An Island Paradise?

“You said it was romantic at the time,” he spat, his eyes boring into her very core.

She turned her back disdainfully. “That was three years ago,” she replied huffily. “I was expecting things to have moved on a little by now. I’m fed up with the whole thing. I’m always picking sand out from between my toes. I’m sick of this place. And when are we going to have something different to eat! Every day, the same old thing. I can’t stand it any more!”

“You said you liked it,” he began defensively.

“Not every day!” she hissed. “We don’t even have any proper cutlery. My mother warned me about going out with a musician. I wish I’d listened to her. She always said you wouldn’t amount to anything. She knew what a rotten singer you were. ”

“Oh I might have known your mother was behind this. You loved my singing. ‘Charmingly sweet’ I think you called it.”

“Oh I didn’t know what I was talking about then. I was high on sea sickness tablets – bobbing about in that dreadful urine coloured dingy of yours.”

“It’s not urine coloured it’s…” he spluttered.

“Oh I know what colour you think it is, but look at it! A year and a day I sat in that thing. A YEAR AND A DAY! I know what colour it is, mate!”

“You’re just upset because all the honey has gone. Don’t worry. I’ll think of something. We still have plenty of money. We haven’t even broken into that fiver yet.”

“I’m not surprised we’ve still got plenty of money. There’s nothing here to spend anything on is there? That’s why I’m still wearing a ring that smells of pig!”

“Look, maybe we need to go back and talk to the turkey on the hill. Perhaps a bit of counselling might help. I’m sure he’d be just the person to help us talk through our problems.”

“It’s too late. My mind is made up. I’ve been busy while you wasted time strumming on your small guitar.”

He looked confused and watched her stroll nonchalantly over to a rock. She reached behind it and pulled out a surprisingly well made fiddle.

“Where did you…” he gasped.

"I made it,” she replied. “From finest bong tree wood.”

“But how did you…”

“Well, that runcible spoon is quite sharp,” she explained.

“And the strings?”

“Pig gut!” she snapped back, menacingly.

“You don’t mean…”

“Well, it was him or the turkey. Where do you think all the mince was coming from?”

He sank to the floor, too shocked to move.

With a flourish, she whisked the fiddle away and set off for the boat.

“There’s a fine moon tonight,” she shouted over her shoulder, “I’m off to find a particularly athletic cow!”

And with that she was gone, leaving him alone on the beach with a small pile of quince, wondering where it had all gone wrong.

Humpty's Race

"How," Humpty wondered, " have I managed to get myself into this position?" He looked down. It was a very long way and he wasn't entirely sure how he was going to reach the floor. Jumping down seemed to be rather foolish. There didn't appear to be any way that he could climb down and turning back to walk along the thin plank of wood that had lead him to this point wasn't an option. He stared once more at the drop and his legs grew even more wobbly.

"Come on Humpty!" yelled a small but enthusiastic group of supporters far below.

He had been grateful for their support half an hour ago, excited that he had been the one chosen to end the great debate for all time. Now though he really wished he had just kept his big mouth shut and stayed where he belonged, under his mother.

His mother, an elderly brown hen, had been completely taken by surprise when he had wriggled free of the nest that first morning and started to run around the barn. Of course she knew, like all mother birds, how important it was to keep sitting on the eggs at all times. She knew that, unless they were sat on, all eggs were likely to run off. She often chuckled to herself at the people who visited the barn and seemed to be under the impression that the eggs were sat on to keep them warm. The first 12 hours were the most important of course. After that, if they weren't used, the arms and legs would get weaker and weaker until they eventually dropped off altogether after about a day. However, if a young egg was given the chance to use the limbs, they would grow strong and then it was nearly impossible to tackle them and sit on them for long enough for them to drop off.

She remembered her old aunt, who had been forced to chase one of her own eggs for nearly a whole week before getting it back under control. Her aunt had only stood up to get a better view of the handsome new cockerel that had moved into the barn and in that split second her egg had jumped out of the nest and scampered under a nearby trough. Scraping and pecking at the floor, her aunt had tried to get the egg out from it's hiding place, but with no success. The egg simply jogged backwards and forwards in the shelter of the trough, stopping only to do the occasional set of press-ups.

After several days of egg chasing the poor old hen was quite exhausted and all the other hens in the barn were very nervous. They imagined the chaos that would be caused if this one rouge egg encouraged any of their new born eggs to escape the nest. They were too old to be chasing after youngsters. A meeting was called and a plan hatched.

Deep in every egg, is the natural survival instinct to avoid certain dangers. It is a knowledge that is passed from generation to generation, without the need for explanation. The hens knew exactly what to do. They waited until the escapee had taken shelter once more below the trough. While it rested there, the hens set the trap. A large hen leapt onto the trough and stamped her huge feet. The egg awoke with a start. He opened his eyes and what he saw set his heart racing. His shelter was nearly completely surrounded by small rectangles of toast. The dreaded eggy soldiers! He spotted a gap in the army and ran for his life. In his panic he didn't look where he was going and he ran straight into the huge, feathery bottom of his mother. She quickly sat down and didn't move a muscle until she was quite sure the legs were powerless.

It could not be said that Mrs. Dumpty was unaware of the dangers. It was just an unfortunate accident. She was getting old and she felt the cold more than she had done when she was a spring chicken. A thoughtless kitten on the prowl had left the barn door open and a draught had blown right up her tail feathers. She only shuffled round a little to see who to scold, but it was enough time for her little Humpty to leap clear of the nest.

"Oh dear," she thought, "this is going to be trouble." She had no idea just how right she would be.

It wasn't long before Humpty had run his mother to a standstill. She was old and tired and quickly gave up the chase. The young egg felt brave and invincible. He taunted the other hens in the barn as he raced between their flapping wings. "

"You'll never catch me," he cried. "Eggs are much better than chickens."

A wise old bird, who had been watching events unfold, stepped forward.

"Young egg," she began, "perhaps you think you can solve the age old problem."

Humpty stopped, intrigued by the old hen's words.

"What problem?" he asked, his interest aroused.

"Oh, you know," replied the hen, calmly, "the one about who would come first in a race, a chicken or an egg."

"That's easy," scoffed Humpty. "That's no contest at all. The egg would win that every time."

"Hmmm," clucked the wise old hen, " you seem very sure of yourself. Would you care to make a deal?"

The egg looked at her carefully, as she continued pecking at the dirt.

"What sort of deal?" he asked.

"Well," said the hen, "if you think you're so fast, I suggest a face against the fastest hen in the barn. Our champion against you to decide once and for all who is the best. If you win, you can go on your way. If the hen wins, you have to get back under your mother and stay there until someone comes to get you. Do we have a deal?"

Humpty didn't need to think twice. He shook the hens wing and set off on a training run round the hay bales.

The race was organised for the next day. Luckily, the barn was on the royal army training base so it was decided that the egg and hen should race over the assault course. They lined up at the start of the course, with all the formidable obstacles lined up before them. The goat, the battalion's mascot, had been asked to act as referee and he gave the two competitors their final instructions.

"To begin," he yelled, officiously, " you must crawl under the fifty metres of barbed wire. Then you must crawl through the concrete pipes before swimming through the big of doom. After that you must scramble under the netting..."

Humpty gave a shudder. the word 'scramble' had sent sent a shiver through his shell, although he was unsure why. The goat' swords were a drone in the background as the small egg gazed at the first obstacle. His heart thumped in his shell and adrenaline coursed through his yolk. This was it. This was the moment he'd waited for. He would go down in history. Children for years to come would know his name. He would be the one who finally claimed victory for all eggs and end the debate that had raged for so long. He breathed deeply and focused on the barbed wire.

"...and finally you swing across the swamp to the finish. Good luck to both of you." The goat nodded at the starter to indicate that the instructions were complete. There was a shrill blast on a whistle and the competitors were off.

The first few obstacles saw the egg and hen swap places several times. Humpty scuttled under the barbed wire quite comfortably, while the chicken got several feathers ruffled. The mud delayed the egg and allowed the hen to make up lost ground. However, the quick early pace had taken it's toll on the feathered one and Humpty had opened up a reasonable lead. he had teetered across the plank and was now at the top of the large wall and regretting ever having left the nest.

What was he to do? He couldn't back out now. He was winning, not just for himself, but for all eggs. He would have to leap. if he picked his spot carefully, he might be all right. He scanned the floor, far below, for something to land on. There was a tussock of grass that looked hopeful, or a large muddy spot that might break his fall. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes.

Suddenly there was a tremendous squawk as the hen arrived on the edge of the wall. She had flapped her way over the plank and arrived at the mighty drop,where she was so flustered by the sight of what lay ahead that she had lost all composure. The sudden, ear splitting noise shook Humpty from his focus and he span round quickly to see the cause of the commotion - too quickly. His already wobbly legs lost balance and he stumbled towards the edge of the wall. He desperately tried to regain his footing but it was too late and he tumbled off the edge. There was a gasp from the crowd as the egg toppled.

A sickening CRACK rang out over the assault course and the crowd fell silent.

The emergency services arrived on the scene quickly but, despite chickens using the most modern royal veterinarian equipment, the damage to Humpty's shell was quite beyond repair. As it was reported in all the papers the following morning, 'All the king's forceps and all the king's hens, couldn't put Humpty together again.

All was not lost however. Although they were unable to save the shell, Humpty was able to be rehoused in a prosthetic shell which had been discarded by the royal children. In fact the transformation was quite remarkable and far from being a cause of concern to his mother, Humpty became a Kinder egg - always looking out for others and helping whenever he could.

And what became of the shell you may ask. Well, it was decided that it should be ground into tiny pieces and used in special timing devices - to act as a warning to any other young eggs. Now, whenever a mother hen feels a lively egg fidgeting below her feathers, she simply gets out the Humpty timer and they settle down straight away, which is why you don't ever see eggs running around any more.

Of course, because the race was never finished, no one ever found out which came first.

The Psychiatrist's Chair

Oliver had built up his practice over many years. His well renowned discretion made him extremely popular with affluent celebrities. He had lost count of the number of times tabloid journalists had offered him outlandish sums of money for an insight into his casebook. All they wanted were a few quotes from the couch or the suggestion of a syndrome that could be attached to a well known face. Oliver, however, remained tight lipped. He had listened to enough celebrities, at a very generous rate per hour, to ensure that he had no need of any of the grubby cash incentives offered to him by the sort of person who called him in the middle of the night and spoke in hushed tones.

Of course he had stories to tell: plenty of them. He had, over the years, seen every sort of quirky mental issue imaginable - as well as a few that even the wildest imagination could not have concocted.

This afternoon's appointment really intrigued him though. He had seen the distinguished gentleman on several occasions previously, but there was still plenty of work to be done to uncover the source of the man's issues. Part of the problem was that much of the previous session had been spent talking about his wife's eating disorder, rather than than man's difficulties. Although Oliver had found the problem interesting and was happy enough to listen to the description of the unusual diet he really wanted to probe the mind of the man himself. It was undoubtedly one of the more interesting cases he had come across; so many layers to be unwrapped; so many issues.

There were a couple of obsessive compulsive traits which were interesting on their own and, while one feature of behaviour was common enough, one was particularly unusual. Then there were the phobias. Ornithophobia was fairly common, but the other one was one that he had never encountered before; nor was he able to find any reference to it in any of the medical journals. If he could get to the bottom of this it could pave the way for international fame - not just because of the prominence of his patient. This could be the chance to name a syndrome!

First though, he'd have to find the cause of the problem and that, so far, had proved elusive.  Oliver had initially thought that it was a classic case of a childhood trauma. However, discussions about the gentleman's life growing up were lacking in any evidence of discomfort. There were memories of his grandfather, who he remembered fondly as a happy character who enjoyed his food. It was probably his grandfather's influence that instilled his love of music, particularly the violin. In fact the only possible clue from that particular link came from his grandfather's smoking habit, possibly indicating an inherited addictive personality. This gentleman's issues were far more complex than a simple tobacco craving though. Oliver decided that he would have to delve deeper; much deeper this week.

There was a knock on the solid oak door and Oliver walked across the plush carpet of his office to welcome his client. He had done away with receptionists long ago. The fewer people who were involved in the practice, the fewer tongues there were to wag to the press.

"Good to see you again, Oliver," said the gentleman, shaking Oliver's hand warmly.

"It's good to see you , sir," he replied, with a slight, dignified bow of the head. As he bowed, he glanced down at the gentleman's tailor made trousers. He noticed the large bulge and smiled to himself. The obsession with carrying things in his pockets was clearly continuing. "How's the wife?" he asked, hoping to get that discussion out of the way early this week, to allow the session to continue without being sidetracked.

"Oh, still the same, Oliver," he replied, "I've got as sweet a tooth as the next man, but I just don't understand how she can eat that day after day. And it makes her fingers dreadfully sticky. And we've had to take on an extra two apiarists just to make sure she has a constant supply of the stuff. The baker's a bit upset as well. He thinks the fact that she constantly spreads the stuff so thickly is a reflection on his loaves. It's all very difficult indeed." The gentleman sighed and thrust his hands into his pockets nervously. A few seeds fell to the floor.

 "I thought we'd try a little hypnotherapy today, Sir, if that's okay with you," Oliver continued. "I think it might hep us to get to the root of your difficulties. It seems to me that there may have been an event so dreadful that you have completely blocked it from your consciousness so that all you're aware of are the dreadful phobias."

"I'm willing to try anything," said the gentleman, settling himself into a large, leather armchair.

Five minutes later, his eyes were closed and he was mumbling quietly to himself. Oliver decided to start simply, with the obsessions, before moving on to the phobias.

"What would you like to do today?" he asked, quietly.

"Count," replied the gentleman eagerly.

"Okay, let's count," continued Oliver, smoothly. "What shall we count,"

"Money," said the gentleman quickly, "always count the money. Must make sure we have enough money. I have a special house you know, just for the counting. We must always make sure we have enough money."

Oliver looked at the obviously wealthy gentleman relaxing in his chair. 'Why the need to check on the state of his funds,' he wondered. 'Surely this was one person who never needed to check his bank balance.'

"What is the money for?" he enquired.

"Seeds," came the quick reply, "We can't run out of seeds,"

Ah - a link at last. Oliver wondered how the compulsions of money counting and filling of the pockets with grass seed could possibly be tied together. He investigated further.

"Okay," continued Oliver, gently, " tell me about the grass seed."

The gentleman visibly stiffened in the chair and his hand went to his trouser pocket. "Where are they?" he gasped. "Are they here?"

"Are who here?" asked Oliver, a little shocked at the fear in the man's voice.

"They're coming aren't they?" the terror stricken man continued. "Quick cover your nose. I'll throw this seed to distract them." And with that he took a large handful of seeds from his pocket and scattered it around the office.

Oliver sat back, amazed at what was taking place. The nation's leader was cowering behind his leather chair, grasping hold of his nose and flinging seed around the office as if his life depended on it.

"Who is it?" asked Oliver, " Who are you afraid of?"

"They pecked off her nose you know. We'll be next. They're after all of us,"

Another piece of the jigsaw was falling into place. It seemed the man had witnessed some sort of bird attack on another person and that had lead to his aversion of all things ornithological. Oliver was delighted with the progress. He had to press on. Now, if he could just work out why he was terrified of pastry products his work would be complete.

"It's okay, your majesty. They've gone."

"Are you sure," whispered the King, still hiding behind the chair.

"Yes, Sir, quite sure. They took off. I can see them way up high!"

"A pie!!" screamed the King, diving for cover, "NOOOOO! the singing. Stop the singing. Two dozen of them hiding under the crust. Get them out! Get them out!" he screamed, before collapsing unconscious behind the sofa.

"Well, that was a very successful session," said Oliver, after reviving the King and bringing him carefully out of the trance. "I think we made some real progress. I have a much better idea about the route cause of the problems. We can certainly begin to work on that next time."

"That's excellent news," said the gentleman, sipping his cup of tea and nibbling a biscuit. He felt completely drained, but had no recollection of the events from earlier on.

"Another biscuit, Sir?" offered Oliver.

"No, thank you," the King replied, "I'd better not. My better half will only complain that I've spoilt my appetite again. I think she was preparing a special tea. She's got a new batch of clover blossom honey and some crusty bread."

"I'll see you next week," said Oliver, as he showed the King to the door.

"Yes indeed," the King replied, " I'll look forward to it, " and he shook Oliver warmly by the hand,  pressing his usual tip into the psychiatrist's palm as he did so.

Oliver closed the door quietly and looked at the coin: always a shiny sixpence. 'Perhaps,' thought Oliver, 'we'll address that next time.'