Chapter Eleven

Directory of Humor Blogs

The Horrible Travails of The Evil Sisters, or, What They Were Put Through

In the mudroom of Havering Hall, as far as the vilely evil sisters Welliffomething-ffomething were concerned, yet another “bleedin’ awful day”, the one in which (at long last) the world would be finally sucked into the abyss, was underway. One thing was certain, and that was that things couldn’t get any worse, not even if they tried. So frightfulfully miserable was it that the both of them were sorely tempted to scream into the perpetual Atlantic gale (the one which never ever got bored with its stupid tricks and never went away), “do your bleedin’ worse, then, fill us full of mud and finish us off for good!”

Once again they had been subjected to the first and second of the many indignities to be heaped upon them before they had even had a chance to finish their morning tea, a situation which pushed their already foul moods to the breaking point (“if you cannot start your day with a nice cup of tea you might as well find a toad and bite off its bottom”). On top of that, the first indignity and shocking occurrence had been heaped upon them before the dreaded and ominous squeak of the barometer, which meant they had not had any warning whatsoever!

The Horrible, Weighty Footie Smell Engines had been jammed into the backs of their heads, scuffling them this way and that and pressing their noses into the worst unwashed crevasses of the entire floor. And before they could catch their breaths, they were shuffled about even further (something awful, it was), being (as they put it in their memoirs) “most cruelly used.” And if this wasn’t bad enough, the outer door of the mudroom was yanked open by an unseen hand and all manner of nasty things blew in. Dead leaves and muck and dead animals (the little ones were the worst, because they got stuck in your nose and eyes), old bits of rubbish from the rabbit warrens at the bottom of the kitchen garden (“Such a slum they lived in! Children everywhere, always a dozen new ones popping out, and each one joining gangs and wreaking all manner of havoc”). Thoughtless, ignorant creatures! A right burden on society they were and, to look at them, they couldn’t give a toss! In addition (as if that wasn’t bad enough), there was a new supply of rain, far too much for well-bred clouds to contain (how would you like it if you were obliged to let in any and every foul breath of sea and swamp gunk that knocked on your door), as well as ghastly, icy gales of a violence never experienced when there’d been an Empire to deal with it!

A mood of deepening blackness (and if you’ve ever had such a thing, you’ll know such a thing is possible) descended upon the vile sisters Welliffomething-ffomething, and it got so terrible that the only escape was to whip themselves into a blind fury. Mind you, they really did enjoy a bit of blind fury now and again (and what well-bred ladies don’t?) and so, all things being equal, the morning was not a complete loss. For it certainly did make it possible (just) to face was what likely to be a truly unspeakable day.

The outer door skracked open a few more inches, and the indescribably evil sisters found themselves being heaved through the air (though not at the same time) and immediately smacked down to earth with a scwoogy splat in an extremely muddy and derelict puddle. It really was quite an impressive spectacle. First one sister (the splendidly irascible Muffin) was lifted far into the sky, accompanied by a deep, infernal grunt from the Hideous and Massive Mountain wobbling on the upper end of The Smell Engines. And then, when she had landed all of a twaddle, the whimpering and terribly unpleasant Wambledy-Jane was promptly put through the same exercise, only usually landing, not in a puddle, but on a sharp rock, thus bruising her bottom and loosening her teeth.


“Why can’t we wait until it’s drier?” complained Wambledy-Jane in an unpleasant and unnecessary simper, not because she was expecting an answer, but because she was more than a little dim (and annoying, which made you want to kick her). However, those looking on (and who’s to say there were not a great many tiny unemployed insects and rodents with nothing much to do, whose lives were generally improved and made more bearable by watching the misery of others), witnessed this more foolish sister bursting into tears in the middle of her question and getting a mouthful of sludge for her pains, an event which provoked a long and enthusiastic round of applause from the cheaper seats.

Almost immediately, dear Wambledy-Jane’s sizable mouth contorted into a huge vase. Her lips trembled violently (rather like a blancmange on a kangaroo’s head), and she emitted a breathtaking series of sobbing mewlings, some lasting for the better part of a week.

“Stop that this instant!” scolded her sister. “Or I shall box your ears! I will not tolerate one more second of your whingeing and crying and blubbing and sulking!” She paused for a moment to catch her breath, and then continued. “You were the one responsible for our predicament in the first place, not I, and I will not put up with your infernal complaints!”

Wambledy-Jane’s blub erupted into screams, whereupon Muffin raised her voice to a thundering crescendo, totally drowning the sobs. “They’ve opened the box, I said. We can make a run for it, I said. They’ll never catch us, I said. We’ll live rough, I said, just like in romantic novels, I said. But YOU were all cosy and warm. ‘Who’ll take care of me?’ you snivelled. THAT was all you cared about. Being safe and sound and…and… SPOILED. Clean and shiny…and… FREE OF MUD! Thinking it would last forever. ‘Please,’ you grovelled (until I thought I’d go mad), ‘please stay with me. It’ll be all right.’ ‘IT’LL BE ALL RIGHT?!’ That’s what you said. What was I thinking, staying behind with you, knowing my life would be ruined? I am so tired of your constant snivelling, your…?

“STOP IT!” shrieked Wambledy-Jane, “I know what you think of me, and I’m sorry. You don’t even try to understand, do you? I CAN’T HELP BEING WHO I AM!’.

“You’re not even a ‘who’,” glowered her sister crossly. “You’re a ‘what’. Now shut up and watch where you are going! If you stumble once more, that’ll be the end of us.”

And with that, the two vile sisters Welliffomething-ffomething were, in turn, plunged deeper and further and further into the mud and ooze and morass of first the kitchen garden, then the stable yard and finally the pigpen, their strident invective growing louder and louder with each step, and the wind (who had nothing better to do) carrying their insults across the home farm and bog, and finally out to sea.