dance. Lute dancing runs deep in my family history."

"Lude duncin?" Bifforous asked, draining yet another mug of buckie as the three sat on stools at the bar, his eyes, yet one more time, runing up and down Julia's comely form.

"Oh you buggers! 'Lute'. L.U.T.E. It's an old family custom - lute dancing - going back to biblical times apparently." Julia sighed. "I wonder if my lute dancing stacks up. Never mind, I want to be a Georgian Art Restorer anyway... Ahh boot eye dinae meend the lute a wee but." She giggled at her attempt at Scotshobbit accent - though she sounded more Ozhobbitstani to be honest.

"Lude?" Petty put in, 'lewd' now stuck in his febrile mind, having had a few more buckie's than was probably wise (in non-Scotshobbit company). "In the cool mins we dinae doo mooch ov the loody-rudey --noot untool Suturdee wen eye hoov uh woosh intha lake..."

"Lute! L.U.T.E. Really you two. Now, I do believe it's your turn for a shout, Petty. Let the flies out of your sporrin. Go on then."

"Aye! I weel, boot my foond for Unervarsitee iz quackly drooning."

"Did you say 'quackly'."

"Aye, lassie. Und oonlee too-oo quackley!" And Petty morosely pulled out a silver shilling his great great grandaddy had received as payment for a stolen pig - some say, half a pig.

"Where was I?" Julia asked the air. "Oh yes, I have great expectations..."

"Aye! As doo eye! I woont ta love tha mins..."

"Groondoog Dae! Groondoog Dae!" Bifforous cried suddenly and fell unconcious off his stool.

"Canna hoold hus lucker," Petty said, nodding his shaggy head triumphantly. Then he proceeded to fall off his stool, mug of buckie still in his hand, miraculously unspilled.

"You know, Jules," Julia said to herself. "I thought they'd hold their liquour better than that. Oh well, I suppose I best hold up my end and order another bottle of Old Wynyard. Let me see. Ahh! Petty's silver penny. And what have we here in Bifforous' roo-skin handbag.. Goodness. What a lot of money. Well, Petty did say he is Odo Bankses nephew and all..."

"Well hellllll-ooooo," said a sleazy creepy voice.

Julia spun around only to see her old flame Orwell McOdo standing swaggeringly by the pub door like a bad penny only taller . "Need a drinking buddy, girl?"

"Why not," Julia sighed after a moment's reflection. "It's not like these two are going to keep me company. And Bifforous can pay for both of us, you skinflint. But don't try to get me drunk and have your way with me... not that that's likely, you sleazy old poof."

She giggled at her attempt at Scotshobbit accent - though she sounded more Ozhobbitstani to be honest.

:x its fair dinkum diddly doo roo balls.

What a collection of degenerate types!  

3

"I, of course, have a great expectation," Orwell was saying, the several bottles of pink champagne loosening his tongue.

"What? Julia slurred as she wobbled unsteady on her stool. "To be Master Baiter of Forumshire? Chief Dick most likely!"

"Do you mind. You know how much I hate hobbits who bait other hobbits. You'll be calling me a big fat tease next!"

"With the emphasis on fat... No, no, no, I didn't mean it - like hell I didn't. Anyhow, get on with it."

"I don't know if I should, what with you just wanting to bait me. Maybe you're planning on be a great big master baiter""

"You degenerate. As if I would. If I wanted something like that, I'd pick up some randy chap and get him to do the job. I prefer not to have to go to the effort, don't you think that kind of behaviour is all a little sad in the end. "

"Oh dear., who is the degenerate now? Anyway, I was talking about master baiting... M.A.S.T.E.R...."

"Yes, I get your point. Tell me of your great expectation."

Orwell brightened as he genteelly took another delicate sip of his champagne. "I'm doing my Certificate 3 in Museum Door Security. No more Assistants jobs for me. I guess you never knew I had such high goals did you?"

"So you've come to the best Uni in Forumshire to get your Certificate 3 in Museum Door Security. Oh what grand aspirations!"

Orwell thought he detected a rather dismissive quality in Julia's words. On his dignity, he slurred: "And what are you here for, Miss Lardydah!?"

Julia straightened up on her stool. "Wigs, I'm here to get my Bachelor in Georgian Wig Restoration. Top that, you poor excuse for a part time Assistant Miseum Door Security Official."

And Julia, possibly drunk now, having drunk eight bottles of Old Wynyard fell unconcious off her stool. Orwell studied her breasts, which had fallen out, and her pristine white knickers in horror, and he quickly made her decent again. "One should never have to see a lady in such revealing circumstances. I feel quite ill about it, really."

And who of us, dear reader, could blame him?

4


Orwell had been brought up to protect vulnerable women, and clad (or half clad) like she was, he thought it best to get Julia home safe and sound. Mother would be proud of him. So leaving Petty and Bifforous to sleep on the tavern floor, which was their usual accommodation, Orwell hired a cab and took her to her flat in Menzie Backaus Street, North Needlehole, thankful for the weighty hardness of Bifforous's Ozhobbiton Colonial coins in his tight pockets. Once he got Julia home, he quickly dressed her in her warmest (and most concealing) pyjama pants and top. He had her stripped and modestized in no time, hardly taking a glance at her womanly proportionings. He had only once seen her womanly proportions, back when they were dating, and it had been an awful shock. Women, he had discovered, were all out of proportion and missing a vital protuberance - or three if you included a boy's jewellery attachments to said protuberance. He had become annoyed with his mother. Why had she not told him? It had also opened his mind to certain possibilities about his own mother, who had always dressed like a man, saying she was a Feminist and that she was every bit the equal of men - but was she? Orwell hoped never to find out.

Orwell placed Julia on her couch and retired to her bed where he got in an hour of study from his Museum Door Security Handbook before nodding off.

At three in the morning Orwell was woken by Julia's loud and obnoxious snores. "Oh stone the crows," he grumbled. "I need my beauty sleep, and what with an early start and all."

So he got up and turned her over on the couch with her face in a cushion. That quietened her. Suddenly, from behind the lounge room curtain of Julia's flat jumped a burglar in a balaclava.

"Oh dear!" He squealed.

The burglar then bopped him on the head with what looked suspiciously like a large red carrot, and he knew no more.

Looks like Ol' Anon is on the iPad he got from Father Erumas. Talk about a lack of editing. And he doesn't seem to know how to edit his tales on iPad! Shows you, you should never give old people new fangled thingees!

edit in some pictures, why don't you? All this talk of 'womanly proportions' is addling my innocent brain. Can't quite imagine what you could possibly be talking about.

If you select the "view full site" option you can get out of the horrid mobile version and have access to all the features again.

somebody is going to get their 'jewellery' lightly bruised if they are not careful.

Julia, I'm sure the Orwell in this tale admires women, as long as they keep their attire unrevealing, so as not to show their unmanly features. There is such a thing as clothing oneself appropriately. We men accept that women are different in certain physiological ways, but do we really want your defects (I mean it kindly) thrust in our faces. Some men (presumably) quite like womanly proportions and deletions, but what about men who admire the male form, artistically speaking?

Thanks Eldorado. You're not as useless an Admin as Odo sometimes suggests!

Halfwise, l myself have seen naked women, and it's truly not for the faint hearted. If not for the cover of darkness I would not even have had offspring. My Missus feels even stronger about her nakedness than I do - or so I assume.

Edited! I helped Ol' Anon, Eldorado. Did you know that iPad Eldo is always Eldorado? Weird. But then, weird and Eldo go so well together!

Glad to be of help, Orwell. I figured that Eldorado was an autocorrect thing the last time you called me that.

Strictly speaking, my iPad called you that. You know me very well by now, I always treat you respectfully. Indeed, with all the respect you deserve.

Of course, Orlando.

5


When Orwell came to, he realised he hadn't been raped. But what about Julia? He looked over at her as she gasped for breath through her pillow, fully pyjammed.

"Well, I'll be damned. But what was he doing with that carrot? Hard to believe he used it for cudgelling only."

Julia snorted, possibly woken by his expostulations, coughed and spluttered and turned over with an oxygen starved red face. "What the hell  are you going on about? And why am I on the couch? Stole my bed again, you bastard! And Made no attempt to take advantage of me yet again I see... You are so pathetic!"

"Well neither did that carrot wielding intruder. He bopped me on the head, knocking me senseless, but then left us both  patently unviolated. What kiind of fiend was he, anyway?"

That made Julia sit up and take notice. "Are you trying to tell me that a carrot wielding intruder broke in and didn't rape either you or me?"

"I know. I know. Doesn't seem natural in Forumshire. Oh my! Oh my! My Security Door Officer Handbook!"  And Orwell ran off to Julia's bedroom. He screamed in horror. "It's gone! It's gone!"

Julia, alertened too, cried: "Where is my Georgian Wig Restoration Handbook?"

Orwell sped back into the sitting room. "I put it on that table... Ohhhh my gawwwwd! He's taken that too!"

"My gawd. I just thought... What if it was a carrot wielding female intruder?" Julia gasped in horror.. "If so, I'm glad she wasn't a rapist after all, as I hate that kind of thing. Women tying up women and having their evil way with them! Horrible!!"

"Makes me sick just thinking about it. How much imperfection can you conjoin on one couch... Worse still, what if she'd been a heterosexual rapist?"

Julia jumped up and sat Orwell down on her couch and went to get a damp cloth for his brow.

Once Orwell had ceased hyperventilating, she sat down beside him and put her beautiful mind to the mystery.

"I wonder what would drive a male - or female - intruder to steal someone's university handbook?"

"A male - or female - intruder with a sick sick mind, that's who!" Orwell grated."There are some deeply disturbed degenerates in this world, Julia."

Julia studied him carefully for a long moment. "Yep. You're certainly right about that. Well, you know what I think, I think a certain someone wants us to fail our courses. That's what I think. Steal our handbook, upset our study, make us fail."

"Or maybe just have us get poorer marks than him - or her."

Julia scowled. "Well, looks like I'll have to solve a mystery - and then deal very severely with Mister Carrotwielder!"

"Or Missus or Miss or Ms."

"True. Whoever it is, they'll get there's alright," Julia said ominously between bared teeth.  

"Oh goody," Orwell said clapping his little hands. "Can I help?"

"Of course you can," Julia Candytones said sweetly. "So long as you let me do all the serious thinking and talking and investigating."

"Oh I can be your slightly naive attractive assistant, that would be fun."

"Attractive assistant?" Julia assessed him closely. "Yeah - sure. Would you like me to pick out a nice little skirt for you?"

"Do you mind!" Orwell growled. "You know very well I prefer hot pants!"

I don't like the sound of 'carrotwielder' or 'carrotwielding' or anything where carrots are swung about willy-nilly and with gay abandon.

With the start to the year a lot of folk I know are having so far, I could do with a bit of gaeity in my life, Julia. In the old fashioned sensed, not in the fictional sense that I seem to be detecting in this tale, of course.

6

Time was of the essence (apparently) and Julia thrust herself into action. She tossed off her pyjamas as quickly as you could say "Petty is a baboon" and darted off to the shower. Orwell followed her around, as he was at a loose end just then and quite excited about helping Julia investigate the carrot wielding thief and had a desire to watch her every action. As she showered, he wondered what it was with some men (and some women) that they enjoyed looking at naked women. He had to concede as he watched her lather up, wash, and oil her milk white skin, that there was indeed a rather fascinating symmetry to the female form, if you enjoyed looking at that kind of thing. For instance, Julia had rather nice legs, shapely, almost Boyish if a mite too feminine for his liking, and her hips were nicely rounded and her buttocks quite boyish when viewed from behind, though a little more rounded than you'd see in a boy, and her breasts were rather like large round scoops of vanilla ice cream with sweet cherry nipples, and Orwell did like ice cream and cherries, and her hair, though longer than most metrosexual men's, was rather a pleasant red colour, vibrant somehow, full of life, especially after she applied conditioner, and even her pubic hair, shaved in the form of a love heart, was rather fetching in an artistic sense.

"If I was the kind of guy who liked this kind of thing," Orwell thought thoughtfully, "I'd actually like this kind of thing."

To Orwell's surprise, Julia then clothed herself in a rather nice dress and put her hair in a ponytail with a ribbon and put on rather stylish high heels, not the least bit slutty at all.

"Um..." Orwell ummed.

Julia read his mind immediately. "We're off to the Needlehole Art Gallery, Orwell," she smiled knowingly and her whole face lightened up and her eyes were deep and kind and strangely alluring, not as sharp and knowing as was usual.

Orwell couldn't help thinking that a man who liked this kind of thing (beautiful intelligent women that is) could quite easily fall in love with a woman like that. Though of course he wasn't keen to go to an Art Gallery. That kind of thing was alright for sissies but not men who truly liked masculine things.

Julia went on: "I find it always helps to heighten my senses to go to an Art Gallery. Now, off we go. Open the door for me please, as I'm in a romantic feminine mood at the moment, and I want you to treat me like a lady for a change."

"Okaaaay...."  Orwell uttered totally at a loss and quite glad just then that Ol' Anon's iPad battery was getting flat because, frankly, he was having some strange thoughts looking at Julia as she walked elegantly through the door he had gallantly opened for her.

Are we back to people dueling for Mrs Figg's affections through their fiction again?

Are you suggesting that we wouldn't?