The Word Cloud

How many times have I written a blog and it’s got absolutely nothing to do with writing? Tch. At least, of twice... so here we go then; this is my attempt at a children’s fairy story. A gentle romp with good guys and bad guys and a moral to boot! Or is it amoral...? I forget which. Usual warnings...*cough*

Anyway, enjoy;

A grim fairy tale

Or

From here to there, and back again, to see how far it is (to Death’s door)

Once upon a time in a land so far, far, removed from common sense you would not believe, there lived an old Rabbit we shall call Thumper Caeruleus. Now, whilst Thumper was indeed 6½ years old, which is a good age for cheap wartime stew filling, he was by no means hugging Death’s scimitar. He did have his problems, this is true; a dicky ticker and the incredible ability to forget everything and anything that had happened in less than the last thirty years, including, but not limited to, whether or not he had just evacuated.

Now Thumper lived relatively happily, (I say relatively on account of his relatives) until one sorry day where, according to eye-witnesses who are dubious at best and down-right rubbish at sticking to the facts at worst, he fell over. Thumper, it was decided, had not merely taken a slight tumble though. Oh, no. Thumper, a Rabbit that would win the slowest runner prize in a race between him and Tortie The Three-Legged Arthritic Tortoise, decided, in his decrepit state, to climb upon his cot-like bed, hike onto his bedside table and climb to the top of his (fitted...) wardrobes and swan-dive majestically from there into the lounge. Whereupon he resolutely refused to move or regain his feet, despite the frantic attempts (kicks, punches, verbal abuse...) of his loving mate.

There was nothing for it, and the nee-naws were summoned forthwith to whisk old Thumper away to Cureitania the magical land of this weird non-world where everyone is cured in one way or another... but that is a pig of a tale in its own right and not for telling today. Maybe tomorrow, over a bacon sandwich, eh?

So we join Thumper prostrate (not prostate, prostrate! You’re just taking the piss, now...) upon a bed of finest silk cushions being fed grapes by virginal beauties and having his feet gently washed by hand-maidens of the purist virtue... oh wait, sorry, no he’s not... my mistake... he’s in a corridor on a tired and worn out gurney. Just outside of A & E, which stands for Anybody & Everybody, a sweet indication of the filtering system used to encapsulate all travellers to Cureitania or to give it its full acronym; A&EDH. I’m not sure what the DH stands for but I’m guessing at “Die Here”...

Now, bearing in mind his mental acuity (a sub-plot that threads its way throughout this tale), he is found in this state by his erstwhile daughter and would-be-son-in-law-if-they-were-married, the gorgeous Cyanistes and her beau, one Major Parus. A finer pair of tits you have never seen in your life. What? This is a fairy tale; Rabbits beget garden birds in fairy tales, deal with it. Besides, if you’re a Latin speaking twitcher, you’ll see what I did there and if you aren’t then this whole story is going to be wasted on you... sigh. A clue to Thumper’s mindset is in his rapid and responsive quip to Parus’ jovial, yet, cheery greeting of “Hello fella! How are you doing?” to whit; “I’m fine thanks, how are you?”

“What to do you mean, you’re fine? You’re on a gurney outside A&E!”

“Am I? I did wonder what I was doing here...”

“You’ve had a fall.” Interjected a lovely green Gorilla called George. “You’ve fractured your hip.” He turned to Cyanistes and whispered “classic signs; foot is twisted outwards until it’s almost flat, one leg is shorter than the other... oh, and when you move his toes he screams in agony...”

“He’s broke his hip?!” Cyanistes cried distraught.

“More likely a fracture, but these guys will tell you what’s what.” And he wandered away having never been so wrong in all his life.

Now Curitania is populated by what at first glance and desperate hope appear to be creatures of angelic countenance, glorious heroism and drop dead all round gorgeousness. At first glance. Second and third glances, however, reveal scrofulous, filth-covered Weasels and the heart sinking feeling of despair. But that, is for later. At this early stage in the story, it is best that we put aside our prejudices and concentrate upon the tale itself including the possibility that Curitania’s Angel population numbered at least one.

Now, the Angel in question was past her bedtime when, looking closely at Thumpers x-ray decided she could see what appeared to be a hairline shadow on his hip. Decisive and immediate, as Angels are, she reserved an already empty bed in an orthopaedic ward and explained that she was handing over to the registrar who will confirm her original findings. This was because it was way past her bedtime already.

Sadly, the Angel knew not of what new level of Hell she had unleashed as the imbecile (too strong? But I don’t like to use the term fuckwit...) she handed over to (turning up well over an hour after The Angel had fallen fast asleep on her cloud) decide that there was no fracture, the extreme pain Thumper was in was “probably bruising” and that his distraught condition could be accredited to something else. So he duly called in the Weasel registrar of something else.

And, curiously, the new Weasel noticed something on an x-ray... of Thumpers chest.

“Why are you looking at an x-ray of his chest?” asked a bewildered Major Parus

 “We’ve spotted a shadow...”

“Really? Is it Hank? How Marvinolous.” He quipped before adding politely “why are you looking at an x-ray of his chest?” but was duly ignored with the words...

“Come and have a look (if you think you’re hard enough). We think he’s got pneumonia.”

Major Parus was hard enough and followed the Weasel to a big dark screen liberally scattered with a pale dusty facsimile of Thumpers internal being. He strained hard, but eventually conceded that he could indeed see the dark mass that blighted the bottom 0.00001% of Thumpers right lung.

“Could it be damage or scarring from Thumpers last incumbency at all?” He asked, “When he came in here with pneumonia?”

“Looks like he’s got pneumonia,” The Weseal said, after duly considering Major Parus incapable of understanding the concept of “me doctor, you peasant” and tagging him as likely trouble.

“We’ll get him treated for that in no time.” He continued, unashamed, and doubtlessly proud of his life saving achievements, despite, and this may spoil the story so I advise caution when reading on, Thumper having not possessing a pneumatic tyre in his body.

“What about his fractured hip?”

“Can’t see any fracture on his x-rays, so he’s probably (like the author) making that up a bit, y’know, for dramatic effect and to fill in a missing piece from memory with a close approximation of the clinical incompetence that is the very undertone of this tale... so anyway... we’re going to treat him for pneumonia.”

And so it came to pass.

Time goes by, so slowly, and time can do so much, are you still... with me? Now, there are strict rules in Cureitania about loitering and those in the know are charged with moving itinerant visitors on as quickly as possible... say... within three hours? Imagine the surprise and hilarity that after eight hours it comes time to whisk Thumper away to the land of nod-and-a-wink, essentially a nearby holding pen that isn’t monitored for loitering where annoying visitors can be dumped unceremoniously for “assessment.” (Note: “Assessment” is the Cureitanian word for “ignored.”)

Now why, would one ask, has time gone so slowly? Well, dear reader, I shall tell you. It went so slowly because all the little Weasels that work the A&EDH were having trouble. Trouble with drunken idiots that threatened to beat them up, trouble with working out how to deal with drunken idiots that threatened to beat them up, then trouble with explaining to each other what had just happened despite all hands were, effectively, on deck anyway. I know they had trouble because this phase consisted of nearly two whole hours of Thumpers residency. Two hours, in which the poor old Rabbit was now almost rabid with the pain in his groinal area, vomiting on a semi-regular basis and hallucinating. Cyanistes was deeply concerned that Thumper had possibly broken his fall with his penis, a fact that Major Parus dispelled quietly and gently and with no piss taking sarcasm whatsoever.

The other trouble that the Weasels were having was in concentrating whilst discussing the trouble with drunken idiots that threatened to beat them up. Major Parus observed forty minutes of one senior Weasel preparing an injection for some poor sap. “I pity the fool who’s getting that lot,” he pointedly remarked to Cyanistes, “one of those Weasels just said ‘ooooh, nasty!’ when he saw the stuff and then laughed.” And carried on being troubled. It was shortly after this that Thumper had an injection which, to all intents and purposes nearly killed him. He was rocking in his seat, unable to sit still, his eyes were rolling, his head was lolling and his arm went scarlet and frantically itchy. Thankfully the Weasel had the wherewithal to cease the injection otherwise who knows what would of happened. And thankfully too, a sense of urgency abounded with Thumper under constant monitoring due to his near death experience... oh, wait, no, my mistake... Cyanistes and Major Parus were left alone to watch in horror as Thumper spent two hours freaking out and looking like he was going to die at any moment.

It took a while for the A&E Weasels to finally come to terms with the fact that Thumpers dodgy heart valve was unlikely to give out and, with stern looks of displeasure from Major Parus finally ceded defeat and gave Thumper an injection of paracetemol – primarily on account that Thumper was persistently vomiting and the original “tabloid” suggestion was questioned by a concerned, if clinically ignorant, Major Parus.

Tempest Fugit dying in ultra-violent ecstasy over the door of a nearby chip-shop heralded the passing of midnight and eight long hours of horror-coaster ride that left Cyanistes shell-shocked and unimpressed with Major Parus’ cry of “let’s do that again!”

As Thumper was too trolleyed to walk, it came as somewhat of a dark indication of the future and a bit of a surprise when The Weasels informed Cyanistes that she would not be allowed to accompany Thumper to the assessment ward – what with it being way past midnight an’ all. Thank heaven’s Major Parus is a not too diminutive of stature and calm of appearance whereupon his hissed insistence was sufficient to belay any concerns over their noisome partying amongst the land of the living but almost dead.

Twenty four hours later – in the dead of night, i.e. midnight, lest anyone might see – Thumper was wheeled away once again, but this time to a lovely clearing in the dark forest of Curitania we shall for the sake of simplicity call The Land Of That Battle That No One Actually Recalls But Knows It If You Say It’s Name or, to give it a classical moniker; Lethe, the land where... oh, I don’t know... I forget. Now this clearing was chosen, not for the proximity of Thumpers condition and the word “cure” but for the most important of reasons; they had a spare bed. Ergo, Thumper found himself in a stroke ward...

Thumper, ensconced upon a bed of finest silk cushions being fed grapes by virginal... oh, i’ve done that one already, tch. Anyhoo, tucked up in bed amongst his kindred low-spirits, Thumper was not a well Rabbit; his behaviour was oddly distant, his eyes glassy and unresponsive.

“Curious,” remarked Cyanistes, “he hasn’t been like this since we took him off his meds six months ago.”

“Very curious” Major Parus agreed.

“Hold on a blummin’ moment.” Cyanistes understated as she read the top secret coded scrolls of scribble loosely held together in a beaten up ring-piece binder called ‘Thumpers notes’, “it says here they’ve been giving him those old blummin’ medicines! The fucking wankers.”

Thankfully having seen the error of their ways (disguised heavily as “it’s what we gave him the last time he was in here – over a year ago...”) the Weasels of Curitania took just the two weeks to stop poisoning sweet old Thumper and he gradually returned from deep within the land of the ming-mongs. (In the land of the Mongs, Ming the Merciless is King...)

Unfortunately, Thumper’s leg still hurt. He still yelled in pain if, and when, he moved his leg. His left foot was almost horizontal (almost comical in a Charlie Chaplin kind of way...) and decidedly shorter than the right foot which Major Parus figured was going to be a distinct disadvantage when it came to walking. Unless of course Thumper wanted to walk around left-handed corners, or on the side of a mountain, in which case it was far better than his old useless legs for that! Oh, and none of the Weasels appeared to be doing anything. Except, of course miraculously curing him pneumonia, a dreadful condition that claims countless lives every day and which he didn’t have in the first fucking place.

During this time, Thumper slowly began to fade, his appetite was at an all time low and his ability to be bothered was seriously compromised. Thumper’s good lady, Cyanistes and Major Parus were allowed to visit during mealtimes and encourage Thumper to eat – a feat that took strength, fortitude and an unhealthy amount of cajoling. This wasn’t unusual to the family; Thumper was not renowned for his hearty appetite. And to top it all off, having eaten Thumper was consistently vomiting it all back up. The Weasels decided to take action. And the action they took? A tablet to prevent Thumper from vomiting. Priceless. Which they duly forgot to give prior to his eating (well, nine times out of ten, anyway.)

There was something else wrong and the family just could not put their finger on it. Which was lucky, really, as it turns out Thumper hadn’t been for a dump for at least two weeks. He was blocked. Every morsel of food he ate sat just below a valve that, basically, stops a fairy-tale creature from vomiting back up the food they had just eaten...

A series of enema’s and laxatives later and Thumper is about six or seven pounds lighter, his appetite returning a few days after that and, amazingly, his ability to not vomit was also miraculously restored.

But Thumper was still yelling in pain when he was moved. How bizarre! Bizzare? Bizzare? You have not...read...anything yet my young friends. Let us shuffle along a ways, say five weeks after his trip with the nee-naws. Five weeks. Remember that, it is important. Five weeks.

Now, Cyanistes is not a stupid garden bird but even she failed to spot the flaw in the Curitanian plan. The flaw? Physical examination. No-one had physically examined Thumper since A&E. Oh, they had looked at his x-rays, no question about that, but had they actually examined Thumper? No. And do you know why? No. And nor does anybody else.

On their regular rounds, it turns out that, despite constant, persistent warnings from the family, Thumper was asked how he felt. Understand, fellow fairies, that Thumper is an old fashioned gent. He does not want to be any trouble to anyone, is as honest as the day is long, but most of all has a mild degenerative brain disorder that prevents him from remembering anything. Anything. Ask him if he’s alright, or how he is feeling and you will NOT get the truth. Yet despite the constant, perpetual reminders from the family, it turns out that after five weeks of questioning, the consultant Weasal, the top dog, the big banana, has decided Thumper is medically fit to leave.

It upset Cyanistes so much when she heard that Major Parus was beside himself with anger and between them hatched a cunning plan to... oh all right, maybe there was no cunning plan, maybe serendipity cares for the pair far more than she would admit, because two interesting things then happened.

It turns out that Cyanistes’ near neighbour was an Angel, an Angel that understood “the calling out in pain” and “the turning of the foot” and the “complaining of pains in the groin.” This Angel advised Cyanistes to have Thumper checked for a spinal injury as she had seen this kind of behaviour before.

“That’s it!” Cried Cyanistes, “Thumper must have damaged his coccyx when he fell!”

She was wrong as we know, but the importance of this piece of information lies in the dogged determination it gave Cyanistes and Major Parus  that The Weasels of Curitania had missed something.

The second wish granted by Serendipity was that on the day of discharge the pair bumped into the big banana himself...

Here’s how it went;

“Yes, you’ll be pleased to know, we’re discharging your father today...” said the big banana with a sickly grin.

“Why? Why would you do that?” Cyanistes asked

“Because he’s fine.”

“No he’s not! He yells in pain everytime you move him!”

“Ah, but that’s just arthritis...”

“Arthritus?!” Major Parus yelled, “Arthritus?!”

“It’s his age...”

“He’s five weeks older than he was when he bloody came in here and he didn’t have arthritis then! And he doesn’t have it now! He’s in physical pain because he’s damaged something from his fall”

“Why did he come in here?”

“He fell...”

“So why is he in a stroke ward?”

Apoplexy is a curious condition, reader, it can turn a person’s colouring purple, their volume up to eleven and their temper up to a thousand. Major Parus however, failed to ignite his sparkling wit with such a retort as “oh, I don’t know, we liked the wide airy feel of the ward, the lovely flowers, the wonderfully attentive nurses... oh wait, no it isn’t...  IT’S BECAUSE YOU FUCKING PUT HIM IN HERE!” but no, this was not to be... all he could do is splutter and stare in exasperation as Cyanistes calmly insisted that she wanted Thumper to have a physical examination, concentrating on his spine.

The banana conceded and ordered it immediately. Which in Curitanian means the next day...

The next day came and Cyanistes observed the physical examination of Thumpers leg, his foot movement elucidating a yell of despair and the curtailing of said exam within two minutes. Cyanistes was, once again, distraught, confronting the examiner curtly with “why are you not looking at his spine...?”

Only to be interrupted with; “I don’t need to examine his spine. Thumper has fractured his hip. He needs surgery immediately.”

Which in Curitanian means the next day...

The very next day Thumpers pins were pinned and, believe it or not, dear reader, he was up and walking (no complaints) the very next day.

Unfortunately... he was moved back into the dark wood where The Weasels reside and his sorry tale does not end there, but his little tale is already three thousand words long and emotionally draining. Maybe, another day soon, I will tell the tale of how the inhabitants of Curitania kidnapped and gang-raped Mathematics. I’ve already touched upon the insistence that at eighty years old his groin pain was attributed to arthritis. A new low was achieved with the further insistence that it is considered “normal” for an old Rabbit with a memory problem, and therefore labelled as a visitor from the planet Dementia, to soil himself. Because that’s what the demented do. (And, as if that humiliation were not enough, to be allowed to remain in his own faeces for fifty minutes despite desperate cries for help from all those around him.)

But, you know what? Serendipity has hugged our heroes one more time. As I write this sorry tale, eleven weeks after his fall, Thumper is due to be discharged to an interim hospital that will care for him whilst he regains the confidence and strength he needs to walk.

Now, do all fairy tales have a moral? Yes? Right. Ok, then. Shall we agree that the moral of this tale is not to grow old, but if it is unavoidable, to make sure you have the brains of Cyanistes and the physical presence of a handsome and strapping young (*cough*) fella to help fight your corner. Because if you don’t... then you are fucked.

So there you go!

My first foray into children’s stories. What do you think? 5-7 year olds? Or is it a bedtime read for toddlers...? No? Me either.

Ez