There is quite an extraordinary sequel to this story. No, I lie. It was fantastic. Unbelievable – or at least parts of it were, or are, as you shall see. Believe me.
On the very day the rollator story appeared on my blog, as the witching hour approached, there was a scuffling sound on the front verandah, and a tiny ting of the bell, but silence reigned soon after.
We have become somewhat familiar with these sounds. Often, a mysterious gift appears as if by magic, and this time was no exception, except in its extravagance.
Or maybe he was just a super-fit rhesus monkey. There is some evidence for the latter, as you will see. Let's just call him a monkey.
Not only was he a monkey, he seemed not the least perturbed about turning up. He had a devil-may-care face, a veritable wardrobe of clothes, and instructions.
That's right. Instructions. They were clear enough, but slightly puzzling. For a start, although taken as a whole they suggested quite an active lifestyle, Maurice, as he was named by his obviously highly literate mother (we forgive the spelling of pyjamas as it's not the easiest of words), was remarkably inactive, as you see below.
(As an aside, I had forgotten about krypton being an inert gas till I looked it up you-know-where. What a sissy is Superman that he gets bowled over by the product of an inert gas?)
"He doesn't do much," I said as I put him in the 'stroller'.
"Apparently not," said Tracey. "You're going to look a right berk walking down the street with him if he can't even wave at our friends."
I had to agree. But being people of goodwill and with Christmas Day less than a fortnight away, we took Maurice in.
"I wonder if his name's pronounced Maureece or Morris?"
These are things Tracey is sure to know. She looked thoughtful.
"Maureece, I'm guessing. He has something of a cavalier look about him that suggests the great Maurice."
She wasn't as sure as I expected, but she loves those dastardly Frenchmen, so it figures.
In the days that followed, leading up to the celebration of the Birth of our Lord, a strange pattern began to emerge. Maurice was not as inert as he appeared to be. He was never quite in the same place when we came back to him, or when I went to walk him.
This was eerie, in a really eerie sort of way. Each time we came back to him, he was in a slightly different position, as if feigning his status as a mere child's plaything, but not quite succeeding. Was he one of Dr Who's fearsome Weeping Angels, a shape-shifter? Maybe not. We didn't die when we looked away, and I don't want to strain your credulity too much now.
By setting up cameras to detect movement when we were out, we discovered an amazing thing. Unbelievable, as I warned you at the start. Behind our backs, Maurice was leading a double life, one of activity beyond our wildest imaginings.
No wonder he appeared so knackered each time we observed he had altered his bearing. Can you imagine the sheer willpower it takes for a critter to do all this stuff and have no evidence of a skeletal structure?
|Daytime wear - exploring the wilderness|
|Evening wear - expecting Patsy and Edina|
|Pyjamas - a spot of research before sleep|
|Adventures - pullups on the benchpress|
Secret cameras expertly set up by Tracey James