Was a wet, windy Wednesday, when women walked with water wild, without wonder, without wincing; one would warrant whether the weather would without warning, withhold wanton wetting. Of course, alliteration gets us nowhere. Yes, indeed these women were walking by a river one wet, windy day. Yes indeed they were not particularly awestruck with the blandness of the day they all were experiencing together. But however, they did not expect the weather to take such a terrible turn.
The clouds opened up like a dust-filled vacuum bag; the rain spilled out onto the earth as dust from aforementioned bag onto a freshly vacuumed carpet. These walking women were without garments suitable for such a sudden climate change, nor had they the instruments designed to fend off these falling droplets. To shelter they looked, they were looking for shelter, alas none was nearby.
Woman A was not so smart you see, and she did hurriedly seek shelter from globules composed of two parts hydrogen and one part water. So hurriedly did she seek that she threw herself into the river, in hindsight in vain, in order to seek shelter from the rain. Of course we all know that she was foolish in her panic to protect her petticoat that she should so plunge so perfectly headfirst into the picturesque water body. Was it not so that she could not swim? Of course it was so, and consequently drowned therein.
Her friends merely stood around, meekly baffled by this rash and ridiculous occurrence. As was becoming the increasingly annoying habit of the time, Woman B declared in inquisition: “What’s occurring?” in the worst Welsh accent she could muster. The other five women promptly slapped her viciously and without remorse until she was silent, only to then remove her socks and use them as gloves for Woman C and Woman D. Such was her grief at losing her most treasured and precious two pairs of socks (she wore two pairs of socks as she believed that it helped her look taller) that she expired right there on the grass, leaving nothing but a poignant reminder of the devastation of sheep like behaviour in following the fads of the hour.
The five remaining women promptly journeyed on in the hope that they may find shelter along the way. Woman E at this point announced to the group (and for the benefit of those experiencing the story first hand) that they were travelling from Woman A’s house to Woman B’s house, but now they must pursue a new direction, as they had no longer a need to follow their deceased friends’ maps. A new route was planned by Woman F, and the five women set off for Woman G’s house, where they were promised pâté on wholemeal toast, and crayfish tails. Much to the delight of these women these words were met, and so they marched on with vigour renewed.
The rain was relentless and rained down upon them still. After a few minutes they came across a stile, and in order to continue on their merry way they had to overcome it. Animals of course cannot use stiles successfully, as was proved right now by this stupid, stupid sheep that had become trapped. Woman C was not afraid of ovine creatures and took to freeing the animal instantly. Woe it was for Woman C, as this sheep was not so stupid. In fact, it was not a sheep at all, but a wolf in sheep’s clothing, and a very hungry wolf at that. As soon as Woman C was in chomping distance of this crafty canine, her head was cleanly chomped straight off of her neck.
Unfortunately for this wicked yet wiley wolf, Woman C had quaffed a phial of wolf repellent prior to the story’s beginning, and so the wolf perished due to the copious volume of potent poison now coursing well throughout all of its bloodstream. The wolf, bereft of life and limp of body, fell away from the stile, and the four remaining women were able to go ever onwards towards the promise of pâté on wholemeal toast and crayfish tails.
Wetter was the rain getting if ‘twas possible, and certainly ‘twas. Heavier the petticoats of the ladies became due to the water they had soaked into them. Slower now was their movement due to the added weight and fatigue. Woman D delighted in spotting the house of Woman G off on the horizon. A thunderclap was heard and the astraphobia sufferer that was Woman D screamed and sprinted away, terrified and screeching, peddling her little legs as fast as they would carry her across the field they were in towards the cover provided by a nearby willow. Foolhardy some would call it, but so petrified was she that she realised not what she was doing, or really cared, as she was not fond of pâté on wholemeal toast; she preferred it on white, and crayfish tails brought her out in hives.
Beneath the branches of the willow she sheltered and cowered hoping the storm would pass. It did of course, but passed directly over her head, complete with electric lightning, which came straight down from the ominous cumulonimbus and struck the tree, lighting it with fire, and burning alive and to an almost instant crisp the unfortunate Woman D. Her friends merely shook their heads and sighed, as they knew all too well that it was incredibly foolish of her, and as such had no sympathy for her whatsoever. Many observers now began to wonder if these women really were friends at all!
The storm was beginning to subside as the women arrived in the grounds of the house of the Woman identifiable with the letter G. All three remainders of this perilous journey were becoming weary with hunger, and wanted nothing more than to change out of their damp, moist, soggy garments and feast on pâté on wholemeal toast and crayfish tails and a cup of Earl Grey.
From his window, Father H (who was the father of Woman G) spotted the women traipsing across his lawn and in his dementia, removed his shotgun from its holster and unloaded both barrels into the unfortunate Woman E. Eyelids were not batted by the women as they walked by. Father H was reloading his shotgun when suddenly he recognised the face of his daughter. He could see now that she was not in fact a caribou with antelope friend threatening to nibble his carefully laid out croquet hoops, and was overcome with joy that it was not she that he had brutally shot. In honour of this occasion he laid on a great feast for the two women, and took them to the banquet hall.
First of all the two women showered (together or separately depending on whether you are reading the adult version) and dressed in new clothes offered to them. On their clothes was a note and this note read thus:
“Do not eat my π,
Or you shall surely die.”
Woman G knew most sincerely not to eat the item of food that this riddle none so subtly alluded to, and knew what it was that she must not eat. Woman F however, was none too familiar with this eccentric cauliflower farmer’s methods, and none too familiar with mathematics. Into the banquet hall she strode and with hunger overcoming her table manners, she pushed her face straight through a dubious looking rhubarb pie. Beset upon her was 20,000 volts, as this was a pie capable of conducting electricity, as anybody who has ever cooked rhubarb pie can surely attest.
Woman G looked out over the feast and saw that it was good and tasty to her eyes. Her stomach rumbled like a mighty beast growling after a lesser beast considered to be prey, and so she feasted. Her taste was not for the finer food laid out before her, but more for what she had originally wanted: pâté on wholemeal toast and crayfish tails. She poured herself a warming cup of Earl Grey, the aroma of bergamot floating around her, easing her worries as she had had a troubling day. While tucking into her pâté on wholemeal toast, she penned a letter to each of the parents of the women she had spent the day with: the respective parents of Aryll, Beryl, Cheryl, Daryl, Errol, and Flannel would all shortly receive a detailed account of their beloved daughter’s tragic end.
Woman G leaned back in her chair and smiled: she had survived to tell the tale. She straightened up the black gerbera that was alluding itself nicely to being ornamental in its way in its little vase in front of her, and reached for the spoon to serve herself crayfish tails. There on the plate in her midst was the final portion of her day. She made sure that she got the tastiest looking tail on the end of her fork, dripping in lemon butter and dill, and popped it into her mouth.
The sensation was terrific: soft and tender, causing such oral excitement like which she had yet to be subjected to. In her diary that night she was planning on putting down that this was the most wonderful thing that she had ever voluntarily let into her mouth. Taking her time to savour the flavour and the texture of the innocent shellfish she had just mashed with a combination of her incisors, canines, molars, she closed her eyes and relaxed. The saliva had worked well enough now that it was time to swallow, and she did. With satisfaction quickly reaching its epoch, she let out a long breath.
Suddenly, she sat upright. Her eyes were wide open. Of all the asinine codswallop! She forgot that she was allergic to shellfish! Now she was suffering the effects of asphyxia, ataxia, and embarrassment. As if that wasn’t enough, she happened to chance upon the one and only crayfish tail ever recorded to be heavily imbued with cyanide. It was a very fitting end to the day that had transpired that she also was to fall victim to the wrath of this very unlikely turn of events.
Father H walked into the room and saw his daughter dead. His countenance was as grim as the dementia that bore it. He had lost his daughter to mild avarice and major stupidity, the two together being such a deadly combination that even his current state of mind knew it to be axiomatic. His grief was short-lived however, as he had space in his taxidermy room for one last trophy.
It was a small victory for she who successfully overcame fate’s obstacle course that she was then rendered immortal in her father’s study. The prize was a banquet, but as her brain cells were indeed as prison cells to her intelligence, the only banquet she attends now is amongst emu and boar, rhino and giraffe, feasting on the tales told about her exploits by people who knew nothing of her, but speculate and exaggerate for the purpose of their own importance.
© Kris Blackburn 19/02/09