Following the hullaballoo of melting witches and random
monarch selections, Dorothy Miggins is keen to get back to the City of Rusty
Duck, present the broomstick to the Wizard of Oz and be on her way home, in
whatever form that might take.
‘I’m not sure I can face the walk, though,’ she says. ‘Is
there a horse and carriage we can borrow, maybe, or a couple of bicycles?’
She is talking to Tinkie Winkie who has turned his coat
again and is busy smarming up to the king-in-waiting, Ptolemy Ptinman. Tinkie
Winkie laughs.
‘You can use the Golden Cap,’ he says. ‘Since the Wicked Poo
of the West is no more, its ownership passes to you. You get three wishes! If I
was you, I’d use one to get me back to the City of Rusty Duck.’
‘Or,’ says Dorothy Miggins, ‘I could use one to wish myself
home, to the Three Counties Border and Much Malarkey Manor, which is very
likely falling into chaos in my absence.’
Tinkie Winkie scratches his chin. ‘You could,’ he says, ever
the sycophant. ‘But if you do, the Christmas Story will end eight days early.’
(‘Hurrah!’ shouts the author.)
‘That will never do,’ says Dorothy Miggins. ‘I see what you
mean. I suppose what I COULD do is return to the City of Rusty Duck, see the
Wizard of Oz and if he turns out to be one mahoosive fraud, which I suspect he
will, then I’ve still got two wishes to use to get me home.’
‘It’s a plan,’ says Tinkie Winkie, although he knows little
about the finer nuances of using a Golden Cap.
It is settled then. A reverential hush falls over the Winkie
crowd, and the Golden Cap is retrieved from the hat-stand in the hall of the
castle of the now ex-Wicked Poo of the West.
‘Shall I do the honours?’ says Tancrow Pete.
‘If you don’t mind,’ says Dorothy Miggins, whose short
chickeny wing span means she isn’t that skilled at placing hats on her own
head.
The Golden Cap is placed on the head of Dorothy Miggins and,
thankfully, no one sniggers.
‘What do I do now?’ she whispers.
‘Make a wish,’ whispers back Tinkie Winkie.
Dorothy Miggins closes her eyes, because it seems the correct
thing to do in the situation, and wishes that she, Tancrow Pete, Ptolemy
Ptinman, Bambino Bobblion and Toto can return as soon as possible to the City
of Rusty Duck. Luggage: a broomstick, one previous lady owner.
The air around them crackles and whooshes and in moments Bob
Frapples, King of the Flying Monkeys (which are a bit like The Flying Pickets
only more jazz and less a cappella) appears, with his monkey tribe flying in
formation behind him.
He lands in front of Dorothy Miggins. ‘Ah,’ he says, ‘a new
face. And a prettier face, I might add. Loving the pigtails, chick. Very ‘on
trend’.’
‘Eeeeeek!’ squeaks Dorothy Miggins, coming over all
unnecessary.
Bob Frapples winks at her, something he only tried once with
the Wicked Poo of the West, earning himself a punch on the nose for his
efforts. ‘So you want to go to the City of Rusty Duck, eh?’ says he.
‘Yes, please,’ giggles Dorothy Miggins. Tancrow Pete rolls
his eyes.
‘No worries, fair lady,’ says Bob Frapples. He nods to his
band of flying monkeys and immediately they form into the shape of a sledge,
you know, like the ones you get to ride on when you visit Santa Claus at the
North Pole, or Finland, or Lakeside Shopping Centre, or wherever else he
happens to be hanging out. Though hopefully not his pyjamas.
Bob Frapples extends his monkey paw. (N.B Reader, do not
worry. This is not the same monkey’s paw from the famous ghost story by
W.W.Jacobs, published in 1902, where three wishes are granted to the owner of
the paw, but they are wishes that come at an enormous cost, because one should
never try to interfere with Fate, should one? This is just a paw, attached to a
monkey. The wishes are down to the Golden Cap which is a benign supernatural
entity. Just saying.)
‘Step into the sledge, dear lady,’ says Bob Frapples. ‘And
your companions, too. Strap the broom to the luggage rack. We shall fly you
safely to the City of Rusty Duck before you can say, ‘Are we there yet?’’
And it is true! Because Bambino Bobblion, who is as
impatient a spirit as they come, almost
immediately as they have risen into the sky says, ‘Are we there yet?’ and yes!
They are! Below them, the sparkly greyness of the City of Rusty Duck hoves into
view and the monkey sledge is depositing them safely in the town square, where
the Duckkins welcome their return with open wings.
‘Thank you, Mr Frapples!’ calls Dorothy Miggins, as the sledge
disbands and the monkeys fly away in the shape of a comedy carrot.
‘Don’t forget,’ calls Bob Frapples, ‘you have two wishes
remaining. Put on the Golden Cap and call when you need us!’
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