Tomas Ingleby and the Tale of the Golden Fairy

2. Farquharson

The  day the earth stood still. Welcome to the Twilight Zone.

Menagerie at the zoo, dude with three heads, another with feet pointing the wrong way or a big elephant trunk sticking out of his nose. Blue-haired, pickled-nose old lady looking for all the world as if she might retrieve her broom from the umbrella stand, fly off with a cackle over the morning traffic. Thousand fantasies to replace the grim reality of stock footage lifted straight out of one of those mind-numbing public information films.

One word leapt to mind.

Agnes.

Agnes put her up to this. Mother's face said it all.

"Take a seat, please."

Resisting the urge to blow a raspberry,  Tomas embraced the ensuing waiting room boredom like an old, familiar friend. With whose company he soon started to get dangerously tired.

Like waiting for a bus.

St-r-e-t-c-h. Yawn.

BANG!

ZOOM!

WHOOSH!

Firecrackers, in a telephone booth like this . . . squealing little piggies, stampede for the exit, the lot of 'em.

Heh-heh.

Why couldn't they just go home?

"Do cheer up, I think we're next."

Potted plants, magazine rack, tick the boxes. Seemed to spend half his life in waiting rooms, followed usually by an eye examination. More recently he'd been getting his head examined and, whilst some might argue this was long overdue, it rather had the effect of making the situation worse, if that was possible.

Visions of a little magic shop with a bent old man and a cloak and a crystal ball and stars in the window. It was nothing like that: Earnest Charles Farquharson and associates, a small studio tucked up here in the High Street, opposite the department store and, right next to a little magic shop with a bent old man and a cloak and a crystal ball and stars in the window.

"If this fails . . ." said Mrs Ingleby through the fog of his contemplation, "there's nothing else left. Up to you now, Tomas, now or never. Are you listening to me?"

No.

"Miracle he was able to squeeze us in at all. You should be thankful."

Thankful? Was she serious?

Packed to the rafters. Gazing at the solemn faces around him. Kids mostly, with parents, like himself. He didn't recognize any of them, but he suspected they knew him.

"Look, look!" said one, as if reading his thoughts ... "It's him, isn't it?"

It most certainly was. Every kid in town had heard of Bravo Tommy Ingleby.

"Hey, four eyes! Frankenstein! Let's have a look. Come on, don't be shy! Show us your eyes! We won't laugh. Honest, we won't!"

Tomas wasn't interested. If not for the simple fact making fun of him ancient news, used to it by now, nor that his glasses were dark, dark as dark, for dark they most certainly were. Not at all. The idea Mother might gladly exchange him for any one of them for the sake of a quiet life galled him more than anything.

Why on earth would she want to do that?

Weird.

I wish it could be Christmas every day whined the headphones of the nearest halfwit.