Cordial Greetings

We are in a state of chaos.

Apple, bless her, realised that all was not well at The House of Stories. We are still shocked and horrified at the state of the House of Commons, following the General Election. Apple thought she'd fortify us by bringing over a large bottle of her best cordial and, not wishing to trouble us, she left it at the bottom of the garden. (Apple's cordial is not alcoholic, I must make that clear. Any alcohol that comes near it wraps itself up in its own fumes and runs for the nearest distillery.) It may have been uncorked by an inquisitive sparrow, but it's more likely that it just blew its own stopper into orbit. Anyway, the garden creatures found it before I did.

I first knew something was wrong when I saw the scorched patch on the grass. All the dandelions are dead. Little stone Oliver was horizontal but his dog, Dodger, had the sense to leave the stuff alone and was cowering behind the shed barking a warning. Much had rolled off his snail and was face down in a cowslip. Mildred the Tooth Fairy, innocently on her way home from a local call, had stopped for a chat and some light refreshment. Poor Mildred. No fairy likes hanging upside down in a hedge while caught by her petticoat, and she has no idea how she got there. I think she'll be OK after a hot bath and an Ovaltine.

A cat and sparrow dispute had broken out. I supposed the cat would come down from the apple tree as soon as the sparrow stopped marching round what was left of the lawn chirping 'come and have a go if you think you're hard enough'. The magnolia was muttering something about a headache and crawling to the willow tree in the hope of extracting aspirin. Before anything else could happen, I poured the rest of the stuff down the drains.

Along came Apple. "That poor old cat don't look well," she said. "I know just the thing for 'im."

Haven't seen the cat since.