THE MAD CONVERSATION: An extract from Alice in Wonderland on Top of the World
Flummoxed by the Rabbit’s question, Alice found herself struggling to find a reply. The only one that she was able to come up with, was, “I bet you are mad!”
“That all depends,” the Rabbit replied, quite matter-of-factly.
“It all depends on what?”
“On whether you mean mad or mad.”
“That’s silly,” said Alice. “They both mean the very same thing.”
“If you were mad number one,” said the White Rabbit, with full conviction of the soundness of his case, “and someone happened to tell you that you were mad number two, you might be very mad indeed, at so fundamental a mistake.”
“But I’m not mad!” Alice insisted, becoming ever more frustrated at so silly a conversation.
“How do you know that you aren’t mad,” asked the Rabbit, who appeared to be enjoying flummoxing Alice, so “when you can’t tell the difference between mad number one and mad number two, I might ask?”
“I just know that I’m not mad!” Alice insisted stamping her foot, displaying her annoyance at what she considered was questionable logic. Then changing the subject, from her possible madness or claimed sanity, Alice informed the Rabbit that another door had appeared and was awaiting his attention.
Turning round, the White Rabbit took hold of the brass handle and attempted to turn it, but despite his best efforts the door remained stubbornly shut.
“Might I try?” Alice asked, feeling very un-mad. Standing away from the door, the White Rabbit said nothing, but his pink, beady eyes watched her intently.
The door opened easily for Alice, and feeling vindicated, she proclaimed, “Could a mad person have done that?” Without waiting for a reply, she stepped through the doorway and promptly fell into a gaping hole on the other side.
“No, they mightn’t,” said the Rabbit, laughing as she disappeared into the hole. “But would they have fallen down there?” Laughing again, he hopped through doorway and jumped into the hole, following Alice…
Mr. and Mrs. Privet, of number twenty-three Dorsley Drive, were anything but normal. They had been normal only a few weeks earlier, but they were now as crazy as anyone fortunate enough to have been incarcerated in the local loony bin.
On the outside, Mr. Privet, a tall, bald and incredibly thin man, appeared quite normal, but just beneath the surface, barely hidden, he was a seething mass of nervous ticks, idiosyncratic behavior, peptic ulcers and, above all, just plain loonyness.
As well as suffering from the same mad ways as her loopy husband, the extraordinarily fat Mrs. Privet was also suffering from the dreadful infliction of hearing voices in her head. She might hear them at any time of the day or night, and would oftentimes jump up in bed screaming in a most alarming way, giving her husband such a fright he’d begin shaking uncontrollably. It was a most dreadful state of affairs altogether. Despite suffering from these awful conditions, Mr. and Mrs. Privet tried to continue living as normal a life as was possible, but hardly a day went by without one of them experiencing a mad interlude that would make most normal people simply roll over and die.
Before I continue on with my story I must also tell you about their son Box, Box Privet. This child (the veritable apple of their eyes) was, like his father, of a tall and incredibly thin physique. At times this trait would cause him to be the butt of jokes and jibes by his classmates and acquaintances. However, he paid little or no attention, because his mind was always set firmly on the love, the passion of his life – electronics. Upstairs, in his small bedroom, Box would work for hours on end with his soldering iron, long nose pliers and tweezers creating, crafting bringing his new ideas to life. It was a lonely existence, but it suited him fine.
I have already told you how Mr. and Mrs. Privet had been quite normal only a few weeks earlier. In all truthfulness the Privet’s had been one of the happiest families in their entire estate of mock Elizabethan detached houses. But now they were mad, living in fear for their lives, the happy and contented existence they had so enjoyed in tatters, a shambles, and a shadow of what it had once been.
You see, the Privet’s had been hiding a secret, a big secret. And while it had been contained and suppressed, as they felt is should still be, they had been enjoying that happy and contented life, but from the moment, the very instant this secret, this terrible secret had escaped from its place of incarceration, a private boarding school going by the name of Hagswords, it had come to an abrupt end.
This secret, this big dark secret was in reality a young girl, an orphan, the Privet’s only niece, going by the of Harry Rotter. She had actually been baptized Harriet, but from an early age had insisted that everyone call her Harry.
Let me tell you about Harriet – Harry… She was the boldest, cruelest, nastiest child you could ever be unfortunate enough to meet. To look as her, with her flowing locks of golden hair and a face that appeared so innocent, so angelic, one might easily be fooled into believing that butter could last forever in her mouth without melting. But she wasn’t an angel, no, the unfortunate truth, the terrible truth was she was an out and out scoundrel, a bully who had no respect for anyone but herself. Bullies can and so very often do make the lives of those living around them as miserable as hell – Harry proved to be no exception to this rule.
While Harriet – Harry – had been safely tucked away in her school everything had been just fine, and the Privet’s had been able to forgot about their troublesome niece, but from the moment she broke out, escaped from that high security ‘special’ boarding school, and found her way to the home of her only living relations, the Privets, their lives changed forever.
Harry Rotter? Are you sure that it’s Rotter? That’s a silly old name! Are you absolutely sure that it’s Rotter? You are? Okay, if it is Rotter tell me what he, pardon? It’s a she? Are you sure he – she is a girl? You are? This is getting stranger by the second! What? She’s bad, not good? What’s the point of that if all that she wants to do are dreadful deeds? I’ll have to read it – the story – to understand what she is truly about? Hmm, it can’t be any worse than listening to you. Okay, I’ll read it. Please hand me that book; Harry Rotter.
Skulduggery’s afoot – can you hear him say,
‘Trouble’s abroad; that means TODAY’.
It’s time to get out there, to face the Faceless Ones,
Skulduggery and friend, his best number one.
Skulduggery might be dead, no more than some bones,
Traipsing through of Dublin, appearing so alone
Until just when think that he has met his match (once again),
Out pops Valkyrie, saving him from an untimely end.
Derek Landy, a cabbage farmer by trade,
Was inspired to create this detective and aid,
While tending his crops in the field one day,
He shouted, ‘Eureka, I have it, I’m made!’
‘I won’t have to tend cabbages, no more,
Working the fields until my back is so sore,
Skulduggery and partner will give me it all,
Money and fame – I will have such a ball.’
So it’s goodbye from him, and adios from me,
He’s off to the bank and I’m off to a field,
Searching for inspiration, for ideas of my own,
Like ‘The Crazy-mad detective and his sidekick called Bones.’Nah, that’s no good, it’s too corny… Now let me see… Ah, I have it, Doctor Bones and his Grievous Travelling Palaces. That certainly has a ring to it. Pardon? Oh, you want to know what a travelling palace actually is, and what it entails. Hah, that’s easy, simply click on the link, below. There are a number of them in my story Alice on Top of the World.
I am a poor writer, this is quite true,
Writing my stories for each one of you,
Tales to intrigue entertain and delight,
And I will do it until the day that I die.
If you were to ask me, why do I bother at all?
Competing against Rowling, Shan and Roald Dahl,
I would answer; I LOVE it, writing my stories each day,
And if I were to suddenly become famous,
I would appreciate the pay!
********** Click HERE to be transferred to my online book shop,
I wrote the following skit for a bit of fun, that’s all… But so many people, both adults and children, asked me to publish it, I felt obliged to do so. Who am I to say no to such desperate pleas?
A Preview
Harry Rotter
Chapter One
No, Our Best China’s in There!
Mr and Mrs Privet, of number five Dorsley Drive, were anything but normal. They had been normal only a few weeks earlier, but they were now as crazy as those incarcerated in the local loony bin.
On the outside, Mr Privet, a tall, bald and incredibly thin man, appeared quite normal, but just beneath the surface, barely hidden, he was a seething mass of nervous ticks, idiosyncratic behaviour, peptic ulcers and, above all, just plain looniness. As well as suffering from the same mad ways as her loopy husband, the extraordinarily fat Mrs Privet was also suffering from the dreadful infliction of hearing voices in her head. She might hear them at any time of the day or night, and would oftentimes jump up in her bed, screaming in a most alarming way, giving her husband such a fright he would begin shaking uncontrollably. It was a most dreadful state of affairs altogether. Despite suffering from these awful conditions, Mr and Mrs Privet tried to continue living as normal a life as was possible, but hardly a day went by without one of them experiencing a mad interlude that would make most normal people simply roll over and die.
Before I continue with my story, I must also tell you about their son Box, Box Privet. This child (the veritable apple of their eyes) was, like his father, of a tall and incredibly thin physique. At times, this trait would cause him to be the butt of jokes and jibes by his classmates and acquaintances. However, he paid little or no attention to them, because his mind was always set firmly on the love, the passion of his life – electronics. Upstairs, in his small bedroom, Box would work for hours on end with his soldering iron, long nose pliers and tweezers, creating, crafting bringing his new ideas to life. It was a lonely existence, but he loved it.
I have already told you how Mr and Mrs Privet had been quite normal only a few weeks earlier. In all truthfulness, the Privet’s had been one of the happiest families in their entire estate of mock Elizabethan detached houses. But
now they were mad, living in fear for their lives, the happy and contented existence they had so enjoyed, in tatters, a shambles, a mere shadow of what it had once been.
You see, the Privet’s had been hiding a secret, a big secret. And while it had been contained and suppressed, as they felt is should still be, they had been enjoying that happy and contented life, but from the moment, the very instant this secret, this terrible secret had escaped from its place of incarceration, a private boarding school going by the name of Hagswords, their happy and carefree life had come to an abrupt end.
This secret, this big dark secret was in reality a young girl, an orphan, the Privet’s only niece, going by the of Harry Rotter. She had actually been baptised Harriet, but from an early age had insisted that everyone call her Harry.
Let me tell you about Harriet – Harry… She was the boldest, cruellest, nastiest child you could ever be unfortunate enough to meet. To look as her, with her flowing locks of golden hair and a face that appeared so innocent, so angelic, one might easily be fooled into believing that butter could last forever in her mouth without melting. But she wasn’t an angel, no, the unfortunate truth, the terrible truth was she was an out and out scoundrel, a bully who had no respect for anyone but herself. Bullies can and so very often do make the lives of those living around them as miserable as hell – Harry proved to be no exception to this rule.
While Harriet – Harry – had been safely ensconced in her school everything had been just fine, and the Privet’s had been able to forgot about their troublesome niece, but from the moment she broke out, escaped from that high security ‘special’ boarding school, and found her way to the home of her only living relations, the Privets, their lives changed forever.
“Excuse me, please,” said Harry, ever so mannerly when Mrs Privet opened the front door, “I am your only niece. Will you please put me up for a few days?”
“Its young Harriet, isn’t it?” said Mrs Privet, patting her nervously upon the head. “Are you on a school break?”
Ignoring the question while resisting the urge to kick the condescending woman in the shins, Harry smiled, and said, “I prefer to be called Harry, if it all right with you?”
“Yes, yes, that’s fine,” said Mrs Privet as she ushered Harry through the doorway, looking up and down the road, to see if anyone had been following her. The road, however, was deserted. “Please go into the front room,” said Mrs Privet. The cat made a mad dash past Harry, through the open doorway.
Harry entered the room. It reminded her of Hagswords – far too much stained glass and wood panelling for her liking. “Sit down, sit down, Harry, and make yourself comfortable,” said Mrs Privet. “I will go fetch you some lemonade, you must be so thirsty after your travelling. Then I will go tell your uncle the good news.”
Leaving Harry alone in the room, Mrs Privet returned to the hallway where she opened the small door under the stairs that led down to the cellar, a den of sorts. Calling her husband, she said, “Dear…. we have a visitor…”
“Who is it?” a voice called up from below.
“It’s your niece.”
BANG. There was a sound like a baldhead striking a beam in the low slung ceiling, and then there was silence.
“Did you hear me, darling?”
Mumbles from below.
“Darling?”
Mr Privet began speaking, and in a hushed voice, he asked, “Are you sure it’s our niece – THAT niece?”
“Yes, dear, it’s young Harriet – I mean Harry, Harry Rotter.”
“Harriet or Harry – you should know what sex they are.”
“He, she’s a girl, she just likes the name Harry – shortened, you know.”
“I don’t know if I know anything anymore,” Mr Privet grumbled as he made his way up the narrow staircase, “having to deal with your ‘unusual’ relations. Puffing and panting, Mr Privet emerged from the cellar. “Where is she, then?” he barked, looking up and down the hallway.
“I put her in the front room.”
“Our best china’s in there!” he hollered, storming down the hallway and then bursting into the room like an elephant was chasing after him. Inside, he found Harry carefully inspecting a piece of their hand-painted fine bone china.
“That’s an heirloom – but it’s not worth anything,” he muttered, eying Harry’s canvas shoulder bag with suspicion, while also trying, but unsuccessfully, to close the battered door.
“Not worth anything?” she asked, raising an eyebrow.
“No, not a penny…”
“Can I have it, then, as a keepsake?”
Almost choking on his words, Mr Privet fumbled to find others, words that might save his prized china.
“Mr Privet?”
“I… we…we can’t give it away… we promised your Granny, on her death bed, that we would always treasure it…”
Studying his face, particularly the sweat beading upon it, Harry searched for signs of deceit. “Okay,” she said, “it was just a thought.” Then scanning the room, she added, “There must be loads of things amongst all this rubbish that you don’t want.”
“No, no, everything’s spoken for,” Mr Privet squeaked in reply. Then changing the subject from their prized possessions, he asked Harry the reason for her visit.
“Oh, I have already told your wife,” she said, “I will be staying with you for a few days…”
This time Mr Privet almost choked on Harry’s words.
Mrs Privet, carrying a tray with a tall glass of lemonade upon it, entered the room, “Everything all right?” she asked, smiling innocently at them.
Chapter Two
Meet the Son
Over the course of the next few days, Harry settled in well at number five Dorsley Drive. Unfortunately, the same could not be said for her relationship with Mr and Mrs Privet’s beloved son, Box. From the moment Harry laid eyes on his bespectacled face and wimpishly thin body, she had taken a dislike to her cousin. Box, in turn, had taken an equally passionate dislike to Harry, but he was simply no match for her steely cunning and dogged determination, to get the better of him no matter what, to make his very existence a living hell.
This clash of personalities put a terrible strain on Harry’s relationship with Mr and Mrs Privet, who had always prided themselves, in being open minded and understanding of the challenging behaviour of all growing children. And they tried; they tried so hard to ignore the many terrible things Harry perpetrated upon their son, their only son. And she did so much to him; like knocking him down the stairs, sprinkling salt over his porridge and removing all of the fuses from his electrical gadgets and gizmos that he so loved.
In the end, Box avoided Harry like the plague. If he was out walking and saw her coming towards him, he would dash into the nearest shop, to avoid being anyway near her. If there weren’t any shops nearby, he would scurry up the garden path of the nearest house, where he would begin knocking frantically on its door, like his life depended on it.
At home, Box began spending more and more time in his bedroom, where he installed bolt after bolt and lock after lock on its door; to protect him from Harry’s constant and malevolent interferences. Bang, bang, bang. Every night they heard the sound of him sliding the bolts shut, before he retired to the safety of his bed. He would do anything to avoid Harry, absolutely anything.
Harry, on the other hand, had no need for locks or bolts on her bedroom door, for who would dare to enter it without asking her permission, first? Although
she had the run of the house, and she certainly made good use of it, whenever it so suited, Harry also began spending more and more time in her room, but it was for a far different reason than her wimpishly thin cousin. Harry had things to plan, and to workout…
It was now several days since her escape from school, Hagswords, and although Harry had conjured up a mannequin, a replica of her, to try and hide the fact that she was actually missing, she knew only too well that its effectiveness would soon wear off. And when it did, it would only be a matter of time until the school authorities began tracking her down, following her trail until they found her at number five Dorsley Drive.
Harry had even considered using a spell of concealment, to disguise her whereabouts when the school authorities caught up with her, but she had decided that with all the comings and goings in and out of number five Dorsley Drive its effectiveness would surely be compromised. The only way she could be totally sure of effectiveness was to stop everyone entering or leaving, and she couldn’t do that, could she?
Bang, bang, bang, another night had arrived and Box secreted himself safely within his bedroom, away from his dreaded cousin, Harry.
In the quietness of her room, lying comfortably in bed, Harry was ruminating over the words she was reading in a book, an old book that she had found hidden, secreted away, in the library at school. “They are so stupid, in that school,” she hissed. “They call it a school for mysticism and magic, more like a school for tolerance and fear. Fear of hurting the feelings of all those stupid
Muddles and far too much tolerance of them than is healthy. And as for the Principal…Hmm, I’ll show him. I’ll show them all, including the Muddles, what I am capable of…” Harry continued reading far into the night.
Next morning, Box jumped out of bed, determined to rush through his ablutions at the same breakneck speed he had adopted since the arrival of his horrid cousin. He was hell-bent on dashing downstairs, guzzling his breakfast, swilling down his tea, grabbing hold of his satchel and then heading off to school, and all of this before Harry awoke. After carefully, quietly sliding open the bolts on his bedroom door, Box opened it and peered outside, to see if the coast was clear.
“Hello,” Harry said ever so sweetly, less than three inches in front of his nose. “Did you sleep well?”
“I, I,” Box stammered, at a loss for words; shocked that she was there in the first place and even more shocked that she was speaking so sweetly. He slammed the door shut.
Knock knock. “Box, it’s me, Harry,” said Harry, in the same sweet tone that had unsettled him, so. “Box, are you coming out today?”
Box, however, believing that his end was nigh, that his evil cousin was about to finish him off once and for all, said nothing.
“Is that you, Box?” asked Mrs Privet, from the bottom of the stairs.
“No, it’s me, Harry.”
Mrs Privet, shocked that she was up so early, returned to the kitchen and began preparing the fry-up Harry insisted on having each morning. Then poking her head out of the kitchen door, she asked, “Would you like to go out somewhere nice, today, like the zoo?”
It was a Saturday. Harry had been so drawn into her reading, her studying of the old book she had lost all track of time. Her mind spinning into action, she replied, “Yes, I would love to… But only if Box comes along…”
At the kitchen table, peering out from behind his newspaper, Mr Privet called his wife over, and he said, “Now why did you have to go and say that?” CONTD
It began one cold winter’s night, with the appearance of three witches flying around my bed on their broomsticks…
You may well ask, ‘Is this just another one of your fantasy stories, like so many others you have penned?’ My answer, the only thing I can say to you by way of reply, is read this story and find out for yourself…
Many years have passed since the big freeze of 1963. It seems a lifetime away; another place, another world. A world so different from one we enjoy nowadays, and take so much for granted. Life is now far easier than it was during the nineteen-sixties.
They called it the swinging sixties; I have no idea how that term came about, and why they came to that conclusion. Despite the many changes that were happening in the world, most people lived the same, miserably boring lives they had up until then experienced.
Despite their boring existence, people truly believed the nineteen sixties was a period of great change; a period like none other before it. That, however, was a fundamental mistake. There were no computers, then, no internet or satellite TV to inform and entertain. There was TV; grainy, black and white pictures on pitifully small screens. Yes, there were newspapers, but they were just that, newspapers featuring yesterday’s news. It was a dark time, made even darker in so far as people were oblivious to the deficiencies in their lives. Because people believed – really believed – they were living in a time of social and material advancement, a Utopia of sorts, it was impossible for them to counter the fact that they might be wrong.
Now, more than forty years later, I ask you, did anything worthwhile come out of the nineteen sixties? No, I don’t mean mini cars or music or any such other nonsensical items, I mean SOMETHING REALLY WORTHWHILE!
“That got you, didn’t it? There wasn’t anything, was there? All the major, useful, worthwhile changes in our lives have come during the last few years, many years after that supposedly enlightened time.
The nineteen sixties was a superficial, drug-induced time of delusion, not a time of meaningful change. One has only to scratch beneath the surface, to see the same hypocritical, racist, discriminatory and, above all, BORING life that it was. The minds of the people in power, the people who really mattered, who could have brought about the change that everyone thought was upon them, were closed, blinkered to the possibilities this time offered. Closed minds closed hearts. Despite it being proclaimed – and so loudly – a time of love, it was a time devoid of love. It was a time of hate, a time of war (cold or otherwise), a time when standing up for what you believed in was not an option – unless you wanted to face the unpleasant consequences for your actions.
I can hear you all saying, ‘Oh, but people did stand up to be counted, then, to try and change things.’ But if you think about it, if you really think about it, you will see, realise it was the herd mentality that was driving them on. They only spoke up when surrounded by likeminded people. Unlike Gandhi, they fell silent whenever they were alone. It was, as I have already told you, a time of delusion, the nineteen sixties…
This brings me neatly on to my story:
Because of the severity of the prolonged cold spell the country had endured, the water pipes in our attic froze solid, so also did the water tank. Determined to sort it out, to rectify the situation, dad borrowed a blowlamp from his brother-in-law, Eric. “I’ll defrost those frozen pipes, so I will!” he told us. Making his way up the stepladder, dad set foot in the attic, hell-bent on warning things up…
In those days, houses had little or no insulation to keep out the cold. No, when winter arrived IT WAS COLD, AND THAT WAS THAT. I can still remember lying in my bed, at night, listening to the panes of glass in our steel framed windows, crack, crack, cracking, because of the frost. God, it was cold!
“Are you alright, dear?” mum said, calling to dad in the attic.
No answer.
“Jim!” she called out again. “I said, are you alright?”
“Hello?” dad answered, in the strange, peculiar way he oftentimes preferred.
“I said, are you okay?”
“Yes, I’m fine,” he told her. “It’s a bit dark up here, though…”
“Have you got the torch?”
“No, I forgot it.”
“Shall I pass it up to you?”
No; I’ll come down and get it,” he gruffly replied.
Mum said nothing.
CRUMP.
“What was that?” mum asked.
No reply.
“Dad, are you alright?”
Incoherent mumbles from above.
“Da…”
Cutting mum off mum, dad began shouting and swearing. “You MADE me do that, so you did!” he growled.
“What did I make you do?” mum replied.
Dad did not answer her.
A few minutes later dad began to move about in the attic once again. Then we heard a louder thud than before, followed by more angry mutterings and cussing from above.
Making our way upstairs, onto the landing, my brother and I whispered to mum, “Did he bang his head?” we asked.
“Shush, he might hear you,” she warned, as she gazed uncertainly into the inky darkness above her.
A blast of icy cold air suddenly shot down from the attic. “Dad, where are you?” she said worriedly.
No answer.
“You boys go play in your room,” she said to us.
“But it’s cold in there,” we answered.
“Go to your room!” she ordered. “I won’t take no for an answer!”
We did. We did as mum told us, we went to our room. We never played, though. With dad lost somewhere above us, play was far from our minds. Suddenly, we heard a crash and a smash. “MUM!” we shrieked.
“What is it?” she asked. “Don’t you know I am busy helping your dad?”
“MUM, THERE ARE LEGS IN HERE!”
“Legs?”
“DAD’S LEGS ARE DANGLING THROUGH A HOLE IN THE CEILING!” we frantically told her.
The Crazymad Writer Writes Again 