Private (Third) Eye - Places Unknown

I was lost. I didn't know where I was but that's why these places were called Unknown. I turned a corner and stopped dead in my shoes. The air was full of the sound of jingling bells and the smell of Ploughman's lunches. That meant trouble. Trouble meant bad guys and much like grapes, bananas and little girls hair, bad guys usually came in bunches. I adjusted my hat to the most rakish of angles and stepped lightly on my way. If I'd been a spider or a superhero my senses would have been tingling. As it was the only thing tingling was my rash (I had some cream but it was locked in my office) but I still knew something diabolical was ahead. Around another corner I stalked only to be greeted by my fourth least favourite thing in the world. Morris Dancers. As I counted the white clad, stick wielding, dancing menaces my mind was trying to find the right word for a collective name of Morris Dancers. An Annoyance was my final decision as I sprung into action. Preemptive you might think but I'd seen these sorts of people with their pristine white outfits and bumpkinesque version of voodoo rain dances murder more than one song and village fete in my time and I wasn't going to allow them to take me in the same way. I moved quickly and quietly around the outside of the gathering like a well dressed and rather handsome Lion stalking a herd of bearded and annoying Gazelles. One of the Morris Men, a small and sickly looking one, was forced from the group and headed towards a bench for what I could only assume to be a sinister rest. I grabbed a stale baguette, which along with cheese is the main source of power for the Morris Dancer, and put him to sleep with only twelve or thirteen hearty blows of the bread cudgel. I slipped into his uniform like a Mars bar descending into a Glaswegian deep fat fryer and moved into the middle of the throng. I smiled and nodded as I took my place. I was feeling smug and invisible when I realised leaving my Fedora on was probably a mistake. Bearded faces turned toward me. Running on pure instinct and a bottle of cough medicine (don't ask) I launched myself at them. With a flurry of my borrowed stick I began to clean house. One by one the merry men of the apocalypse went down, the whole affair made a lot easier by the fact that the musicians kept playing, helping me to keep time. As the song came to its natural conclusion the audience applauded in a confused manner and a pile of middle aged men with bells on lay in front of me. Justice or a random assault at an innocent folk gathering? I let them make their own minds up as I slipped into something a bit more stereotypical and looked up. Those two pigeons were sat on a weather vane, a leaf tucked into one of their beaks. Was the pot plant offering the olive branch of peace? I was going to find out.