The door opened on hinges that creaked like arthritic lobsters. And there, reclining in an ancient wicker bath-chair that had three rusting wheels and sea-shell trinkets hanging from its worn and battered canopy, was an equally ancient woman.
She had long glistening hair, the colour of Capetown kelp, and small inquisitive eyes that glistened in her pale face like two black pearls embedded in white sand. She wore an oilskin sou'wester with the words Pequod '51 embroidered in faded copper wire letters on its upturned brim and a capacious fisherman's smock that was covered in fishhooks and small lead weights. A tartan rug of the Stewart clan covered her lower half down to what would have been her feet, had she had them. Instead, protruding from beneath the red and black tasselled fringe of the picnic blanket, was a broad fluked tail, encrusted in barnacles. YOU'RE A MERMAID!!! wrote Scribble in unnecessarily large and emphatic writing. 'And you're a small blue furry boy,' she replied. 'Get over it!' She turned her beady black eyes on Mr Catch, the legendary fisherman. 'I thought I'd told you never to darken my door again, fish murderer!' Mr Catch blushed, his face turning the colour of a boiled prawn. 'I'm sorry, Doris, but we've got an emergency' 'Jaws was a very good friend of mine,' she said hotly. 'He didn't deserve a harpoon in the tonsils.' 'What can I say, Doris?' said Mr Catch apologetically. 'It was just a lucky shot.' 'It's Moby Doris to you, Beardy. Now clear off before I do a Herman Melville on your little furry friend here.' Please, wrote Scribble in tremblingly small and timid writing, The moon's disappeared and Mr Catch said you could help us. Moby Doris leant forward in her bathchair, and brought her face close to the small blue furry boy's. She opened her mouth and, with a blast of breath that smelled of three-month-old rancid halibut giblets, yelled, 'Speak up!' Read the next part of the Big Blog story...
Bath Festival blog - Part 4
- About Paul & Chris
- Bath Festival blog 2011
- About Wyrmeweald
- Diary
- September 2009
- July 2009
- May/June 2009
- April 2009
- December 2008
- August 2008
- May 2008
- December 2007
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- Immortals Tour 2010
- Edge to Edge Tour 2009
- How We Work Together
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Bath Festival blog - Part 4
The door opened on hinges that creaked like arthritic lobsters. And there, reclining in an ancient wicker bath-chair that had three rusting wheels and sea-shell trinkets hanging from its worn and battered canopy, was an equally ancient woman.
She had long glistening hair, the colour of Capetown kelp, and small inquisitive eyes that glistened in her pale face like two black pearls embedded in white sand. She wore an oilskin sou'wester with the words Pequod '51 embroidered in faded copper wire letters on its upturned brim and a capacious fisherman's smock that was covered in fishhooks and small lead weights. A tartan rug of the Stewart clan covered her lower half down to what would have been her feet, had she had them. Instead, protruding from beneath the red and black tasselled fringe of the picnic blanket, was a broad fluked tail, encrusted in barnacles. YOU'RE A MERMAID!!! wrote Scribble in unnecessarily large and emphatic writing. 'And you're a small blue furry boy,' she replied. 'Get over it!' She turned her beady black eyes on Mr Catch, the legendary fisherman. 'I thought I'd told you never to darken my door again, fish murderer!' Mr Catch blushed, his face turning the colour of a boiled prawn. 'I'm sorry, Doris, but we've got an emergency' 'Jaws was a very good friend of mine,' she said hotly. 'He didn't deserve a harpoon in the tonsils.' 'What can I say, Doris?' said Mr Catch apologetically. 'It was just a lucky shot.' 'It's Moby Doris to you, Beardy. Now clear off before I do a Herman Melville on your little furry friend here.' Please, wrote Scribble in tremblingly small and timid writing, The moon's disappeared and Mr Catch said you could help us. Moby Doris leant forward in her bathchair, and brought her face close to the small blue furry boy's. She opened her mouth and, with a blast of breath that smelled of three-month-old rancid halibut giblets, yelled, 'Speak up!' Read the next part of the Big Blog story...