THE SQUOOZY
1 Hippie version
There's this island in the Pacific Ocean, called Ista-val, where the squoozies live. Squoozies mostly eat seaweed, but sometimes, for a change, they eat sharks (and, very occasionally, killer whales, but never, ever dolphins).
One day, as the squoozies were playing joyfully together in the water around their island, a typhoon suddenly appeared and snatched up a young squoozy called Astrifiammante.
The poor creature was in such a fright that she fainted, so she did not know that the typhoon carried her halfway around the world before dropping her at the desolate coastal resort of Verdpool.
When she came to she found herself.
The End
2 Everyday version
There is an island in the Pacific Ocean, called Ista-val, where the squoozies live. Squoozies eschew seaweed, hunt in packs with ruthlessness and cunning, and eat whales, dolphins, octopuses, humans (sensing and targeting the most compassionate and intelligent specimens), and any other forms of animal life they fancy.
One day, as the squoozies were playing war games in the water around their island, a typhoon suddenly appeared and snatched up a young squoozy called Astrifiammante.
The startled creature fainted, so she did not know that the typhoon carried her halfway around the world before dropping her at the desolate coastal resort of Verdpool.
When she came to she found herself lying on the beach. There was no one else about. It was very early in the day.
Looking around at this strange place the squoozy realised that she must be a long way from home. Apart from being lost she was cold and hungry, so she decided to make for some houses she could see in the distance.
At the first house she came to she knocked at the front door. There was no reply so she knocked again more loudly.
An upstairs window opened and a sleepy voice called out “Whaddyawant?” “Please, I’d like to know where I am in the world,” said Astrifiammante.
“Wouldn’t we all, just,” replied the sleepy voice.
A man’s head appeared through the open window. He looked down at the squoozy, shrieked, and slammed the window shut. Next came the sound of the front door being bolted, a chain being drawn across, and a panting, heaving, scraping noise, as if someone was trying to drag miscellaneous items of heavy hallway furniture up to the door.
Astri reflected. “Perhaps there are no squoozies here. Anyway, why did I go inland? I'm a sea creature.” She turned away and flalloped back to the beach.
She slid into the water and swam about until she found an ancient looking crab, squatting on a family of starfish.
“Excuse me, crab, can you tell me the way back to Ista-val?”
The crab half-opened one eye, shuddered, and scuttled away beneath the nearest rock, out of sight.
“This is bad” thought Astri, “are the sea creatures afraid of me as well?” She had clearly forgotten – or perhaps was unaware of – the reputation of the squoozies for genocide.
She decided to try once more: “If I hide behind a boulder or a clump of seaweed and leap out and take someone by surprise perhaps then they’ll talk to me.” So she hid behind a nearby rock and waited; an eel came slithering by. “Yoohoo” shouted Astrifiammante, jumping out in front of the startled eel.
“Aaarrgh” wailed the eel, and with a lightning flick of his tail, made off in the opposite direction.
A little while later, as the squoozy was consuming the remains of a squid and wondering what to do next, the sea animals gathered in their meeting place to discuss this strange creature that the old crab and the eel had told them about.
They were talking excitedly, and in complete ignorance - perhaps fortunately, none of them had heard of the Squoozies, who lived only in and around Ista-val. Some thought the squoozy was dangerous and should be killed; the more liberally-minded thought she was dangerous and should be chased away; the zoologically-inclined said she was just weird and different and should be chased away; and the radical oppositionists suggested she was maybe friendly, or even a lost soul in need, and should be chased away, just in case.
One of the jellyfish suggested sending out a search party to find the squoozy, then they could arrange to trap her and decide what to do next. This was agreed between them all. For no obvious reason the debate continued.
While this was going on Astrifiammante was hunting for another squid. Hearing little squeals coming from a clump of rocks close by she swam towards the sounds, and found a young lobster caught in a trap which had been laid by the local fishermen. She carefully opened the trap and freed the lobster.
Just as she was about to seize it and bite it in half, the lobster, who was called Alex, spoke.
“Well! I’m certainly glad you came along. Thanks a lot. But – what are you? You look odd beyond belief. And ugly. Distressed. And sinister. No offence.”
This was a chance to talk. Rarer than a chance to eat. “None taken: I’m a squoozy, named after a character in a Mozart opera – that was my mother’s idea, we’ve never really got on that well, strange, isn’t it, can’t quite figure that one out, even though uncles Sigmund and Carl Justav took us through months of family therapy – that's the equivalent of 'years' in lobster-time, by the way – and anyway most of the performances of the Magic Flute that I've seen have been really rubbish, even the Queen of the Night's aria, something to do with them being held underwater they say, but I think that's a pretty hollow excuse, I mean, most of the instruments are waterproof nowadays, aren't they, though sound doesn't carry that well in the sea come to think of it, unless you're talking whales which is a whole different thing, maybe they were right after all, shouldn't be too hasty to judge, should we, still, too late to worry about that, I'm a bit lost and trying to find my way back to Ista-val, can you help? I've tried to ask a couple of your mates but they didn't seem to want to chat.”
“I am sorry to hear that” said Alex, “but not in the least surprised. Apart from being grievous to the eye you're terrifyingly verbose, you know. Still, if you want to hang about I’ll go and talk to the others. We may be able to get you home.” Alex crawled off and Astri settled down to wait.
She had not been there more than a couple of minutes before a net suddenly appeared around her, and she felt herself being dragged up, then along the surface of the water, and tied to a boat, still enmeshed in the net. A face appeared and peered down at her. It was Rupert, a fisherman.
“Here, Sabrina,” he called to his mate, “come and have a look at this specimen.” They both studied the squoozy gravely.
“Do you think it’s a squoozy?” asked Sabrina. Rupert never let ignorance deter him: “No chance, but it might be worth something to the zoo.”
“May as well try. It's no good to us - even if it's not a squoozy it looks less edible than a pile of dead skin.”
Rupert looked at his companion thoughtfully. “I think you’re odder than this monstrosity here, if you want to know.”
“Did I say I wanted to know anything?” There was a pause of uncertain duration.
Rupert addressed Astrifiammante: “Stay here while we go and try to sell you.” He had little sense of irony. Little sense of anything. Although he was a good deal brighter than Sabrina. The strange pair then set off for the zoo, or the inn, whichever was closer.
Meanwhile, the meeting of sea creatures had got bogged down in a procedural wrangle about whether the squoozy was a genuine member of the aquatic species or whether she was an interloper – perhaps even amphibious? - and could not therefore be dealt with by the congress they had called (squoozies are amphibians, but even those who suggested this had no idea of the truth, they were merely trying to slur and cast aspersions). Some therefore favoured recalling the jellyfish and the search group, others felt that, despite the inconvenient technicality that it was probably unlawful, a hunt-and-kill party should be sent out straight away. Whilst the debate was meandering, the young lobster burst in to the gathering, at a brisk crawl, and told them all about his rescue from the trap by this strange animal who seemed to want simply to get home.
Reluctantly, most of the assembly agreed that it would not be appropriate at this point in time to lynch the squoozy (always a challenging prospect under water, in any case) - though it might well be a real option in the near future, they reassured one another – and a group of them set out to find the troublesome creature to help it on its way once and for all.
They followed Alex to where he had been rescued but found no trace of Astri. They were puzzled at this, and a number of them wanted to deal with their frustration and sense of impotence by tearing the lobster limbs from limbs, but they proved too stupid and disorganised to carry out even a straightforward murder. Instead they followed the others on their trek around the coastline, and eventually found Astrifiammante snoozing in her net, still tied to the boat.
The sawfish, who for once could pretend to have some useful function, managed to tear through the strands of rope (with great difficulty, since they didn't really have saws to work with), whilst the swordfish, stung into a display of competitive zeal, began to practise bayoneting sponges (after giving them ten seconds start, of course, as the etiquette of Sea Hunting requires).
Once Astri had been released they fell to discussing how she might be sent back to her home island without further disrupting the life of Verdpool. This conference could have taken longer than the natural life spans of many of the species there but Jemina, a chatty and sociable starfish, immediately came up with the idea that the squoozy could hitch a lift with Sabrina and Rupert, on the basis that sooner or later they would go to Ista-val. Since none of them knew that this was one small island on a planet with a surface area of some 135 million square kilometres it didn't seem such an outlandish idea, but even if they'd known they wouldn't have cared. They just needed rid of an alien presence.
Using the remains of the net they tied Astri to the helm of the boat, told her to keep out of sight, thought about it, untied her, re-tied her to the boat's stern, reminded her to keep hidden, and left her. When Rupert and Sabrina returned from the pub they seemed to have forgotten all about the squoozy. They cast off and headed out into the Atlantic. Astri allowed herself to be towed along at a sedate pace, amusing herself by mentally arranging the names of her friends in reverse alphabetical order. Since she had just four friends this could have been a short-lived entertainment but fortunately the Squoozies have no alphabet (even though, miraculously, they have speech) so the impossible puzzle could occupy her indefinitely. In theory. In fact, she soon fell asleep.
This was just as well. When Sabrina and Rupert sobered up and realised they were drifting in the wrong direction they lowered the sail, started the engine, and made for St David’s Head. It turned out this was not where they wanted to be, so they sailed to Holyhead, Dun Laoghaire, Rosslare, Dun Laoghaire, Rosslare, Dun Laoghaire, Holyhead, Dun Laoghaire, Rosslare, Milford Haven, Rosslare, Dun Laoghaire, Rosslare, Milford Haven and finally, by a freak statistical occurrence, Ista-val. Luckily for her, Astri was awake at this point, so she slipped off her rope whilst Rupert and Sabrina were trailing across the island, looking for a gas station, a supermarket or a pub. When they realised they had inadvertently sailed to the middle of the Pacific ocean they discussed briefly the idea of setting up a colony and claiming Ista-val for the UK, realised they didn't know how to go about this, and set off towards what they hoped was Norway.
Finding she was home for the first time in four months, Astrifiammante experienced mixed feelings – on the one hand no one had missed her, or even noticed she had been gone, and she realised that her island existence before the intervention of the typhoon had been brutal and meaningless, but on the other hand Ista-val was welcome to her simply through its familiarity.
Every so often she thought about travelling again to far distant parts of the world. Since she had no immediate control over typhoons (even the mega-distance, fantasy ones), and no passport, the occasion never arose.
FIN
When worlds collide
Piling up the books he had never got around to reading
- The Procrastinator’s Guide to Success
-
Effective Time Management for Stressed Executives
- Effective Time Management for Laid-Back Executives
- Effective Time Management for Busy Mums on Sink Estates
- God’s Guide to Eternal Time Management
- Procrastination: The Eighth Deadly Sin (subtitled Or it would be if we got round to it)
- and more of the kind
into a wheelbarrow he set off for his local Oxfam shop.
As he was approaching the corner of Hobbs Lane and Christian Terrace a Titan Emperor Land Destroyer, turning left, mounted the kerb, swerved violently, and ploughed into his body, narrowly missing the wheelbarrow but causing Nathan to fly some six feet into the air, bounce off the vehicle’s bonnet and crash to the road, his head recoiling sharply as his neck snapped because of the unnatural angle of his descent caused by the sleeve of his shirt snagging on the steel spike protruding from the top left hand side of the vehicle’s titanium-shelled bull bars.
The driver put down his copy of The Armoured Car Owner’s Guide to Effective Time Management that he had been idly browsing through to relieve the tedium of speeding along quiet residential streets, hauled himself out of his chariot, and strolled across to the quivering wreck that was about to cease to be Nathan Parker.
“Oh dear,” he said, “nasty corner that, isn’t it? Although,” he added hastily, “I’m not implying any liability by that statement, you understand.”
Nathan stared, gasped, and continued dying.
“Look here,” the driver went on, “can I get you anything – a drink maybe? I think I passed a corner shop a little way back. I could go and check, if you like. I might have better luck with that corner, you never know, heh, heh . . sorry, was that a bit inappropriate? I’m not admitting anything by saying ‘sorry’, I must stress. Right, just you stay there, don’t go away, and I’ll get you that drink. What about a snack, peckish at all . ? OK, just the drink then. Hang on there, I’ll only be a minute. Oh, you haven’t got any change on you by any chance – no, wait, it’s fine, I’ve found some. Don't worry about a thing. This’ll be my treat.”
The driver, who was called Gerald – Gerald Middlemarch Blackstone – drifted back to his Titan Destroyer and, wrenching the Beast into reverse, backed out of the situation with what Nathan, with his last glimmerings of consciousness, considered to be a rather excessive amount of tyre squealing.
Celia Middlemarch, who was not related to Gerald Middlemarch Blackstone, made her way carefully across the road from her front gate.
“’Ere,” she said, bending over Nathan, leaning on her walking stick, “You all right there? You’re a bit quiet.” She poked him in the side with her stick. “Don’t like the look of your colour. You should get that seen to. Do you want me to call you a doctor if you can’t manage yourself? Right, won’t be a minute, ducks. Just you carry on resting for a bit,” and she turned away from the corpse and began the long haul back to her front door, muttering, “I’ve got that doctor’s number somewhere near the phone, sure of that, if I can just find where I’ve put me reading glasses now . ? I wonder if he’d like a cup of tea while he’s waiting . . oh, should have asked him how he takes it. Well, he’s having milk and two sugars, not trailing all that way back for him to tell me he wants camomile or something . . ”
Forty minutes later Celia abandoned the search for her spectacles and sat on the Easirise armchair in her front room. What was it she had wanted those glasses for – yes, she was always losing them, and she did need to find them, but there had been some reason, she couldn’t now recall properly, something outside? Was it to do with Charlotte-Marie Featherstonehalf (her only neighbour since the - fortunately non-fatal - incident of Mr and Mrs Soames’ house fire following Antonioni’s baby-sitting début)?
Time for a cuppa, maybe. She picked up her copy of the extra-large print version of The Elder Citizen’s Guide to Effective Tea-Making (excluding Camomile), and within thirty seconds was comfortably ensconced in her first afternoon nap, the book lying open on her lap revealing the chapter heading Less Standard Herbal Infusions: Why They Are Evil.
