Round To It… Or Getting Things Done

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Once upon a time there was a fairy, and her name was Roundtuit. She tried to be kind, and she tried to be good, so as a result of this, people were always asking her to do things for them.

She didn’t mind – how could she, for she was nothing if not a good-natured and pleasant fairy. Consequently, every passing squirrel popped in for a manicure, every travelling hedgehog, a haircut, and the neighbourhood foxes, a regular shampoo.

Added to this, the fairy villagers were forever popping by asking for help with little odd-jobs, like brushing the mushrooms and beating the dust out of the moss. All the poor fairy could do was say cheerfully: “Oh yes, I’m getting round to it!”

Her own house fell into disrepair, her neatly painted shutters began to flake and warp, while her garden became overgrown and unkempt.

After another day of helping everybody – she had re-varnished some ladybirds so they were bright and shiny again and helped several sparrows with their dust baths – Roundtuit came in, looked at her formally pristine and sparkling home, now shabby and dirty with piles of washing up left in the sink growing mould, she burst into tears.

And so it was, half an hour later, her friends found her sobbing on a heap of broken promises, spoiled dreams and dirty disappointments. Her friends’ names were Help, Hope and Reachout.

In no time at all, Roundtuit’s little home was sparkling and cosy once again, and all her jobs for the fairies and creatures of the community had been completed.

So, the moral of the story is: don’t always say you’re getting Roundtuit – Reachout in Hope and Help will be found.

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Ironing… With Cats

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As you may have gathered from this little series, having four cats means we spend a lot of time together… doing things… and while their help and advice is not always appreciated, their company and love certainly is!

1. Remove Siamese from cupboard where the ironing board lives and take it out to set up in preparation for ironing the freshly washed and dried heap of laundry in the basket.

2. Remove large black cat from clean washing and sort out the items that need re-laundering due to muddy paw prints.

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3. Fill lovely new iron with water, place in position and switch on in preparation.

4. Remove small black cat and Siamese from ironing board as they are having a punch up.

5. Scream and catch iron as a flailing paw knocks it.

6. Scream again – this time in fright – as tabby cat chooses this particular moment to launch herself from the back of the sofa to sit on your shoulder and offer advice about the best way to iron a shirt.

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7. Remove large black cat from wash basket and sort out items that need re-laundering…

8. As son is at home, offer to teach him how to iron.

9. Remove Siamese from ironing board, tabby paw from eye and beg son to iron.

10. Decide that actually, Life is too short to iron… and put everything away, having first removed Siamese from cupboard where ironing board lives…

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Help

This little story was originally accepted by Copper Staple and was initially inspired by an item from the internet that my son showed me where a black pen dot on the palm of a hand is a cry for help from someone who is the recipient of abuse, whether emotional or physical, when shown to someone in authority. I don’t know how much truth there was in this article – please don’t ignore any cry for help.

Help

She wanted it, she needed it, she didn’t know how to ask for it.

When she took her children to school in the mornings and stood chatting with the other mothers, in tight jeans and ponytails, every word of conversation was imbued with a silent plea for help. The mothers sensed the sticky desperation and slowly slid away, blinkered to the cry in her eyes.

The cold nervousness of a trip to the supermarket, greetings exchanged with the staff who’d known her for years. The begging in her touch as she handed over her money, searching in their eyes for some recognition, some sign that they saw her call.

Her husband, kind enough, older than her, unthinking, had no idea of the snakes her head contained. He saw her in the morning, before he went to work and again in the evening when he came home; leaving desperate hours in between to try and silence the screaming snakes in her head.

Even the cat sensed her clammy, tenuous grip, and slipped uneasy from her hands as she tried to suck comfort from his warm fur.

Her mother, her father, happily married for thirty years, saw no further than the blank mask of happiness she assumed on their weekly visits. They did not want to see what lay beneath the carefully made up face and designer clothes holding inside shattered fragments. She’d get over it and settle down, perhaps a nice little job when the children were older. They comforted each other.

One day her husband came home early. She should have been expecting him, the suitcases packed and standing in the hall, ready for their holiday.

He found her upstairs. He thought she’d bought new sheets. The crimson glowed dully in the light of early afternoon. She lay, peaceful and pale. What will he tell the children?

She had found the help she wanted at last.

Words Copyright © 2016 Samantha Murdoch

All photographs Copyright © 2016 Alex Marlowe