Chapter Seventeen

Directory of Humor Blogs

The Flight of The Lozenge

Owld Misther Bucket and Olivia Spider were not best pleased, not with events as they were unfolding, and certainly not with themselves. What had started out as a delicate manoeuvre, in essence, to fly across the bog in search of Tiny Rumpus Libbedy, had ended up a complete and utter fiasco. Somehow, possibly in a fit of exuberance, Olivia had thrown out far too much silk, with the consequence that Owld Misther Bucket had become completely swaddled in thread and quite lost control of his spin. Instead of being a sleek projectile (much like The Concorde) the two now resembled a wobbly suppository, and were headed inexorably in an unknown direction to an unknown fate at an unknown destination. On top of this, The Twinkle Faerie on duty that afternoon was one who had not as yet passed her final exam. She had, you see, a mere provisional licence (second class) and should not have been operating heavy machinery on her own, much less a Mark IV MegaBlastomatic V10 999cc Faerie-Dust Dispenser. In a moment of panic (her mobile phone had rung very loudly and with a frightening ring tone she could not remember having downloaded), The Twinkle Faerie flipped more than the recommended number of switches at the same time and, with a mighty “PFSAAAT,” blew most of the fuses. Quite naturally, the sky was immediately plunged into a darkness deeper than the deepest black (without even the tiniest hint of grey), and all the stars (and just think of the poor, hapless planets who didn’t have any electrical fittings whatsoever) started bumping about and colliding with each other and using up a whole month’s supply of bad language in less than a single second! Is it any wonder that the two inhabitants of the Wondrous Lozenge were confused? Not only were they being hurled through space and time at an unreasonable speed, a speed far in excess of the legal limit, but they kept running into objects which were not only spiny, but uncommonly rude. It was, therefore, no small relief when they landed with a soft ‘whooof’ in a downy pile of dust.

Almost immediately, they were addressed by a kindly and deeply plumy voice, asking if they were all right, to which Owld Misther Bucket replied, “I rather think I’m not exactly sure.”

“Take your time, have a good look,” answered The Voice. “It is not as though I am going anywhere.”

At that precise moment, Olivia Spider became aware of a great many tiny feet tiptoeing (or perhaps shuffling) hither and thither on her person. It was disconcerting, to say the least. However, because of the (trainee second class) Twinkle Faerie’s little mishap, she was completely unable to see a thing. One or two voices, pleasant and well meaning (although certainly not as agreeable as the plumy one, which had now either fallen silent or decided to go somewhere after all), became more audible. From what she could make out (there was a great deal of unexpected noise, all of it of the unnecessary variety), whoever it was marching about on them had been conducting some sort of detailed forensic analysis and were trying to decide whether or not the large, white, fuzzy, cocoony object was harmless. Perhaps, the voices ventured, it should be tied up with string as a precaution. One could never tell whether even a harmless looking object might behave in an objectionable manner. “Yes,” chanted a chorus of voices, “we must bind it with string,” after which they broke into a discordant and ill-written song (to a tune reminiscent of so many others).

Oooooooooo, There is a fuzzy wuzzy uz-uz
Zoomin’ through da skies.
Eatin’ bugs and woollen rugs
And warthogs baked in pies.
(Chorus)
Bind it up with string-ing,
Bind it up with string.
It’ll suck yer nose and snog yer toes,
So bind it up with string.

Ahhhhhhhhh, It is so round and full of puss
And not so nice to smell.
It makes the moon turn inside out,
Your sister it will sell.
(Chorus)
Bind it up with string-ing,
Bind it up with string.
It’ll suck yer nose and snog yer toes,
So bind it up with string.

Eeeeeeeeeeee, What are you doin’ you filthy rat
You makes me want to barf,
I’m well brought up and not like you,
Who wants to binge and snarf.
(Chorus)
Bind it up with string-ing,
Bind it up with string.
It’ll suck yer nose and snog yer toes,
So bind it up with string.

The song continued for many generations, but because of the ghastly dwindling of its quality, no one cared to remember the lyrics, prompting Dwaine Zipple, the live-in butler to great great uncle Horatio Wellington Luna (known in some quarters as “El Magnifico”), to lament the state of contemporary song writing. “Perhaps,” he mused despondently, “We are truly doomed to end mankind on a sour note. Such a pity, and I was so hoping…” at which point he was seized by a coughing fit and wandered away in search of a chemist’s shop.

“He is always doing that,” hissed his younger brother Dweedle. “In all the years I have known him, he has never once finished a sentence. I find it irritating when I realise I will possibly be eaten by a snake before I ever learn what he is talking about.”

“Stop it this instant!” commanded Old Lavinia Sprockit, Horatio Wellington Luna’s first cousin once removed. “Stop singing at ONCE! And stop shilly shallying about! Are we to be devoured by this…THING…simply because we would rather waste time than save our lives?

The crowd instantly fell silent, and then just as instantly blushed crimson, cast their eyes to the ground (remembering, of course, to snatched them up again before Groveller Termite and his brothers stole them away for their elevenses), and looked as mortified as possible. “What do you suggest we do, Missus Sprockit?” ventured a tremulous voice from deep in the crowd.

“Why, kill it, of course,” she thundered, smacking the earth with her cane. “Is that not what our forefathers would have done? Furthermore, is that not the usual course of action when our personal safety is at stake?”

At which the crowd immediately joined in with a rousing, “KILL IT! KILL IT!”

This was, quite naturally, a response that Olivia Spider, bound inside the lozenge as she was, found extremely vexing, utterly irritating and too churlish for words. Most certainly, had one of her own children been present, and had it been thoughtless enough to express similar sentiments (she was not a believer in mob slogans, whether they be positive or negative), it would have been sent to bed without its next seventeen suppers. How frustrating it was to be so helplessly wrapped up in a bundle of her own making, a situation made even worse by the miles of string her fellow denizens had so zealously used to pacify the mysterious cocoony object of which she was such an integral part. “Surely,” she thought, “I shall die in here and everyone will think it’s a good idea.”

Fortunately for her (and, of course, for Owld Misther Bucket, her fellow passenger), Olivia Spider was not required to continue along her downward slide into depression, gloom and despair, for at that precise moment, her thoughts were interrupted by the, by now, forgotten Plummy Voice. “I hardly think such extreme action is necessary. My dear Piedmont,” it intoned somewhat intelligently. “Why don’t you run along and see if you can locate a fuse box. That’s a good lad.” The lad, Piedmont, thus distracted and filled with gung-ho excitement, duly ran off to do the voice’s bidding.

“Now then,” continued the voice, this time addressing the gathered throng. “Not much anyone can do until we can shed some light on the subject. Shall we all adjourn to Mrs. Begonia Throttle’s for tea and crumpets and damson jam?”

There followed several minutes of agreeable chatter from the formerly distraught denizens. The voice interrupted them with a kindly twinkle, “Run along. I shall remain here to guard the beast and will summon you when the time is right.” And since everyone obviously held The Plummy Voice in great esteem, they all trotted over to The Tea Cosy as one man, without a single whine or dissention. Indeed, they all seemed particularly thrilled at the prospect of fresh crumpets and damson jam, a thrill which had quite obliterated all memory of a horrible horrible weapon of moss dehydration.

As soon as everyone else had gone, the first thing Plummy Voice did was turn his full attention to The Fuzzy White Lozenge and cock his head to one side. “Now,” he said, speaking very much like an archaeologist considering an ancient and unplundered tomb, “what do we have here?” And with that he tap-tap-tapped the offending object with a stick. Almost immediately, Lorenzo de Luna, assuming the guise of a wise sage who was nothing if not practically professorial, grabbed the stick and motioned for his companion to be silent. He then reached out with his maroon-tinted gloves and touched the lozenge with a forefinger. Addressing the object in a voice of great authority, he asked, “Is anybody in there?”

“Please don’t do that,” replied Owld Misther Bucket almost immediately. “I promise to do your bidding, whatever that may be. But please stop thumping me on my ear. It is causing me unbearable pain, O! Wise Alien Life Form (whoever you are), will you not cease and desist? I really am becoming very cross indeed and feel unbidden rudeness approaching.”

Looking aghast, Señor de Luna drew back two full paces. “I am so frightfully sorry,” he wept. “I was under the impression (for which I beg your forgiveness) that you were one of those meringue eggs I have heard so much about, and was hoping you would be filled with chocolate, butter and brandy cream. Never in a million billion years did I suppose a living being would dwelling inside such an imposing, arresting and august structure.”

“There are two of us in here,” interrupted Ould Misther Bucket, correcting the wise de Luna, “not one, and we would be very grateful if you could get us out of here as quickly as possible.”

“Don’t you dare!” shouted Olivia Spider, causing the lozenge to quiver, and in the process completely unnerving both Plummy Voice and Lorenzo de Luna. “We must speed home with all impossible haste to The Bog and save my sweet little Libbedy, or she will meet a savage and horrible fate. I repeat, speed is what we need. If we are unwrapped we shall cease to be aerodynamic. We shall burn up on re-entry. “FWAAAP”! Just like toast!”

“Oh dear, oh dear oh dear, what should we do?” cried The Plummy Voice.

“Perhaps,” replied Owld Misther Bucket in a reasonable tone, “you will be good enough to tip us over the edge of wherever we are (it feels like a plate, or perhaps a large current bun. Am I correct?), so that we may drop down to earth.”

The Plummy Voice hesitated for a moment, obviously perplexed. “I’m really rather in over my head here, and it is so vexing. I read classics at university. Could you please repeat your request, only this time in ancient Greek?”

“If I might interrupt,” interjected Señor de Luna helpfully, “I think they are asking us to roll them over the cliff.”

The Plummy Voice was simply aghast. “But… but… that is suicide. One can be sent to prison for a very long time, if not forever or even longer, if one even contemplates the taking of one’s life!” He blotted is forehead with a rather large, green paisley silk handkerchief and exhorted the rather enormous lozenge (which by now had started to tremble in a most menacing fashion). “Are things so very desperate, O! Mighty Alien Life Form, that you must contemplate such a drastic and despicable act?”

“What are you talking about?” roared Olivia Spider impatiently, “I want to get home. Didn’t you listen? Are you deaf? Have you curdled wax in your ears? You are sounding more and more like a near neighbour of mine. Are you related to him? He is also an idiot with wax in his ears. Perhaps you know him. His name is Lorenzo…”

Owld Misther Bucket muffled her with his nose and cut her off. “Please allow me to handle it, my dear.” He then addressed de Luna and The Plummy Voice. “What she means is, your planet obviously got in our way and we crashed into it (no hard feelings, it is bound to happen sooner or later). According to my calculations (I spent many years studying physics before I joined the civil service and became an authority on water conservation), our home should be directly under yours. I am fairly certain that if you will be so good as to tip us over the edge of the nearest cliff, we shall be home, safe and sound, in no time at all. Dost thou think you can manage that?”

Señor de Luna rolled away (for his shape was very like that of a garden pea, only brown) and returned a minute or so later with a large barrow. “If you will be so kind,” he said to the lozenge (which was now quaking furiously), “as to bounce up into the air and into my beautiful yellow barrow, we shall take you directly to the cliffs and tip you over the edge.”

“Oh, thank you thank you, sir,” blubbed Olivia Spider, greatly relieved. “You are so very kind. You see, my little daughter (who does not always think things through) got herself…”

At that moment, the sun was ignited once again and everything was flooded with light. “What a relief!” whooped The Plummy Voice. “And WHAT a good boy you are, Piedmont! Here is tuppence three farthings for your troubles. And may I say…”

Piedmont, who was standing by proudly with a huge smile on his face, scorched hair and smoke coming out his ears, took the proffered coins, said “Thank you very much, sir,” and ran off in the direction of the video arcade.

“Such a good boy,” said The Plummy Voice. “Remind me, my dear Lorenzo, to send a telegram to his poor widowed mother commenting on his manners. So unusual, you know.”

Señor de Luna, who in all the excitement had lost his ear trumpet, completely ignored The Plummy Voice and Piedmont’s great bravery in switching on the lights, and continued his conversation with Olivia Spider. “Are you quite certain, he suddenly beamed, a good idea having just occurred to him, “you wouldn’t like something to eat first? I have with me a lovely Stilton, not to mention a flagon of tea and a bundle of fresh treacle buns.”

“Thank you so very much, you are so very kind,” replied Owld Misther Bucket, speaking slowly and at the top of his voice, in an effort to be understood, “but we ate a lovely cream tea with Cornish pasties for afters just an hour ago at dear Mrs. Begonia Throttle’s little establishment. It would never do to be greedy.”

And with that, Owld Misther Bucket and Olivia Spider took an exceedingly deep breath and leapt as high as they could, safely coming to rest dead centre of the barrow.

“Isn’t it amazing,” mused The Plummy Voice to himself, “that Beings from Outer Space have come all this way for one of Mrs. Begonia Throttle’s cream teas!”