So, I know you’re all waiting to hear about Christopher J.’s adventures but I
have to admit that I interrupted him before he really got a chance to start.
“Christopher J.? May I ask you a question?”
“But of course!”
“Have you ever been to England? The reason I ask is that there is an affect to your speech that is very British. And, quite frankly, that seems rather odd, coming from a spider from Pigsknuckle.”
Christopher J. nodded. “Yes, I can see how that might be confusing. I, sadly, have never been to England, though I do consider it my homeland. You see, my grandfather, Sheldon P. Arachinton, was from London. He raised me you understand, as my own father, Clarence D. Arachington, lost his life in a terrible accident involving a,” Christopher J. swallowed hard and went on, “involving a… lawnmower.” He bowed his head for a moment, and I did as well, out of respect, you know. “So, it is only fitting that I sound a bit like my Granda.”
“Of course. You say he was from London? Do you know what part?”
“Yes. Wgate.”
“Wgate? Hmmm… I don’t know that part of London, I’m afraid. Do you know anything more about it?”
“Only that it’s quite leafy and green. My Granda came from the Red Room in Wgate. In fact, the color red plays quite a significant role in our family history. You see, Granda lived in the Red Room, he traveled from Wgate to here in a great red valise, and he moved into the Red Shed. Quite interesting, don’t you think?”
I nodded. “Quite. A red valise, you say?”
“Yes. Quite a big one I’m told.”
“And do you know anything more of the Red Room?”
“Well, I hesitate to say this, as it makes my Granda sound rather… peculiar… but he would often speak of two moons.”
“Two moons? Really…”
“Yes. To tell the truth, I’ve often wondered if perhaps my Granda dipped into the sherry a bit too often in his youth, but he was quite adamant about it. He said there was a moon outside the Red Room and a moon inside, as well.”
“That’s very curious.”
“Indeed. Oh, and the Red Room was also an ogre’s lair,” Christopher J. mentioned, rather nonchalantly, I thought, for such a significant statement.
“An ogre?”
“Oh, yes. He was quite fearsome, really, and heavy-footed, always chasing Granda about with a shoe or a book. But my Granda was terribly cunning and quick,” Christopher J. glowed with pride. “He used to tell us the funniest story about how he stole onto the ogre’s bed one night while he was sleeping and tickled his nose. The ogre awoke with a start and when he saw my Granda , just inches from his face, he screamed like a little girl and flailed about like a madman. Granda laughed and laughed until he saw the ogre crying in fear. Then he felt terrible. Granda was really very kind, you see, and only liked to tease the ogre. He said that after that incident, he did his best to keep out of the ogre’s way.”
“That’s all very interesting, Christopher J. I’m sorry I never got to meet your Granda. I think I would have liked him.”
“Oh, I expect you would have. He would have liked you as well.”
I smiled and excused myself to make a cup of tea. And as I was going to the kitchen, I made a mental note to email my friend Todd… Todd, who hates spiders… Todd, who lives on Barrowgate, in leafy, green West London… and whose spare room is painted red… the same room which has a light fixture that looks like a moon… the same room in which I stay when I visit… with my big red suitcase…
To be continued...
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