It sounds as though Meadowcroft would have seen eye-to-eye with Hugo Dyson. Legend has it that he responded to Tolkien reading something from Lord of the Rings at a meeting of the Inklings in an Oxford pub by groaning "Oh fuck, not another elf."
Saturday
On Bonfire Night I was accosted at the village firework display by a white-bearded fellow who claimed to be a wizard. He said they were looking for a couple of chaps to trek into eastern Rutland and drop a ring into a crack that led to the earth’s molten core. Did, he asked, yours truly and my gardener fancy the job? He could guarantee that the gardener would get to meet an elf.
I’m afraid I gave him both barrels, pointing out that the existence of a pothole that deep reflected poorly on the ward councillor. I added that I had tried taking a holiday with Meadowcroft, but he had done nothing but complain that he had to sit at the rear of the tandem and I wasn’t going to repeat the experiment. As to meeting elves, Meadowcroft was often be found chasing them out his herbaceous borders with a broom.
My advice was that, if he was so keen to have a ring dropped down the dashed hole, he should ask an eagle to do it.
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