Long ago, in a faraway land, there lived a colony of very civilised weevils. The most revered of them was called Ethelred, because that was the name his parents had chosen for him. Ethelred had led the great communal effort which culminated in the building of the world’s first corn syrup refinery, bringing wealth and prosperity to the colony. One might expect Ethelred to have been a deliriously happy weevil, largely because weevils are deliriously happy most of the time, but this was not so. There was a void, an emptiness, an aching cliché in Ethelred’s life.

In those days it was usual for weevils to live for several years and then expire. During the course of their all-too-brief mortal sojourn most weevils would be afflicted by an overwhelming urge to find a mate and propagate weevil-kind. This was entirely beneficial both to the species and, as propagating is a most enjoyable activity, to the individual. Such an urge had come upon Ethelred when he had set his eyes upon Olivia, the beautiful and intelligent daughter of Old Tom Oatweevil. The curvature of her slavering fangs set Ethelred’s spiracles singing and her grace in the maypole dance left him dazed with wonder. Olivia was not displeased by Ethelred’s admiration and would, when they met at parties, which was often because weevils love parties, glance at him coquettishly over a glass of marzipan gin.

Sadly there was an obstacle to the conjugal bliss of Ethelred and Olivia. Old Tom Oatweevil was nearing his sixtieth month and had gradually grown more resistant to change since the day he was born. Ethelred’s introduction of the corn syrup refinery had, to Old Tom’s eyes, supplanted the age old artistry of the cottage corn-syruper. Tom would not approve his daughter's avowed desire to set up home with Ethelred. Olivia, being an obedient young weevil, would not disregard her father’s wishes. Thus Ethelred was often to be seen, when not engaged upon his work, staring listlessly at the moon. The same moon that shone upon the tear streaked fangs of Olivia.

The days and weeks passed. Old Tom Oatweevil gave no sign of impending demise. Ethelred and Olivia remained frustrated. Others among the colony were all too aware of the burden of chastity upon the lovers. It was feared that some tragedy would occur if nothing were done, so the council of weevil elders met and decided that it would be in the best interests of this most civilised colony if Ethelred should be sent on a mission to distant parts. Hopefully this would mitigate the misery of both Ethelred and Olivia, and by the time Ethelred returned Old Tom would have had the good grace to have taken his curtain call.

It was with great sadness that the colony watched Ethelred and four young companions set off across the Soggybrook Marsh in search of new raw material suppliers for the corn syrup refinery and seeking new markets for their burgeoning product. The industrial revolution was setting off economic expansion and in due course the whole of weevildom would be united, in a friendly sort of way of course. That said, it should not be forgotten that in those days there were still dangers in travelling. Each weevil carried a stout pole to test the footing so as not to be swallowed by the mire and the party spent an hour of their second night away avoiding the attentions of a hungry starling by sheltering beneath a hedgehog.

Eventually Ethelred came to a place where the weevils, though less technologically advanced than his own colony, grew fat upon the syrup from the great bounty of corn around them. There was a greeting party, of course, and trade agreements were negotiated the next day. Then there was another party. It was now that a messenger, streaked with mud from the marsh and near to exhaustion, arrived with news for Ethelred. Tom Oatweevil had taken his last drop of marzipan gin and, after a suitably solemn inhumation, Olivia was free to set up home with her beloved Ethelred.

Ethelred and his four companions set out at once for their home colony. Ethelred led them at reckless speed towards the Soggybrook Marsh, desperate to be with his beloved. They set foot upon the marsh as night fell and were within sight of home when the sun rose the following morning. Picture, but only if you damned well want too, the exhausted Ethelred moving from tussock to tussock. The first rays of sunshine illuminate the dwellings only a few hundred weevil paces away and the chimney of the corn syrup refinery stands like a sentinel in the background. Into view comes Olivia and her call echoes across the marsh. ‘Ethelred’ she cries, ‘Ethelred my love’. And like many a male, before and since, Ethelred could not hold himself back.

It was nearly a month before Olivia overcame her grief sufficiently to speak to outsiders. As she crouched disconsolately beside the road an old wizened weevil approached. ‘I have been on the road for many hours, my pretty, and my tongue feels like a Badger’s belly. Could you find a tot of marzipan gin for one of your ancestors?’ We have heard that Olivia was a civilised and respectful girl, and in any case she was intrigued by the old weevil’s claim to be an ancestor, so she bade him rest and fetched him a drink of gin. After slaking his thirst and wiping his fangs with a somewhat grubby claw, the old weevil remarked upon Olivia’s apparent sadness. She told him, weeping, the story of Ethelred’s impetuous death. The old weevil put a fatherly arm around her and began to speak.

‘I have learned a little in my travels, my pretty, and there is a thing I can tell you which may give you cause for thought. It is written, I forget where, that it is not possible to know simultaneously the nature, position and velocity of a body. Now you know pretty exactly the position and velocity of Ethelred’s body, so you cannot be at all certain that he is dead. The more exactly you know the position and velocity of the body, the less you know of its nature. Therefore if you go and locate the body precisely you can be extremely uncertain that he is dead. In such a case, it is probably quite sufficient to believe that he is not for him to be able to spend the rest of his unlife with you.’ Olivia was amongst the brightest of weevils but this idea left her fangs agape. As she turned it over between her little weevil synapses the wizened old weevil wandered off.

The very next day Olivia ventured out to the sink-hole and pushed her pole down into the slush. A little way below the surface she felt the distinctive rigidity of a carapace and in that instant knew that there was a very good chance that Ethelred would be undead. At that instant Ethelred’s claws reached for the pole and, with a great struggle, Olivia extricated him. They clung to each other in mud-splattered adoration. ‘You are alive’ breathed Olivia. ‘I am not definitely dead’ said Ethelred. And they co-habited happily ever after.