The Friar’s Tuck
Dear Story Reader,
Please excuse this intrusion into ‘The Friar’s Tuck’. I saw you were about to choose a story to read and I am writing myself into this one because I am a desperate, kidnapped woman who has been taken from her home. I need help to get back there and you seem like a nice person who will do your best to find me and return me to my family.
I am writing to you from somewhere. I do not know where but the damp feel of the wind tells me that I am still in England. I know I am not in Australia because funnel-web spiders are not trying to eat me. I am not in Spain because there are no castanets here, and I am not in the Forbidden City because I have not been reincarnated as a tree frog. I am definitely not in Ireland because the man who gave me this pencil and piece of paper was not a leprechaun. He was either an elf or a pork butcher. Do you know this man?
I will give you clues to my location. If you know of a place like the one I am going to describe then please stop reading at once. Put on your coat and come and get me. Please bring a spare coat. And a packet of Dry Roasted Peanuts because I have not eaten for six days and my ribs are now showing through my t-shirt.
Here is a clue: the field I am in is a big field. It does not have a wall, or a fence, or a boundary of any type. This field does not know where to end itself. It goes on and on to places my eyesight cannot go, and it is filled with rapeseed and poppies and teabags, but no kettle. In the centre of this field there are seven trees, possibly elms. They are planted in a circle. There is a small rock at the centre of this circle and this is where I am. On the rock.
I am sitting in a position. I have one leg drawn up and I am using my knee bone as a hard leaning surface to stop my pencil from poking through and ripping my piece of paper. My knee is hairier than usual and lack of a Ladyshave is causing me to cry. Please bring one with you. If you do not have a Ladyshave, please bring a Bic Orange razor and a bar of soap. It is vital that you do not bring a Bic in any colour but orange because I have very sensitive skin and I am liable to break out in a terrible rash if I scrape at my leg with, for instance, a green Bic.
There is a little ragged rascal running round and round my rock. He is the size of a paper clip but his voice is booming out a song that I do not know the words of. The tune goes like this… ‘Da doo deeee, diddly wop dop doo, rappa dappa pom pom pom.’ Do you know this song? Do you? When I had a piano I used to play Eine Kleine Nachtmusik with my toes. I have long toes that hang over the edge of my Jesus-creepers. They are perfect for piano playing but it is virtually impossible to find shoes that fit without the fronts being modified with my shoe modifier. But I am without my modifier and other vitally important items, because my kidnappers did not allow me time to pack. Shoemaker, shoemaker, wherefore art thou? Did they kidnap him too, I wonder?
Another clue for you, dear S. R. Are you paying attention? Please do because these clues might save my life and earn you a medal and also an afternoon at a royal garden party where you will mingle with other heroic life-savers and sup tea with the Queen. Read carefully. Above me there is sky. Please look out of your window after the count of three. One, two, three. GO.
Is your sky cloudy and dull? If so, you are not looking at the same sky as the one above my head. Try a window at the other side of your house. My sky is blue and the sun is bright and burny-hot. I begged for Factor 30 or above but the Angel who went to the chemist brought back Factor 8. I do not yet have a malignant melanoma, but it is only a matter of time. Please bring a big bottle of After-Sun.
Are you taking notes? Do you have a bag to put my things in? I ask because I do not want you to forget a vitally important item, or drop anything on your way to rescue me.
When you get here, be careful of the man who is standing a short way from the trees. He thinks he is hidden amongst the leaves, but I can see him clearly. This man has no lips and he is wearing a white coat, white trousers, and white shoes. I do not know how he lost his lips or if he had any lips in the first place, but they are not there now. In their place he has stapled on a patchwork of grape-skins, black, purple and green. The staples are catching the light of the sun and dazzling my eyes as I write. Sun-brightness blinds but I am not blind yet so please bring a pair of Fendi Hot Pink sunglasses. They must be Hot Pink. No other colour suits me. I also need a tube of Germolene and a strip of sticking plaster. I bled yesterday whilst trying to escape through a bed of Scotch thistles. The thistles were scratchy and I may have contracted beriberi because my reserves of Vitamin B were taken from me as punishment when I was recaptured. The cruelty of my kidnappers knows no bounds.
The man with no lips is standing next to a big Sherpa tank that he drove into the field. There may be another man inside the big Sherpa tank because the gun is pointing in my direction and I can see down the barrel. His eyebrows are black. I think if I run at the man with no lips and try to overcome him, the black eye-browed man in the big Sherpa tank will fire and shoot off my toes. Please bring a bullet-proof vest.
I have a husband and children who are searching for me as you read. Please do your very best to find me, or my children will fret and be motherless for the rest of their lives. I cannot write any more because I have used both sides of my paper and my pencil is just a stub. Please accept my apologies for spoiling your enjoyment of ‘The Friar’s Tuck.’ It was a good story and I am sorry I had to write all over it.
Thank you and please hurry.