Fairy Hanny

Chapter 3

Desperately seeking Innocent.

It was a relatively short, though oppressive walk to the City of Setebos. The woodland clung to their breath as they toddled along in search of forgiveness and a potential cure. The sky looked down gravely on the heroes, overcasting doubt on the success of their mission. The Sun beamed her glorious smile onto the walls of the City, though her mind was elsewhere; she was trying to find a solution for a disenfranchised Sloth in the jungles of South America.

The City walls of Setebos had once been magnificent, a testament to the Greatness of the Old Fairies, The Lords of Uranus. Creatures had travelled from all over the planet to gaze upon the high white marble structures that told a tale of great wealth and great breeding. In those days the walls had been more than necessary.

They exhibited the splendour of the Fairy Kings but also were needed to keep out the riff raff, the ne’er do wells, down and outs, Harold Ramps, disgraced Defence Ministers, Letting agents and marauding Orcs.

Long gone were the times of the deadly Wars of the Fairies and Orcs. Many an Orc had been toasted before, during and after a battle and many a Fairy turned into a spit–roasted delicacy.

Fortunately this is no longer the Norm.

At the last great Siege of Setebos in the reign of King Grayson of Everard, the Orcs had caught a case of Darwinian Evolution. They went for a full one hundred and eighty degree about turn in their attitude. Here they lay at the walls of Setebos demanding the surrender of the City and the consumption of the majority of its inhabitants and then suddenly, shazam, they left to research the pros and cons of the Financial Services Industry.

Legend has it that the leader of the Orc Army, Krak Ed, sat musing on the costs of the siege. His men were getting very hungry, what with the long trek north, the building of siege wagons and the constant bombardment of the city with anything that could be catapulted; so Krak Ed began a cost-benefit analysis of being a devastating Warlord. What was the point, he thought, of putting in all this effort, losing good men to the slings and arrows of outrageous Fairies, only to find he was out of pocket at the end? This was not great asset management. He’d raised his own venture capital by stealing from everyone he’d ever met and his potential profit would be to eat the King of the Fairies.

Is this my raison d’être he mused in a pretentious manner.

His head began to fill with Profit and Loss accounts, Angel Investors, Debt Management, Claims Management, Fraud, Theft and Financial Scamming. There was more than enough reason to create a Financial Cartel.

So he called his Chieftains together and explained their new approach.

They would become Financial Advisors, Accountants and Tax Inspectors.

He had to eat a couple of the guys who initially disagreed with his plan; however they soon all approved so they packed up and went home. Thus began a New Age of Enlightenment on Uranus. Nobody would dare cheat at Tax because the consequences could be fatal; despite the attempt at civilisation some Orcs were still partial to eating their victims, and of course being eaten for failing to declare a proper income was considered a just punishment in these parts.

Many of the Orcs began to take on more conventional names in order to appear more acceptable to their clients. No one would be tempted to visit a Financial Advisor called Rippy Zedoff or Head Muncher or Fairy Eater; so they changed their names to things like Bob, Steve and Rupert. However in these later days there are some of the younger Orcs who like to be a bit of a throwback and take on names such as Gaz, Jonno or Wayne, Dwayne, Rap and David.

Thus it had been a long time, been a long time, been a long lonely, lonely, lonely, lonely time since anyone had attacked the great City of Setebos. As a result the Great Walls had fallen somewhat into decay, with buddleia, wall flowers and mosses covering much of the once Magnificent Marbled exterior. There were gaps that grew larger each year as the inhabitants helped themselves to the stones for more useful functions such as Wall Fillers, Door Stops and Argument Solvers. Even the Great Gate at the Western side of the Great City stood permanently open, its Great hinges rusted into place after so many Great Generations of Great Peace.

Things were just Great.

The City did like to maintain some semblance of its former glory, so posted a Guard on the bridge in front of the West Gate. The Guard usually consisted of ten to a dozen of the most friendly and helpful creatures to be found on Uranus, the Gnomes. The Gnomes that formed the Guard came from families in which generation after generation had dedicated their lives to the service of the City, not unlike The Household Cavalry and The Swiss Guard and The Hells Angels. These wonderful Gnomish families were known collectively as the Guarding Gnomes and wore the livery of the Guard, a green tunic, red belt, blue trousers and brown Welly-Bobs; headgear was left as a personal choice. In an attempt at remembering their role in the defence of the city each carried a shield of Red bearing a golden wheelbarrow and also carried a ceremonial Fishing Rod.

They were always very, very helpful.

Hence it was that Peter and Greg meandered out of the wood toward the Great Gate at the Western edge of Setebos. Greg lurched along like an Orang Utan on Valium, whilst Peter minced forward, buttocks pulling his legs in strange directions, chuff stuffed with melting lard. They made a handsome sight which any unattached female would have run from; except perhaps one of those girls you meet just before the last dance at a nightclub.

They approached the Gate.

A friendly Gnome approached, bowed and smiled a smile that would have made the smileyist thing in the Universe envious.

“Good day to you gentleman,” said the Gnome. “I am Steve, the captain of the Guard for today. What can I do for you? I would guess by the way you are moving that there is a tale of Great Deeds attached to you two fine young travellers!”

“He’s got the Dukes!” declared the Goblin, demonstrating his total lack of tact.

The Gnomes on the bridge took a collective deep breath and blessed themselves with the sign of the wheelbarrow. A Pixy with the Dukes! was more than a tale of Great Adventure, it was a tale of Derring-Do, without a Poo. It was a tragedy they had not experienced before, and one that threw their communal morality into a spin. There was only one way a Pixy could find himself in such a State, and that was a betrayal of the Royal Trust.

And yet deep down who wouldn’t risk their all for a chance with fine looking tart?

“In the name of the great Fishing Rod!” declared Steve, “you will need a lot of help with finding a solution to that problem.”

“Yes I worked that one out for myself!” said Peter.

“If the Dukes! strike harder it will be the only thing you can work out for yourself!” said Steve gravely.

“Well look at this, a Gnome with a sense of humour, how unusual.”

The scene could have got ugly now if it wasn’t for the inbreeding amongst the Guards and the subsequent automatic sense of duty to help.

“You’ll need some advice from the King,” said Steve.

“Is he at home today?”

“As luck would have it, yes!”

“So how do we get to see him?”

“Normally,” said Steve in a business-like manner, “you would have to go and see the First Minister Lord Chalfont or his assistant The Warwick Hunt. However today those two are off playing a game of golf, so I reckon you should just go up to the castle, ring the bell and say ‘Is Innocent in?’”

“And that’s it?”

The Gnome continued his explanation.

“If Lord Chalfont was here he would make you fill in Fairy Interview request form 117B ‘Audience with the King’. He would then interview you and ask the purpose of your visit and what you hoped to gain from the visit and any noticeable benefits to the King.”

“What type of benefits?”

“Oh the usual, you know, Gold, Silver, Silk, Pies, Cakes etc. The King is very fond of his Pies.”

“I see,” gloomed Peter.

“And after that interview you would be expected to spend a similar interview with The Warwick Hunt, a scary experience by all accounts.”

“In what way?”

“Well apparently The Warwick Hunt turned up here one day from the lord knows where. He is a fearsome creature, half man, half lard; some say he is a demon from another planet. But Lord Chalfont likes him. Warwick Hunt can scare away most folk that want an audience with the King. I believe he can just scare most people with his smell, his red face and very fat tummy. I think he is a semi-civilised Ogre myself, though a bit too intelligent. Lord Chalfont likes Ogres too!”

“So have I got to see this Warwick Hunt then?” asked a confused Peter.

“No,” said Steve. “I just told you he’s playing golf! Just go straight in. You’ll be more than welcome I’m sure.”

Peter and Greg looked at each other.

“So where are we going?”

“You walk down on the street, turn left and it´s door number three.”

The intrepid duo thanked the worrisome Gnome and set off for the next phase of this Great Adventure.

Chapter 2

The hero

The screams were unmerciful.

It was as though all the sinners of the world had combined into one unholy union and screeched their anguish into a synthesised megaphone.

Was someone being whipped a cripple?

The yelps of misery continued but fluctuated with a moaning like the desperate sob of a Brontosaurus attempting to open a packet of salt and vinegar crisps. Gregory the Goblin lurched silently toward the sounds; his fear being overtaken by his rubber-necked curiosity.

What could be making such a noise?

Here he waltzed, deep in the Dingleberry Dell, renowned for being one of the safest havens on the whole of Uranus. Could it be that one of the Ogres of The North had lost his way and fallen into disarray? Or perhaps a Harpy had crash landed and was pissed off at the lack of decent runways.

He inched forward.

The desire to witness someone in pain is strong, stronger than the desire to put someone in pain; which probably explains the profusion of Dentists, Teachers, Pox Doctors, Taxmen and Karaoke Singers.

Greg tried to move as quietly as possible, but being a lumbering galoot made that near impossible.

Another terrific squeal wrenched the Worried Woodland. Here lies bitter anguish, thought Greg. Here is a guilty party caught with his hands in the cookie jar. Or maybe even a cricketer bowled to middle stump without a box.

He tried to stoop, but remembered that he was bowlegged with a bad back, so just moved as normal. The Woodland thinned and the light grew stronger as Greg took the challenge of moving just that little bit more. The sneaky beaky instinct of a feral soldier lay deep in his Psyche. He peered out from behind one of the last trees and beheld an image that would haunt him for the rest of his days.

Fishcakes!

There in the middle of the glade, writhing like a demented eel in a bucketful of snot, was his old friend Peter the Pixy. He rocked and rolled across the ground, both hands grabbing tightly onto his arse, screaming for help.

“The Ring! The Ring!” he cried.

Greg watched for a while, keeping himself hidden in the gloom on the edge of the opening. This could be a dangerous trap.

Wizards, Warlocks and Wives are the only creatures with magic rings.

Perhaps some evil Wizard was watching and waiting, using Peter as bait to try and capture and enslave the unwary. Should he sidle off backwards and leave Peter to his fate, recalling later in life that it was either kill or be killed, and that a blast form a Wizards staff was not quite what he had in mind that day.

Fishcakes!

Or should he be a tough guy and dive in there, facing up to whatever Beastie was trying to destroy his old friend.

Fishcakes!

Greg watched as the pain ripped across his old friends face, dancing a Calypso as it pulled down the corners of his mouth, wrinkled his nose and made his eyes bulge like a Bubble Eye Goldfish!

Fishcakes!

As he pondered this dilemma Peter rolled closer and caught his eye.

“Greg you idle bastard get over here and help me!” yelled the noble Pixy. “My rear is on fire and I don’t have a way of extinguishing the flames.”

Greg hesitated for just a short while as the news was assimilated into his delightfully slow brain.

“Ok!” he said, casually sauntering toward his stricken pal, as he dabbed a handkerchief on the eye which Peter had caught.

Greg was a bit slow in the head but he had been trained well at the Goblin Military Academy in Goblin Town as a part of his Yoof Training Programme. He knew how to assess a situation, searching for emergency exits and potential traps. He was also rather good at First Aid, having spent some time doing a Lifesaver course with the St. Johnswort Ambivalence Brigade. He felt competent to assess the situation and to then formulate a plan.

“Dr ABC and two packets of Fishcakes! What’s the matter then mate?” asked the Goblin.

“Hell and high water!” squealed the Pixy, “I’ve been stricken by the Dukes!”

How the Fates laughed.

(Though nobody else did)

Only the good die young, they say; everyone else is destroyed slowly by the Dukes! What kind of dice did God have when he invented ailments?

‘Here’s a good one’ mused Odin; ‘I’ll let the veins pop out of their ring piece!’

Bacchus saying, ‘Look let’s make them get addicted to this so that their livers stop working and they lose family and friends and spend nights with pox riddled whores!’

And the Lord put emerods in their secret places.

Still, without ailments, how would we ever get to heaven?

Greg surveyed, perused and summed up the situation. There were no evil monsters waiting to grab him; no Harpies with Herpes; no wee timorous beasties desirous of nesting in his underpants; no Double Glazing salesmen hovering on the edge of Time with a Special Offer from The Manager that can only be held open until six o´clock that evening; and certainly no Timeshare tarts ready to enslave his income for the rest of his life.

Just his old friend Peter writhing in agony whilst clutching tightly onto his buttocks.

“The Dukes!” mused the gregarious Goblin. “How did that happen?”

There was anguish, fear and guilt in the eyes of the Pixy.

Greg mused again – if we need to vote I´d say the eyes have it.

“I will tell you the whys and wherefores after you have extinguished or at least dampened the burning!” strained Peter.

Greg considered.

Fishcakes!

As usual he was carrying his rather useful twenty-five litre day pack, with integral meshing, a top pocket and a double zip: with a breathable day sack and neoprene labels. It contained all of the items any person could expect for emergency aid, including a mobile phone with GPS, three glue sticks, a tampon, a calculator, a cuddly toy, three banjo sprockets, a camel pack and a packet of camels, stapler and hole punch, a crocodile clip and an alligator clasp, a First Aid Kit from Boots the Shoe Shiner, a torch, three felt tip pens in contrasting colours, a waterproof pad and pencil and a pack of cheese and chutney sandwiches, on wholegrain, wrapped carefully in a resealable bag. He dug deep and found a fire extinguisher.

“Get you kecks off mate.”

Peter paused his pulsating writhing.

“What Class of Fire Extinguisher is that?” asked the pained Pixy.

Greg checked carefully.

“Foam,” he said, “suitable for both Class A and Class B fires.”

“I´d much prefer a powder extinguisher as they are far more suitable for organic materials,” re-joined Peter.

“But devilishly difficult to clean up the mess later, and if inhaled could cause damage to the upper respiratory system,” explained Greg.

Peter paused and felt the fire burning in his ring.

“Feck it, foam will do!” he squealed in agony.

There was a scything whoosh as a jet of freezing foam attacked the burning in the Pixy’s bum. The air froze momentarily as ecstasy overtook Peter’s mind. Endorphins poured around his brain, having been relieved of the duty of trying to hide the pain, they now decided to give him a party in his head.

“Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!”

Where once the throngs of decay had waltzed on his face Peter now felt the Bosa Nova shimmying across his physiognomy.

This was pleasure.

This was relief.

This was foam up the Jacksy.

“Another squirt please mate!”

Time passed slowly, but then it always does when waiting for something to happen. Like waiting for last night’s conquest to leave your apartment the next morning, without dying of embarrassment; Or waiting for the government to make a decision about pay rises for key workers; or sitting through a Maths test; or watching teenagers have a great time at a Halloween Disco organised by Mrs. Skank.

For Peter the natural opiates dissipated their relief, causing the Pixy to start assessing his anal situation seriously. He couldn’t spend the rest of his days walking round with a fire extinguisher, dreading an attack and the ensuing embarrassment. Dropping his trousers mid dinner party would be quite a social faux pas.

Oh how the other Pixy’s would gossip!

“Well there I was just about to take a sip of my Cranberry juice when low and behold Peter puts his bare bottom in the middle of the table and shoots it full of Foam; I mean really!”

The two friends sat nervously on the grass, Greg repacking his daysack while Peter pulled his kecks up and tried his best to sit on one buttock at a time. Peter could tell that Greg was slowly disapproving of his old friend.

Old Friend!

A Pixy and a Goblin with a close friendship was certainly a rarity on Uranus. The Class Consciousness of Uranus makes the Gimps of Britain look relatively Socialistic.

It was the reforms of the Great Fairy King, Peter the Grate, that established a ranking system on Uranus. The Fairies are at the top of the Social tree, being more naturally gifted, talented and good looking than anything else you would find. The current Absolute Constitutional Ruler was Innocent, King of the Fairies, who had ruled for many a happy and glorious year along with his wife Queen Dillberry.

The Pixy’s liked to consider themselves as the next level in Society even if this was often disputed by the Elfs and the Brownies. Then somewhere below this came the Orcs and Goblins; though with the high-tech world on Uranus, and a good understanding of the Financial Markets, many of the Orcs were making their way up the slippery social ladder.

So with potentially four ranks between them, a Pixy and Goblin really shouldn’t be close friends. The reality is they shouldn’t even spend time at the same urinal.

The thing is, see, they are the same age, give a day or two, and enjoy the same interests and pursuits. Both have marvellous stamp collections, Peter specialising in blue coloured stamps, Greg having a post-modernist compilation of red examples. Both had a penchant for model railways, spending many a happy hour arguing the merits of the different gauges available (even though mostly by mail order). They loved to go fishing, hiking, camping and drinking together. The drinking sometimes caused a few problems, as the more respectable boozing dens were not too keen on letting Goblins onto the premises.

“Keep an eye on that Goblin or it will steal something” was a common taunt. Rightly so as it turned out, as Greg loved to take cutlery and coffee cups from wherever he went.

Still, that’s life.

Or is that Still Life?

Peter turned back to the immediate.

“Listen, Greg, I need a proper cure for this problem.”

Greg paused.

“What caused it?”

Peter paused.

It was clearly a time for pauses, though just at this moment there was a distinct absence of canines.

Peter did not like to admit to his mistakes. In fact he oafishly boasted that he no longer made mistakes, claiming that whatever action he took was the right one at the time and of course hindsight would often show he should have made a different decision.

But you can’t.

When it’s done it’s done.

Live for today and tomorrow and forget the past.

Actually if we forget all of the Living in the Past there would never be any need for Historians, Archivists, Librarians, English Teachers or Jethro Tull.

Peter guiltily reflected on his actions in the last few months.

He had always been happy with the food he had eaten for so many years. Yes it was getting a bit repetitive but it was solid sustenance. Double burger and chips and beans Pixy style; Acorn soup; Macaroni cheese; Cauliflower in gravy; Avocado if it was in season; Cheddar Cheese on Water Biscuits; a Partridge in a pear tree; Full English from the Greasy Spoon; Chips and Curry; Naan and a Balti; and Whisky on a Sunday.

But as he got older he began to crave some excitement. He wanted to let himself into the kitchens of the Fairy King and feast on Fairy Cream Pies. He knew this could be dangerous as the inner workings of a lowly Pixy must, by definition and nature, be very different to the plop producing biomes of the higher echelons. Does a Pixy produce the same food reducing enzymes as a Fairy? Would both creatures have the same number of Villi? Perhaps Fairies could break down cellulose and avoid the need ever to poop! Did they even possess a colon? And how many Angels can dance the Light Fandango on the top of a pin? These Questions soared through his brain, tempting and teasing him into action.

It is irrelevant and dangerous to allow ones mind to wander like this.

Still Peters craving for a nice bit of Fairy Pie persisted.

As a Pixy, Peter was very much amongst the privileged members of Society in the Government City of Setebos. He didn’t have to live under a bridge like a Troll, or collect pieces of hazardous waste like a Gremlin. He could have as much mischievous fun as an Imp without carrying the stigma or he could be as imperious as a Fairy without having to keep a rod up his backside. It was the best position to have in Society, being near the top but still having the fun of the bottom feeders.

Still the craving persisted.

Fairy Pies and Fairy Cakes.

He thought about the Queens dainties and the Kings Hot Cross Buns. He dreamt about Fairy Cakes and Custard Cream Pies, of Apple Crumble and Raspberry Tarts.

Of Battenberg and Muffins.

He dreamt of Fairy Muffin until it became an insatiable craving.

It was the Queens Tarts that got him in the end.

“I sneaked in to the Fairy kitchens and stole a Tart,” he admitted.

Greg was dumbstruck, dumbfounded and dumb.

“Of all the most stupid and reckless things to have done!” squawked the Goblin. “Did you forget the prophecy?”

Peter reflected again.

“Where did you get that mirror?” asked Greg.

Peter chewed his bottom lip in contemplation of his silly misdeed.

Of course he knew the prophecy.

Every Pixy knew the prophecy, but it became so much of a myth, such as old wives tell, a bedside story for Pixylets, that he didn’t really believe it. Just a way for the anally retentive Fairies to try and keep us in our place, he thought.

Greg chanted out the old verse to remove Peter´s self-indulgent reverie.

“If a Pixy does eat some Fairy Tarts

The first he’ll feel is strangled farts,

And though such sounds produce big smiles.

His bum will soon be bulging piles”.

It was a daft prophecy.

Though in this case it turned out to be true.

When it comes to prophecies and old sayings Peter personally preferred the one about ‘he who smelt it dealt it’.

“My poop chute hurts so much mate, you’ve got to help me sort it out!”

Greg felt sympathy well up as rapidly as a slug on Valium.

In his book ´sympathy´ lay somewhere between ´shit´ and ´syphilis´.

The Military training took over with the grave Goblin. ´There is no such thing as a problem, only a solution´, he glibly said to himself.

“Listen Old Peter Old Pixy Old pal. I can get you a series of temporary solutions but you’re gonna have to sort yourself out in the long run. It’s relatively easy to get a short-term cure for the pain but in the end you need to go deep inside your head and find out what possessed you to go chasing after an unattainable Tart.”

“OK”

Greg was stunned that his condescending friend readily agreed.

“Cripes, are you Ok Peter,” asked the querying Goblin.

Peter paused.

Again.

“My arse is on fire and my future is probably blighted,” said the piqued Pixy.

“No I am not alright!”

Greg paused.

Again.

Never mind,” said Greg. “It doesn’t really matter.”

Greg paused as he waited for Peter to pause.

“Meanwhile you have to accept what I say,” said Greg once the pauses were complete.

Rummaging through his bag the Goblin withdrew a 454-gram block of lard.

“Here, stick this up your jacksy, it will act as a temporary lubricant, reduce the swelling and make you feel darned uncomfortable.”

“Why 454 grams?” asked the puzzled Pixy.

“Just pound it in there!” said Greg, secretly laughing at his own joke.

Peter rapidly followed his friends’ instructions, having no desire to put up with the pain of a broken bum for any longer than necessary. The lard worked, though made his nethers feel unpleasant. It was though he had followed through with a big pancake in his pants, without the embarrassment or the smell.

“What do I do next?” enquired the relieved Pixy as he pulled up his breeches.

“You may not like this bit but it has to be done.”

“What?”

“We have to go and see King Innocent in the Court of the Fairies and ask his advice. If he can’t suggest a cure then you’re doomed to a lifetime of Foam Fire Extinguisher and lard.”

Peter reflected on this.

“That´s a really beautiful mirror,” observed Greg.

It had been oh so easy to get into this trouble.

A craving and a bit of daring.

A Tart.

Then trouble and strife.

A total pain in the bum hole.

How could a Fairy Pie cause so much trouble?

Now he needed to follow a plan to get himself out of this mess, a plan that would mean walking up the King and admitting what he had done. A plan that would take him to a place he had never visited before, where the streets have no names and the birds sing with French accents.

“No I will have no regrets.”

It would be the greatest challenge of his life, to finally admit that he had done something wrong and accept the consequences. Perhaps he would need to buy a pack of fags for the King and some Chocolates for the Queen.

“I’m ready,” said the chastened Pixy as he followed the lurching form of his old friend toward the City of Setebos and the Court of King Innocent.

Review – The Adventures of Fairy Hanny

I’m close to publishing the Third book featuring the gorgeous Fairy Hanny. In the next Adventure we see Hanny spirited away through Time to the Land of Faery, where she is enlisted to help the Sons of Turenn in their quests to pay off the Blood Debt owed to Lugh after the murder of Kian. At the same time I have begun the Fourth Adventure, this time involving that famous writer Enid of Brighton.

As I contemplate the dealings of Hanny as she goes In Search of Brownies, I thought it would be nice to go back to the beginning, to see how it all started. I will serialise the entire first Tale on this blog. The book is available through Amazon.

So let’s start to enjoy Strange Things from Uranus.

Let this be a warning to all…

“And it was [so], that, after they had carried it about, the hand of the LORD was against the city with a very great destruction: and he smote the men of the city, both small and great, and they had emerods in their secret parts.”

(1 Samuel 5:9)

Notes.

All Fairies talk with Liverpool Accents.

Gnomes are Gnomes and always Gnomes and ever more shall be so!

Wails is a real place.

Three points for every song or album title you spot.

Introduction –

Fairies wear boots

It may have been the night before Christmas, or the night after Christmas or even Christmas night; well it was definitely the end of December.

I think.

And it was definitely a night.

It may have been Easter but Easter is in May.

Or maybe not.

The clichés crowded my brain like a thousand railroad trains, though they didn’t give me all the confidence I lacked; still only Time will tell. I told myself a thousand times to avoid the exaggerations but to no avail. I was having the time of my life and things would sort themselves out in a jiffy. Joey tried his best to mess me up – a day on the lash and a night on the hash and I rambled on without a care in the world.

Catherine Street.

Could be the name of an ex-girlfriend?

Paranoia was in a taxi and following close on my heels, I was certain of it. Turned left, turned right, left, right; military two-step in the back end of Liverpool. Oh hello Mr Hardman, fondled any young ladies recently; I seem to be stumbling down your street.

Bizzies eyeing me, waiting to pounce and complete their monthly quotas.

“I met my target Sarge!”

Paranoia.

Or just slighted?

I had the moody blues in my days of future pissed.

As I was walking down this high street I heard a funny noise behind me. It could have been yet another cliché but my tingling spine told me otherwise.

“Ha ha ha, he he he!”

I refused to look back.

I felt as brave as a lion but as weak as a kitten.

Liverpool City Centre can be wonderful or scary; nights of fun can turn quite hairy…

I was in fear of being beaten to a pulp with a crow bar, but I had nerves of steel and knees like jelly.

“Ha ha ha, he he he!”

My pharmaceutically enhanced brain conjured evil clowns, demons, assassins and lying politicians scheming slyly in the theatre of my brain. Well not that slowly really, as the dope, beer and speed were sending my neurons round and round and round like electricity.

Which they are anyway – neurons and synapses and that are all just electric charges – it makes me think.

But this was electricity with a Spark.

I was confused – could it be Muriel?

“Ha ha ha, he he he!”

I suspected a good pasting from an over zealous Scuffer keen to explain to his colleagues that he was as hard as nails as long as the opposition was a doped up hippy; so I slowly turned.

If my eyes had been working properly I would have described the sight before me; being stoned I couldn´t. However now with the passage of Time I will attempt a recall.

No more than three feet behind me and two foot tall stood a laughing Gnome, his middle finger on each hand explaining quite clearly his contempt for my state of repair. He grimaced beneath his overly long beard, red eyes blazing amusement as I tried to comprehend this vision. Hallucinating again Mr Swifty?

I should have expelled an expletive but the connection between my conscious brain and my tongue had long ceased to operate.

Something really Strange was taking place. An overdose of beer?

Possible.

I heard the sounds again and thought maybe laughter is the best medicine.

Was something triggering my clichés?

“Look up in the sky now!” he said. “Can you see any flying saucers?”

I looked.

Flying saucers, flying teacups and flying teapots.

“Feck, feck, feck and Feckity feck!” was the best I could manage.

“I bet you can’t catch me,” said the laughing Gnome.

Well smoking and drinking was par for the course but I decided a cheeky little fecker like this would probably benefit from a decent kicking. I mean, it´s always the little things that drive me up the wall.

In my inebriated state I tried my best to say “Come here you little twat and I’ll kick your head in” but the actual utterance went more like

“Cmmmmmmmmeeeeeeeeeerrrrswaaasssssreeeeeedddin”.

No matter.

We were off.

My tormentor, dressed in green (which I now understand is the favourite colour for visitors day) sped off down Hardman Street, his wheelbarrow kicking up dust and fag ends as his little legs carried him out of my reach. He shot across the road, weaving in between the cars, the drivers of which were attempting to get home before the breathalyser crews stopped them; the occupants not noticing him but cursing me with such dainties as “You feckin’ nutter!” or “You want yer ‘ead testin’ pal!” or “The cunt’s pissed!” or “He’s bloody bugs!” and “I say old chap, take a care with your running technique!”

No matter.

“Come here you bearded clam!” I screamed amongst the screeching tyres.

The Policeman held me up firmly by the collar. He tried to look me in the eye but became confused as they changed colour and focus like the lights on a Christmas tree.

His face told me he needed back up.

I told him I needed to catch that annoying little Gnome who was taking the piss out of me.

His face told me he would be requesting an ambulance and the on-call trick cyclist.

The Gnome stopped, smirked, gave me the middle finger again. The red mist that descended completed the evening’s clichés; a quick spin, push, kick and run ensured my name on a wanted list. The Rozza hit me in the head but it was tough like lead; so I punched him in the eye and he started to cry.

Another dodge.

A sidestep.

A shimmy.

The Gnome was by St. Luke’s shouting Gimmee Gimmee Gimmee.

“I’ll get the little fecker now Officer and you’ll see what I mean!”

I ran through the gates, stopped and wondered.

I ran through the gates!

But they weren’t open!

I ran through the gates!

Feck – smoked too much!

Well you’d better cut down a little.

Sorry?

A burnt out shell since 1941when a set of young German Pilots dropped their terror and shouted ´Gott mit uns!´only for the scousers to shout back ´we got mittens too!´

Or was that in another terrible Aristocratic tiff?

And here I am melting, running, transcending, going through the gates.

“Twat!” said the laughing Gnome.

“Ha ha ha, he he he! I’m a laughing Gnome and you can’t catch me!”

Oh no! A stolen line!

Somewhere inside a voice told me this wasn’t really happening and actually I was on the sofa at Joey’s brother’s house tripping the light fandango. A riff burst through my brain like a heavy metal thunder.

Then there she stood.

The most beautiful girl I’d ever laid eyes on.

Well not quite a girl.

A Fairy.

Not just any Fairy.

It was Fairy Hanny.

“Hello Swifty,” she said. “I thought you’d never get here!”

“Why didn’t you say ‘doo wah diddy diddy dum diddy do’?” I asked.

“Because I wasn’t just a walking down the street,” explained the succulent succubus.

She shimmered in a diaphanous rhapsody of light, the angel of the rainbow having cast his spell upon her. Her hair shone like the girl over there with the fair hair. Hanny is a vision of beauty in a way unknown.

Inexplicably stunning.

Deliciously described.

Her eyes milked the Milky Way, strode across the Universe, encapsulated the Galaxy, and glistened like raindrops on Mars. Like all of the heroines of such tales she was a lusciously lithesome lovely.

And she has big tits.

“I’ve been waiting for you,” she said.

“Waiting?”

“Waiting!”

“Waiting?”

“Waiting for you!”

I drooled a bit, calculating my options; she didn’t seem to notice so it must have been a sly drool.

“Waiting for me? Have you tried writing letters?” I asked.

“You need to come with us so you can write your letters about all of us, and all of our lives, and all of our tales, and capture in words all of our souls,” she explained.

Then she laughed.

Music started – a Solar Music Suite played by a Lunar Music Person of Restricted Growth.

It was the Gnome.

His wheelbarrow was now a Wordy Hurdy Gurdy, Music and Lyrics pouring out as if by Magic.

So Hanny began to dance.

With veils of delight slipping sensually from her slender frame, lithesome litigious long legs looped through the trance that was her dance. Every nuance of nicety nestled neatly knowing nothing needed now to get me to follow her wherever she led.

Then I noticed.

Those luscious legs laden with boots.

Big black military boots.

High lace.

Twenty four lace holes.

Brightly polished to a parade ground mirror shine.

“Fairies wear boots!” I exclaimed.

“Of course we do; how else would I get to kick your arse into the rest of this narrative!”

Things became a little strange after that…

An awesome sulphuric smell filled the Church.

“Oops!” said the Hanny, “probably those Dwarf Beans I had for breakfast.”

Then I was choking, smoking, yoking in a rhythmic union, beside the Sun, the one, that makes all the flowers grow. Here and now and then.

It was what is and what should never be.

From the corner of my eye I caught the shimmering silhouette of a Floppy Haired Fop, fiddling with something in his pockets.

“Am I going Insane?”

A worm hole caught me in his majesty and spun me through the Seven Open Lotuses on The Pool of Life, past seven Sides of Heaven and introduced me to Dawn on the other side of the Sky, coughed just the once, then deposited me on an alternative surface within our Solar System.

I sang my song to keep me alive as I landed on Planet Number Seven at Seven on the Seventh day of the Seventh month of the Seventh year in the Seventh Heaven of Outer Space. The Sun smiled on my predicament, which of course can cause a chap to lose confidence in his ability to make a gal smile.

The Moon Chortled from his Dark Side.

“You’ve landed on Uranus,” he laughed as I sat on my bruised rump.

From that day on I met them all.

Pixy’s, Goblins, Ogres, Brownies, Imps, Gremlins, Trolls and of course the beautiful Fairies.

So I feel compelled to write down everything about the Strange Things From Uranus.

Homophones

I never did understand Ceiling wax and Mathematical cymbals were just too loud!

Photo by Andrea Piacquadio on Pexels.com

After a couple of bad months, this was a nice message…

You’re not where you used to be, and that can be a good thing.

You have come so far in your journey.

You’ve outgrown so many unhealthy patterns and now you’re looking at life from a different perspective.

Embrace this transformation. You did your best to handle everything that happened around you.

You’ve survived a lot. You’ve carried yourself out of dark places.

Give yourself credit for practicing courage even when it was so hard.

Get ready to enjoy this new phase of your life, which is going to be so much better than what you’ve experienced until now.

Something wonderful is just about to happen.

How to Get Started Writing a Journal

Getting started journaling isn’t something that you need to think about too hard. Yes, there are numerous types and styles of journals and ways to do this that may or may not be more effective depending on your goals, but you can simply get some paper (or your computer) and get started today.

* Dust Off Your Pen and Paper – You don’t need anything special to keep a journal; in fact, purists believe that using pen and paper is the best way to journal because you can carry it with you anywhere and you don’t need technology. So, there will be no excuses.

* Do It First Thing in the Morning – Don’t procrastinate about keeping your journal. It’s best to do it in the morning before you begin your day so that you have the right frame of mind for the day. Plus, you only need five to ten minutes, so it’s not that big of a deal.

* Do It Last Thing at Night – Another time to do it is before bed. This works especially well for gratitude journals. That way you can go to sleep thinking about all the things you are grateful for instead of things you’re worried about.

* Write Every Single Day – Whenever you choose to do it, try to set it up so that it becomes a ritual and a habit. Journaling every single day is going to be more effective than just doing it when you feel like it.

* Start Simply – Don’t start being worried about style and substance right now; just work on the daily habit with pen and paper (or if it’s easier for you, a computer or smartphone). Don’t make it hard – just get going.

* Begin with Today – Start right now and write about your day today. That’s the easiest thing to do. What of significance happened today? How did you feel about it? What would you do differently? What would you do the same?

* Try Different Types of Journals – Once you develop the habit, you can start trying several types of journaling like a bullet journal, or a vision journal, or maybe even a project journal for your next project.

* Keep It Private – The main thing to remember about your journal is that it should be kept private. The only exception is if you want to share thoughts with a therapist, counsellor, or coach. Or if you want to turn it into a book or course, to help someone else overcome whatever you overcame. Keeping a journal will help you deal with the things that happen to you as well as the things that have not happened to you. The main reason is that writing it down helps you remember what you did right and what you did wrong. It helps you improve your decision-making capacity for similar situations. The main thing is just to get start

How Journaling Can Help with Mental Health Issues

Some ideas to consider when journaling.

Keeping any type of journal will help with improving any mental health issues. However, if you really want to tackle a specific problem you’re having, it will help to determine the right type of journal to keep. Keeping a particular kind of journal may work best for your issue.

* Boosts Your Mood – If you really want to boost your mood, keeping a gratitude journal is where it’s at. All you have to do is once a day, preferably before bed, write down what you’re grateful for today. It might not seem like much but it’s immensely powerful for going to sleep, thinking positively about your life.

* Increases Your Sense of Well-Being – As you write out your thoughts, you’ll start seeing issues from a new angle just because you’re opening your mind to think about it. This is going to make you feel more capable of dealing with whatever happens.

* Lessens Symptoms of Depression – Understand that depression is something different from sadness, and that you likely need a counsellor. Writing it all down can make it seem less horrific so that you can feel better. Plus, you can look back at days you thought life was “over” and see better days after.

* Reduces Anxiety – The problem with anxiety is that it was designed to help us get away from immediate danger. It triggers the “fight or flight” response. If each time you have that anxious feeling you choose to write in your journal how you are feeling and why, you’ll start to control it better.

* Lowers Avoidance Behaviour’s – Many people who have mental health issues practice avoidance behaviour’s such as not going to places that cause them anxiety, or not doing the things they need to do due to how they feel. When you write it out, it helps you get the feelings out but do the thing anyway.

* You’ll Sleep Better – Pouring your heart out into a journal is a wonderful way to get things off your chest. However, for sleep, go to the gratitude journal and write down what you’re thankful for today and go to sleep thinking of that.

* Makes You a Kinder Person – Exploring your own emotional state and accepting your own feelings while you work through what makes you who you are in your journal is going to make you naturally more empathetic to others too. Letting go of judgment for self improves your thoughts for others also.

* Improves Your Memory – This is almost a situation where you want to say “duh” but it has to be said. Writing down things helps you remember them because you can go back and read it, but also because the act of writing something down enables you to recall it.

One thing that can really help you make your journaling work is to learn how to keep one effectively. Make some journaling rules, do it every day to create a habit, and keep it private unless you decide to let your therapist see it or you decide to use it to help others. This is for you and only you for the most part.

Ten Types of Journals You Can Create

When you begin journaling it will likely occur to you that having more than one type of journal might be the best way to keep everything organized better. When you have more than one type of journal, you can simply go to the specific journal to work on one issue at a time or keep something organized so you can make better decisions.

1. Bullet Journals – This type of journal is useful for anyone who has lots of to-do lists, loves using a pen and paper, and who enjoys goal tracking. Your journal should have a table of contents that you create as you add to the journal so you can find things. You will use symbols, colours, and lines to make your bullet journal. You should be able to understand at a glance what is on the page.

2. Vision Journals – You may have heard of vision boards and this is essentially it, except it is a journal that helps lead you to your vision. The way it works is that you set up the journal to have only one goal per page. Then you can write words, add pictures, or draw something that enables you to make plans to reach that goal. When you do reach the goal, be sure to go back and add the date of achievement.

3. Line a Day Journals – Basically this journal is what it is called – you write down only one line a day. You will simply write in the journal a short line about what you did that day. It should be only a sentence or two at the most, and should not take up that much space in your journal. Some people like using a calendar and a pen for this.

4. Classic Journal – This is simply a diary, and you can write whatever you want in it every day. It can be long, short, or you can skip days if you want to. The classic journal is just like the diary that you maybe kept as a child. You write whatever you want in it daily.

5. Prayer Journal – This is a particular type of journal where you essentially act like your diary or journal is your higher power. Write God your prayers instead of saying them. Write them down so you remember them and can look back on them.

6. Dream Journal – Some people really like tracking their dreams because they believe that dreams provide signs for life. If you want to track your dreams, you have to train yourself to write in your dream journal every morning while you still remember the dream. Write about the dream and then research what it means and write about that too.

7. Food Journal – Write down everything you eat every day. Some people like to include the calorie contents and so forth. It can also help to write down why you eat it, how you felt about eating it, and things like that.

8. Travel Journal – A wonderful way to remember your travels is to keep a travel journal. Some people like making one for each trip so that it is easier to remember. You can write your thoughts in your journal, but you can also attach tickets, pics, and memories.

9. Gratitude Journal – This is just what it sounds like. It is a journal where you record each day what you are thankful for and grateful for. Nothing can be negative in this journal because it is designed to help you think more positively.

10. Project Journal – This is a handy journal to keep, especially for anyone who continually works on projects. Keeping a journal of each project you work on that records actions taken, results, and data, will help you improve every project but will also help you look back on this one with excitement.

If you want to journal to help work through a problem, keeping specific journals for different things is an effective way to go about it. It is also a wonderful way to store your thoughts and memories for the future in a more organized and useful manner.

Writing ideas – How Journaling Can Help with Achieving Your Goals

Journaling can help you achieve your goals because it will force you to think about them, consider the why and how, and delve deeper into the situation so that you can examine all sides of it. Read on to find out how journaling can help.

* It Forces You to Write Down Your Goals – When you start a journal, it basically is a way to force yourself to document your goals. Whether you write them down on paper or you use technology to get it all down does not matter. Once they are written, they are ready to tackle.

* It Makes You Consider Why and How – As you enter data into your journal, you will be forced to face the why and how of your goal. This is especially true if you write down a goal and focus on it in your journal.

* It Enables You to Examine the Opportunities and Threats – When you are focused on goal making with your journal, you will also explore opportunities and threats coming your way due to your goals. It helps you avoid roadblocks in advance.

* It Makes You Develop Steps for Success Based on Your Goals – When you see it written down, you will want to notice and pull out any steps you have developed in your journal and put them in your calendar for scheduling.

* It Helps You Improve Goal Setting and Achievement – Each time you intentionally set goals, define steps to achieve the goals, and perform them, you are setting yourself up for being able to improve your skills.

* It Provides Accountability – Even if no one else is reading your journal, a private journal can help you become accountable to yourself. If you develop the habit of looking at your journal each day and put something else in there each day, it will work great for helping you become more accountable.

* It Provides a Permanent Record – Having a permanent record of the things you have done in your life, whether it is personal or work, is a beautiful thing. Hardly anyone has a perfect memory, so you will maintain the lessons learned better with the record to look back at.

* It May Be Inspirational – Depending on the journal, you might even be able to take the information inside and compile it into a real book for others to read to inspire them. You might also take from it steps for your success for a project and turn it into a course to inspire someone else.

Journaling is an excellent way to work toward achieving all your goals. It will even help you make better goals because the process of entering facts in your journal will cause you to see them in a more logical way that is more useful.

My thoughts when I am writing

Trust that everything will be alright. Trust that this waiting period will end soon and you will get to experience pure bliss and happiness.

Continue to maintain hope and take inspired action every day. You have been able to make the best of difficult times.

Don’t underestimate your power. Your undeniable strength, courage, and perseverance will help you bring your desires to fruition.

It’s okay if you don’t know the details of “how” and “when” yet.

The answers will present themselves when you’re completely ready to embrace them.

You must trust the process and do the best you can right now. Things will sort themselves out in ways you never could have thought.