Once upon a time, oh dahling dings, in the dark damp depths of Poppa’s garden, lived a haughty hedgehog called Hermione. She had a husband called Herbert, and 3 small offspring known as Harriet, Hilary and Hiram. Harriet was a sweet, gentle little creature who licked her little fingers daintily after eating worms and snails. Hiram was a sour gentile creature who gesticulated wildly when he became animated and excited (which was most of the time.) Hilary was a cool and confused creature who found it hard to form friendships, because of the non gender specific name that Herbert had chosen, believing that it would allow life to take whatever direction was most propitious and prosperous. However, as an impressionable youth, all it did was make life awkward, and cause all sorts of embarrassing situations. For instance should one go behind the boys’ bush or the girls’ grove to pass urine? Should one giggle or guffaw? Should one refer to oneself as one, or moi, or me mate ? One chilly winter’s morning when the frost was on the grass, and ice was on the puddles, and every exhalation resulted in a giveaway cloud of vapour emanating from each hedgehoggy mouth, the hedgehog family were having their early morning pees in their respective spots. Herbert was behind the hydrangea bush, Hermione was under the hedgerow, Harriet was beneath the horseradish plant, Hiram was somewhere kosher, and poor Hilary was wandering around indecisively, wondering where to choose, eyes watering , and knees locked together -which made for a very strange gait (not the sort that opens into a paddock, but a way of walking.) Hilary stumbled around the side of the house, desperately searching for somewhere appropriate to pee, not knowing whether to squat in a girly fashion, or cock his leg like a dog-so confusing was his blurred sense of gender. On the ground there happened to be a sheet of newspaper, and the headlines read “Highflying Hero Hilary Knocks the Bastard Off.” The article waxed lyrical about some bloke called Hilary who had climbed to the very top of the world, and changed from an antipodean beekeeper to a hero overnight. “Hmmm” thought Hilary, “That sounds like something to aspire to-perhaps I will conquer Mount Aspiring” which was the only mountain he knew the name of. While contemplating this heady prospect he suddenly realised he was cocking his little hedgehog hind leg, and felt a warm glow –not just because of the relief of relieving himself of a night’s worth of watery waste products, but because HE was now sure of his orientation- he was a real kiwi bloke, and his goal in life was to reach the heady heights of mountaineering notoriety. Now all he had to do was figure out which road led to Mount Aspiring, and manage not to become road kill on the way!
Posted on: Mon, 07 Oct 2013 05:03:17 +0000
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