A FALLEN FAIRY

Following on from recruiting Winnie Whiplash to help him with a problem with lorries...

It was dark when the Prime Minister made his way through the City of Westminster and towards Downing Street where the love of his recent life, complete with babe in arms, was awaiting his return from what he had described as a Very Important Business. He would have been humming melodically to himself, but when he did that he dribbled, and it stained his already stained jacket, so he desisted.

As he ambled along he chanced to pass a large Christmas tree, and he paused to admire its plastic decorations amid a hail of pine needles. And he scowled when it crossed his mind there was nobody anywhere near to sweep them up or even help him brush them off his aforementioned crumpled jacket.

He was about to continue on his way when a thud alerted him to something unexpected happening, and he didn’t like unexpected things happening because he was fully aware that, despite being the most gloriously popular leader of the country in recorded history, there were a few nutcases who disliked him.

So he looked to see what had caused the disruption to his peaceful world, and scowled.

The fairy had fallen from the top of the tree.

It was a life-sized fairy dressed in last year’s fairy fashion. Her hair, long and fragrant (at least, he thought it must be fragrant) hung like cascades of burnished gold past her delicate bosom and seemed to be tickling her belly when she moved. Her face was wan, her red lips tarnished after being stored in a crate for nobody knew how many years, but the fall had knocked some life into her.

“Oh sir,” she exclaimed, looking at him through the most beautiful blue eyes that he had ever seen, “sir, can you help me? The topmost twig was jammed up my bottom to keep me on top of the tree, and it snapped off, so lo, here I am at your feet.”

“I can see you,” he grumbled, “you gave me quite an unpleasant shock and it’s going to take a good double brandy to see me right! I mean, what right have you got to shock a Prime Minister like this?”

She was weeping when she replied, “Oh sir, my own ego is bruised and my nether regions rendered twitchy with at least a dozen pine needles lodged up there. Please help me. I am a fairy in need of help, and I always reward those who help me with the granting of a wish. It’s in my DNA.”

“By golly,” breezed the Prime Minister, “I can’t do much myself, but hey, I know someone who might afford you shelter. He ought to: his pad’s big enough to house an army of fairies.”

“Then, dear sir, take me to him and the reward will be yours for the taking.”

The fairy looked so sad and pathetic the Prime Minister felt like embarrassing her a little bit more.

“Tell me about the pine needles up your nether regions, and would it help if I plucked them out?” he asked, “I’ve never plucked pine needles from anyone’s nether region before and I guess it would be corking fun!”

“It might not be fun to me, sir,” she said with the faintest smile, “for I didn’t say which nether region was so troubled by the sharp little beasties.”

“Oh corking hell!” he jabbered.

“So that is what you require as your reward?” asked the fairy as he prepared to lunge up her shiny skirt, “a handful of pine needles doesn’t seem much to me when you could have your heart’s desire, but go ahead if you must, and if I squeal and bleed you will forgive me? I’ll try not to get a single drop of my pure angelic blood on your jacket, for that would indeed be ill-mannered of me.”

“Corking hell,” jabbered the Prime Minister again, and he reached up the prettiest skirt he had ever reached up and withdrew a fistful of razor-sharp pine needles.

“Is that better?” he asked.

She smiled a sweet smile at him. “Much better,” she sighed, “now how about introducing me to your comrade, the one with the big house, so that I may have a bed for the night and somewhere to rest my wings.”

“He’s got a wife and an army of kids,” muttered the Prime Minister.

“The more the merrier, for I am a fairy and can engage the little ones in magic games and the big ones in an orgy of delight,” she said seriously.

“Then I will hail my Prime ministerial coupe and we will be transported to his pad. I say pad: it’s a bit more then that. Some might say it’s almost a castle.”

The Prime Ministerial coupe appeared as if by magic and he helped the poor fairy into the back seat, snuggling up next to her.

“I’ll keep you safe,” he said, “the chauffeur can be a bit of a devil when he’s got a bit of stuff on the back seat. Off we go then. Would you like me to remove any more pine needles from your nether regions?”

“Of course not,” she cooed, “now tell me about the man we’re going to see?”

“Well,” began the Prime Minister, “he went to Eton.”

“But that’s a school, not a characteristic of a man,” murmured the Fairy.

“The school is the man!” bragged the Prime Minister.

“Oh dear. How dreadful. I feel so sorry for you,” sighed the Fairy.

“We’re here!” announced the Prime Minister as the coupe pulled up by a monstrous building that looked as though it had once had plans to be a castle but changed its mind at the last moment. “Now let me warn you, my dear young thing,” he continued, “he’s a bit of a stickler for all things proper and British. For instance, and I warn you here, he’s got a North Wing in that house and you’d best keep out of it. It gets cold when the North winds blow, and the windows don’t fit so well.”

“The North Wing. I like the sound of that,” cooed the Fairy.

They approached the huge front door, which was opened by a man with a thin face and wearing an enormous top hat.

“Could you take care of this fairy, old thing?” asked the Prime Minister, “she says if you do she will reward you magically.

“I’ll put her in the North Wing,” said the top-hatted man in a voice that sounded as though he’d been given elocution lessons a century earlier, and they’d stuck, untrammelled by the ages, in his voice box.

“Oh dear,” sighed the Prime Minister.

“Come on, my dear,” said the top hat, and he grabbed the Fairy firmly by one shoulder and propelled her along. “We can have some fun later,” he said, “but first, this wing is my own personal workhouse, and I’ve got lots for you to do. Have you ever used a sledge-hammer?”

© Peter Rogerson 23.12.20