Tag Archives: Bottled

Part 7 of the Epic Collaboration – A Revelation of Sorts

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Continued from HERE

“With this epic collaboration you are spoiling us,” whispered Aidan Turner into my ear.
We had left the throng of the Mogwash Manor ballroom and had retired to the balcony for some privacy as I was feeling a little peculiar after eating far too many Ferrero Rocher chocolates. I squinted at Aidan, and then in a fit of bravado I whipped away the flannel that was covering a suspiciously saggy pair of greying Y fronts.
“You’re not Aidan Turner!” I screamed, “You are Mago, the German archeologist from a post I wrote on April 15th 2015 that obviously EVERYONE remembers!”
Mago’s shoulders slumped in shame, and he slid the black nylon wig from his head.
“‘ee made me do it,” said Mago, “‘ee made me pretend.”
“Who?”
“That Device person, ‘ee is witch.”
“I thought you were German, not Spanish? Never mind, we will work on that later…. but why, Why??? Why would he do that????? WHY?????” I said, becoming somewhat hysterical.
“‘ee is after the Bottle of Greed! ‘Ee think Aidan could seduce you into revealing its location; ‘ee say ‘ee would share profits with me.”
I smiled my special enigmatic smile, kept for such occasions.
“This is all getting very silly,” I muttered.
“Bit like British Government,” chuckled Mago.
I glared at him and continued, “do you have my left wellington boot?”
“Mais oui, it is ‘ere,” replied Mago, relieving a passing butler of one muddy boot and handing it to me.
“Thank you, that’s the Cinderella thread of this epic tale sewn up then.”
“What ‘appens next?”
“Well that depends on you, do you want to stay in a narrative where you are forced to fly around half naked on an ancient octopus sucker bathmat? Or, would you like to be in a narrative where you wear warm clothes and have the status of historian/professor/archeologist?”
I felt my stomach grumble and regretted my overindulgence with the Ferrero Rocher – I had terrible indigestion. My chest tightened and my Bettina gown felt as though it was shrinking, whilst Mago appeared to be getting larger and larger.

“Damn that witch!” I squeaked.

“Vair did she go? She ‘as vanished! I want nice narrative, with the clothes! I want to dig up carparks! Wo ist she????” Despaired Mago, almost getting the gist of a German accent.

It appeared that I had neglected to tie up the Alice in Wonderland thread in a timely fashion, and this neglect would cost me dear….

strange-bottles-uk
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To be continued over the Cusp….
Although there may be an interlude around the Garden Event and Halloween.

When Worlds Collide and a Pair of Striped Tights

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Iwoke up again. Not only was I still a failure, but now I was a failure surrounded by unfamiliar voices. Maybe I hadn’t woken up at all, I really wasn’t sure. My garret appeared to be filled with a haze of sparkling Champagne bubbles that were emanating from a jolly Australian lady who seemed to be using them as a means of communication with an assistant called Muriel. I shrugged – I mean why not? At some point in the future Champagne’s bUbbles would rival Apple’s iPhone – I knew that.

A nice hazy picture to break up a huge swathe of text.

Moving on [as swiftly as possible], I realised that the other unfamiliar voice belonged to Mr Devine; a dead giveaway was his broad Norfolk accent. He was very tall, and took up too much room. He looked a bit cross, and this crossness seemed to be directed at me. He was ranting about the RHS, and a cease and desist notice, or some such; he was going a bit pink and puffy in the face, but thankfully my faithful hound, Sid, calmed him down with some gentle sniffing and a few adoring looks, which Mr Devine fell for because he crouched down to Sid’s level and stopped taking up so much space.

Finally I could talk eye to eye with Dinah, the jolly Australian lady with the twinkly blue eyes; she informed me that she had all the empty bottles I could possibly need to carry on with my bottled art project. I was so overwhelmed with gratitude that I flung my arms around her, which was somewhat uncharacteristic of me. My happiness was swiftly dampened when I noticed her kindly face clouded by a frown.
“What?” I asked.
“The cost of delivering the bottles from Ausland to the UK may be prohibitive.”
Dinah stood in the middle of the garret with one hand on her hip clutching an extended wand, whilst the other held her chin as if deep in thought.
“I’ve got it!”, she exclaimed, “Jon would be the cheaper option!”

“Aaaaaaiiiiiiieeeeeeee!” Howled Mr Devine from his crouched position. He appeared to be grappling with my drapes and pulled one down into a heap on the floor.
“Oi, watch the drapes!” I shouted.
“Oh don’t mind him,” said Dinah, “he’s got a problem with the cute blackbird that’s perched on your crate, none of us can remember why so we humour him.”
Much to my surprise Dinah pulled down my other drape and used it to cover Mr Devine’s shaking limbs.
“It’s okay, Mr D,” soothed Dinah, gently patting Mr Devine’s back, “you stay under here and Sid will stand guard and protect you should Beaky try to attack.” Dinah rolled her eyes and then winked at me as Beaky the Blackbird flew out the window and back to Norfolk.

Sid, taking his job of guarding Mr Devine very seriously.

“Doesn’t he scream like a girl?” a new voice observed, a little later than expected.
“Your timing is a bit off,” I shouted into the bUbble Haze™, “he screamed about 5 minutes ago.”
“Ms Mistress?” Said a drape muffled voice.
A pair of red and black striped tights appeared from the bUbble Haze™ and dangled above us, jigging lightly from foot to foot.

“Who’s this?” I mouthed to Dinah.
“Mistress MJ, from Canada.” Replied Dinah, mouthing back.
“I can see you,” said the tights in a slow, cool, Canadian accent, “I would join you, but Ms Scarlet’s keyboard is too grubby, and too riddled with germs for me to be typed into this blog post so I have sent a representation of myself. Ms Scarlet, if you could please sanitise your immediate environment then I will be able to appear in all my glory.”

I winced. Cleaning my keyboard, and garret, to Mistress MJ’s exacting standards would take over 23 years to achieve, and I did not have 23 years to spare. I needed the empty bottles for my art, so, at my peril, I ignored Mistress MJ’s request.

“Dinah, where can I find this Cheap Jon fellow?” I whispered.
“*Sarf London,” Dinah whispered back, “you can’t miss him, he has an award winning back passage. God’s speed Ms Scarlet, good luck, and don’t worry about the cleaning, I’ll get Mr Devine to do it.”

Dinah and I clasped our little fingers together, tapped our right heels 5 times, and then I was away on my adventure, with my trusty hound, Sid, at my heels, and with no worries about domestic chores – I trusted Dinah to make everything spic’n’span.

“STOP HER!!!” Shrieked Mr Devine…..

*Incorrect location due to data privacy laws, and also artistic licence.

To be continued over the cusp.

A Realm Beyond Comprehension and a Shortish List

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Iawoke realising that I had failed. Not only had I failed in my mission to become an internationally acclaimed artist with medals and an OBE, but I had also failed in my attempt to achieve world peace.

‘There is still time.’ Whispered a distant voice from a realm beyond comprehension.
‘You’re optimistic,’ I replied, strangely unperturbed by this new aural phenomenon, ‘my deadline is 21st November 2045, I only have 23 years and a bit and then the crowds will descend on Mogwash village hall expecting some kind of spectacle/experience/miracle/wonderment/world peace/artistic extravaganza [delete as applicable].’

The distant voice offered no further advice so I heaved myself out of bed and decided that today would be the day that I would start to get things done. I had to be positive, I had been dribbling stupor for long enough, and maybe the distant voice had a point – there was time – so I washed, dressed, ate a bowl of gruel, and hauled myself up to my garret at the bottom of the garden.

My garret was much as I left it, though a bit more dusty. On my desk was a list [please see exhibit A]

After removing a pile of books from my chair, I sat, and tried to gaze out the window – I couldn’t, it was far too grubby so I added ‘clean window’ to the list.
It appeared that I had my work cut out, or at least written down. But there was something I’d forgotten – something very important, and I swear I could hear the words: Did I win yet? being typed on a keyboard. My reverie was interrupted when I felt a cool presence brush against my left elbow, and from the sound of glass bottles rattling in a cardboard crate. This was all rather startling, but even more so because of the Blackbird  standing on the bottles with its wings outstretched in a cormorant pose, as if perched on a groyne. There was only one thing I could do in the face of such terrorism, I passed out, hitting my head on my desk as I slowly slumped to the floor.

To be continued over the cusp.