Monthly Archives: October 2015
Forget about Harry Potter
and the Cursed Child
Read Harry – oh, she is a Rotter, instead.
Moreover, it’s an absolutely and utterly FREE eBook
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No, silly, she’s Harry Rotter!
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A Wasp in a Wig
…and she was just going to spring over, when she heard a deep sigh, which seemed to come from the wood behind her.
“There’s somebody very unhappy there,” she thought, looking anxiously back to see what was the matter. Something like a very old man (only that his face was more like a wasp) was sitting on the ground, leaning against a tree, all huddled up together, and shivering as if he were very cold.
“I don’t think I can be of any use to him,” was Alice’s first thought, as she turned to spring over the brook: – “but I’ll just ask him what’s the matter,” she added, checking herself on the very edge. “If I once jump over, everything will change, and then I can’t help him.”
So she went back to the Wasp – rather unwillingly, for she was very anxious to be a queen.
“Oh, my old bones, my old bones!” he was grumbling as Alice came up to him.
“It’s rheumatism, I should think,” Alice said to herself, and she stooped over him, and said very kindly, “I hope you’re not in much pain?”
The Wasp only shook his shoulders, and turned his head away. “Ah deary me!” he said to himself.
“Can I do anything for you?” Alice went on. “Aren’t you rather cold here?”
“How you go on!” the Wasp said in a peevish tone. “Worrity, Worrity! There never was such a child!”
Alice felt rather offended at this answer, and was very nearly walking on and leaving him, but she thought to herself “Perhaps it’s only pain that makes him so cross.” So she tried once more.
“Won’t you let me help you round to the other side? You’ll be out of the cold wind there.”
The Wasp took her arm, and let her help him round the tree, but when he got settled down again he only said, as before, “Worrity, worrity! Can’t you leave a body alone?”
“Would you like me to read you a bit of this?” Alice went on, as she picked up a newspaper which had been lying at his feet.
“You may read it if you’ve a mind to,” the Wasp said, rather sulkily. “Nobody’s hindering you, that I know of.”
So Alice sat down by him, and spread out the paper on her knees, and began. “Latest News. The Exploring Party have made another tour in the Pantry, and have found five new lumps of white sugar, large and in fine condition. In coming back – ”
“Any brown sugar?” the Wasp interrupted.
Alice hastily ran her eyes down the paper and said “No. It says nothing about brown.”
“No brown sugar!” grumbled the Wasp. “A nice exploring party!”
“In coming back,” Alice went on reading, “they found a lake of treacle. The banks of the lake were blue and white, and looked like china. While tasting the treacle, they had a sad accident: two of their party were engulped – ”
“Where what?” the Wasp asked in a very cross voice.
“En-gulph-ed,” Alice repeated, dividing the word in syllables.
“There’s no such word in the language!” said the Wasp.
“It’s in the newspaper, though,” Alice said a little timidly.
“Let’s stop it here!” said the Wasp, fretfully turning away his head.
Alice put down the newspaper. “I’m afraid you’re not well,” she said in a soothing tone. “Can’t I do anything for you?”
“It’s all along of the wig,” the Wasp said in a much gentler voice.
“Along of the wig?” Alice repeated, quite pleased to find that he was recovering his temper.
“You’d be cross too, if you’d a wig like mine,” the Wasp went on. “They jokes, at one. And they worrits one. And then I gets cross. And I gets cold. And I gets under a tree. And I gets a yellow handkerchief. And I ties up my face – as at the present.”
Alice looked pityingly at him. “Tying up the face is very good for the toothache,” she said.
“And it’s very good for the conceit,” added the Wasp.
Alice didn’t catch the word exactly. “Is that a kind of toothache?” she asked.
The Wasp considered a little. “Well, no,” he said: “it’s when you hold up your head – so – without bending your neck.”
“Oh, you mean stiff-neck,” said Alice.
The Wasp said “That’s a new-fangled name. They called it conceit in my time.”
“Conceit isn’t a disease at all,” Alice remarked.
“It is, though,” said the Wasp: “wait till you have it, and then you’ll know. And when you catches it, just try tying a yellow handkerchief round your face. It’ll cure you in no time!”
He untied the handkerchief as he spoke, and Alice looked at his wig in great surprise. It was bright yellow like the handkerchief, and all tangled and tumbled about like a heap of sea-weed. “You could make your wig much neater,” she said, “if only you had a comb.”
“What, you’re a Bee, are you?” the Wasp said, looking at her with more interest. “And you’ve got a comb. Much honey?”
“It isn’t that kind,” Alice hastily explained. “It’s to comb hair with – your wig’s sovery rough, you know.”
“I’ll tell you how I came to wear it,” the Wasp said. “When I was young, you know, my ringlets used to wave – ”
A curious idea came into Alice’s head. Almost every one she had met had repeated poetry to her, and she thought she would try if the Wasp couldn’t do it too. “Would you mind saying it in rhyme?” she asked very politely.
“It aint what I’m used to,” said the Wasp: “however I’ll try; wait a bit.” He was silent for a few moments, and then began again –
“When I was young, my ringlets waved
And curled and crinkled on my head:
And then they said ‘You should be shaved,
And wear a yellow wig instead.’
But when I followed their advice,
And they had noticed the effect,
They said I did not look so nice
As they had ventured to expect.
They said it did not fit, and so
It made me look extremely plain:
But what was I to do, you know?
My ringlets would not grow again.
So now that I am old and grey,
And all my hair is nearly gone,
They take my wig from me and say
‘How can you put such rubbish on?’
And still, whenever I appear,
They hoot at me and call me ‘Pig!’
And that is why they do it, dear,
Because I wear a yellow wig.”
“I’m very sorry for you,” Alice said heartily: “and I think if your wig fitted a little better, they wouldn’t tease you quite so much.”
“Your wig fits very well,” the Wasp murmured, looking at her with an expression of admiration: “it’s the shape of your head as does it. Your jaws aint well shaped, though – I should think you couldn’t bite well?”
Alice began with a little scream of laughing, which she turned into a cough as well as she could. At last she managed to say gravely, “I can bite anything I want,”
“Not with a mouth as small as that,” the Wasp persisted. “If you was a-fighting, now – could you get hold of the other one by the back of the neck?”
“I’m afraid not,” said Alice.
“Well, that’s because your jaws are too short,” the Wasp went on: “but the top of your head is nice and round.” He took off his own wig as he spoke, and stretched out one claw towards Alice, as if he wished to do the same for her, but she kept out of reach, and would not take the hint. So he went on with his criticisms.
“Then, your eyes – they’re too much in front, no doubt. One would have done as well as two, if you must have them so close – ”
Alice did not like having so many personal remarks made on her, and as the Wasp had quite recovered his spirits, and was getting very talkative, she thought she might safely leave him. “I think I must be going on now,” she said. “Good-bye.”
“Good-bye, and thank-ye,” said the Wasp, and Alice tripped down the hill again, quite pleased that she had gone back and given a few minutes to making the poor old creature comfortable.
The chapter should probably follow after the chapter about the White Knight.
Part One – The Fabled Crest
I am past, present and future; the true spirit of Christmas,” Harold Verzakely said to the gentlemen.
Gazing through the wondrous, ever growing window, the gentlemen beheld a vision, a visage in which Scrooge, penny-pinching, money loving Scrooge, was in communication with something more frightening than anything they had witnessed that night – or ever before.
“I say,” said Mr Fosdyke, pointing fearfully through the window, “Mr Scrooge must be in mortal danger, conversing with such a despicable thing?”
“Indeed,” Mr Hartwell concurred, “that abomination must surely be the spawn of the devil.”
“That abomination,” Harold Verzakely said, calmly, quite smoothly to the gentlemen, “is what I am.”
“It is?” they answered, stunned that he had said such a queer thing.
“Yes,” he insisted, “I am that and a whole lot more. I am past, present and future; the true spirit of Christmas.”
“The true spirit of Christmas?” Mr Hartwell curiously asked.
“What on earth do you mean?” Mr Fosdyke asked.
Pointing at the magical window, Harold Verzakely said, “Tell me what you think you see.”
“What we think we see?” Mr Fosdyke retorted. “What I see, and I have no doubt about it, is Mr Scrooge conversing with an abomination of a creature, all pale and morose, floating a few inches above the ground alongside him.”
“Yes,” said Mr Hartwell, “it is indeed an abomination. Why, look at its clothes, they are little more than rags, and as for its face, it’s no more than a dark, shadowy space!”
Unfazed by their remonstrations, Harold Verzakely said, “That creature and I are one and the same.”
“But, but how can that be?” Mr Hartwell asked. “And if it is so, how you can be there yet also here? Are you in cahoots with the witch?” he then asked.”
Shocked that he had said such a thing, Harold Verzakely replied, “Why did you say that? Do you really think that I am in cahoots with her?”
“She controls the ghost of Marley,” Mr Fosdyke quipped, “so why not you?”
“The witch told us that she was going to dispatch three spirits to help Mr Scrooge to see the error of his ways,” said Mr Hartwell. “Are you telling us that is something entirely different?”
“No, I am not!” Harold Verzakely sternly replied. “Of course it is me! Having said that, though,” he went on, “you must believe me when I say that I am not in cahoots with her!”
“We want to believe you, we really do,” Mr Hartwell said to him, “but it’s a lot to swallow, to believe that you are telling us the truth.”
“It’s an awful lot to swallow,” Mr Fosdyke added.
Answering Mr Hartwell’s earlier question, Harold Verzakely said, “As to how I am here yet also there is quite easy to explain.”
“It is?” Mr Hartwell said doubtingly.
“Of course!” he insisted. “What you are witnessing is a vision of the future.”
“We are?” Mr Fosdyke asked.
“It is?” Mr Hartwell asked.
“Yes,” he replied. “What you are witnessing will come to pass, perhaps as you have seen, perhaps not.”
Addressing Mr Hartwell, Harold Verzakely said, “That abomination, as you described it yourselves, on the far side of the window is one of the spirits Scrooge must face this night if he has to have any hope of redemption. Believe me, I am that spirit and also the two others; the phantoms of Christmas if you prefer to call me, so.”
“Phantoms?” Mr Fosdyke asked, gulping hard, with fright.
“The witch told us that three spirits would visit Mr Scrooge this night,” Mr Hartwell coyly admitted. “Which one of them is that?” he asked, pointing fearfully through the window, at it.
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