Horace's Tale

(Get your hankies out, girls)

  Hello. My name is Horace.
I live in a very strange house. That is, I assume it's strange; but since it's the only one I've ever lived in, I suppose I could be wrong.
  Put it this way: I think that it's a bit unusual that I don't seem to be able to swim over to the walls, or anything. That can be a bit of a pain at night-time, because I'm stuck in the dark, staring at the lightswitch.
Not that the light would be much use to me. I can't reach the newspaper, either.
Nor the pen, to do the crossword with.
The remote control for the telly?
Forget it!
I'll tell you: when I think of the number of times I've been dying to just nip out to the kitchen, to knock up a quick peanut butter sandwich, I go potty.
  You can imagine how happy I was, when Phoebe came to stay.
That's her on the left - or is the right? I can never remember things like that.
I suppose it would be easier to remember if I had arms, and hands, and fingers,
and whatnot - like those monkey-ish animals that wander around the place.
An opposable thumb or two would probably come in handy, as well;
but I'd need to get some hands, first, or I'd have nowhere to put them.
I made some hands once, out of the stones and grassy stuff that's laying
  around on the floor here (I'd love to take the hoover to it, and clean up a bit; but I can't reach it).
They were very nice hands, but I couldn't get the superglue out of the drawer to stick them on with.
Anyway, that's all beside the point. I'm supposed to be telling you about my friend, Phoebe.
  Phoebe was ever so nice, and we soon became firm friends.
Such fun we had.
We would go everywhere together - that is, Phoebe would go everywhere, and then tell me all about her adventures.
We used to have the lights on; we did crosswords together; and the peanut butter sandwiches flowed like...
...I wish I could reach that dictionary of idiomatic speech, on the bookshelf. I haven't got a clue how a peanut butter sandwich would flow.
  Birthdays were the most fun; and Christmas - the best thing about them being that neither of us knew when our birthdays were, so we could celebrate them as often as we liked.
We always had my birthday on Thursdays, but sometimes we got mixed up as to when Thursdays were, so we'd celebrate it anyway, just in case. After all, it would be terrible for a birthday to go by uncelebrated.
  Since what happened to Phoebe, I've been so sad.
I can't get books, or pens, or sandwiches any more.
I can't turn the lights on; and it's no fun celebrating birthdays on my own - especially since I have no idea where she used to get the champagne from.

Oh, did I tell you what happened to Phoebe? Honestly, my memory's getting worse all the time.

  Life was wonderful, with Phoebe; but things were destined to end badly.
It all went wrong when a monkey-thing called Victoria came to visit.

She acted like the big cheese.

  First of all, she drank all of the champagne. That was really not nice of her, because on Mondays, the champagne was set aside for celebrating Christmas.  

...Or was that Fridays?

It doesn't matter. She drank it all, anyway.

Sunday! It was a Sunday! ...Or maybe a Wednesday.  
So Phoebe,   who was minding her own business, preparing a peanut butter cake for the birthday party...

...It must have been a Thursday, if we were having a birthday party...

  ...Unless it was Phoebe's birthday, of course. That would have made it a February.

After drinking all of our champagne, the big-cheese-monkey-thing Victoria decided that Poor Phoebe needed a 'Make-over', whatever that was.


The last time I saw Phoebe, this is what she looked like:

    So now I swim here,     in the dark, staring at the lightswitch, wondering if 'Make-overs' can ever be 'Unmade-under'...

...and if I shall ever see my friend again.


It's Thursday, today.

My birthday.



Horace's Big Adventure
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