What the Fairy did Next

I am sorry, but under any circumstances, that was a long stretch, and as far as I can deduce, my only crime was a slight misrepresentation of a perfectly harmless product, unless you are a mouse or a pumpkin of course.

Last month saw myself and my new Best Buddy kicked out on the streets of town and told to go about our lives and to “sin no more,” though that sounds the most boring of instructions.  Best Buddy is a gentleman friend of a little seniority to oneself, though maybe less so than he perceives since us fairy kind do not age the way of ordinary mortals, probably because we are neither ordinary nor mortal, but this is pure fussiness as far as I am concerned.  Said buddy was also framed, though I am a little unclear as to what this framing entailed or whether I should be worried about any residual framers or other framees.  I am willing to overlook this awkwardness since my few years of incarceration has revealed to me two most unexpected snippets of knowledge.  Firstly, it would appear that I can sing, and quite wonderfully, too.  And secondly, Best Buddy is a jazz pianist of some accomplishment.

I am not one for wandering the streets but not having the finances to cadge a trolly to the parental holdings, we pattered our tiny footsies back to the only place where we thought some kind souls or even the soulless might remember us.  By this time one has to realise that I had finished my growing and the petite little fairy was no more to be seen in either direction, much to my distress.  I am not sure which curse had inflicted me, but if it were my little wand then it has double-crossed me awfully.

But a fairy is a fairy, and woes are brought down upon ourselves, and charms flow from the sky, or at least that is what I was taught in college.  Thus, as we passed the veritable Gramophone Shop in Sloane Street, my Best Buddy was singularly molested by a tall, bony structure oft known as the Dame and more accurately as a Lady, the daughter of the owner of the musical establishment.

“Darling, darling, darling!” she wailed, shoving clean past me and enveloping the little man in weight-lifter arms.  “Your people should be freed and now you are!”  I should explain that Best Buddy is from the African Continent by way of St Louis which means his reception sweeps randomly from the exotic to the rude.  “And who is this delicious ball!”

Best Buddy once again saved my life and shoved his bass hand into my open mouth as a most indelicate retort was building.  He explained that I was the newest talent on the street and plaudits and love were required in equal measure; Best Buddy is better than best at these moments.  Well, the dear Dame redirected her gushing, swept me into her father’s music emporium and insisted that we entertain the gramophone buying customers there and then!  So we did.  A rendition of Ain’t Misbehavin, which the actual man had performed in this actual shop, Blue Moon, which I have actually seen, being of fairy kind, and a blast of the Sheik of Araby for all those who love the exotic and understand it not at all.  Trust me, Ali Baba was known as a complete pain in the feathers and a right flat tire.

We were a minor sensation amongst the little crowd, and I was inspired to stop eating completely for a month and drink morning dew only.  Did I regain my fairy composure?  Did I hell!  But though I might still be high, I am no longer wide, and my wiggle has returned as we now find ourselves the toast of the town, or at least those bits of the town that will entertain such a jail-bird duet!