Eating Things on Sticks Read Free Page A

I asked.
    â€˜Right now, I’m smelling the apple,’ she explained. ‘And after that I put it to my lips.’
    â€˜And will you eat it?’
    â€˜This is a Being-in-Harmony-with-the-Universe session,’ Morning Glory said disdainfully. ‘It’s not a feast.’
    She finished shortly after that, and unfolded upwards just the way our ironing board used to unfold before I burned it to a crisp. ‘OK, I’m ready to go.’
    Uncle Tristram jumped to his feet. ‘Better make tracks. What time do they close?’
    â€˜Nine thirty,’ Morning Glory said.
    Uncle Tristram looked horrified. ‘Nine thirty?’
    â€˜They’re not a real pub,’ Morning Glory said reprovingly. ‘More a small family place where you can get light suppers.’
    â€˜But it’s already ten! You should have said . If you had told us when we first arrived, we could have eaten by now.’
    â€˜The thing is,’ Morning Glory said, ‘that it’s important, when you’re in the presence of the apple, to let go of trivia like time.’
    â€˜What are we going to eat , though? I’m starving. And Harry here threw up his last meal. He’ll be hungry, too.’
    â€˜I’ve got some nettle pudding,’ Morning Glory said.
    â€˜What about the apple?’ suggested Uncle Tristram.
    Morning Glory looked shocked. ‘We can't eat that! Not after I've been at peace in its presence!’
    So we had nettle pudding. I can’t say it was very nice, or that I’d ever want to eat it again. But it did settle my stomach. By then I was so tired that I went off to bed. Later, I woke to hear Uncle Tristram tiptoeing past my door and muttering to himself. It wasn’t very clear to me what he was saying. But I did think that I distinctly heard the words ‘could eat a weasel’ and ‘ kill for some chips’.

Sunday

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NOTHING TILL SATURDAY
    Next morning, when Uncle Tristram came downstairs yawning his head off, I asked him, ‘Why were you wandering about in the night?’
    â€˜Impossible to sleep,’ he said. ‘I can’t describe the length and misery of the hours. I had a terrible time.’
    â€˜The nettle pudding, was it?’
    â€˜No. The mice.’
    â€˜You never had mice for afters!’
    He stared at me. ‘Of course I didn’t have mice for afters. They simply swarmed about my bedroom.’
    â€˜Mice don’t swarm.’
    â€˜These did. They swarmed all night . I had to wrap myself in some old Chinese dressing gown of Morning Glory’s, and huddle on the top of the chest of drawers.’

    I looked around. The cold, bleak house. Uppity mice. Lumpy brown furniture. Pig and owl knick-knacks. ‘Why did she choose this place to come on holiday?’
    â€˜We are the ones on holiday,’ said Uncle Tristram. ‘Morning Glory lives here.’
    I was quite shocked. ‘This is her home ?’
    â€˜Yes.’
    â€˜But it is awful!’ I burst out. ‘There’s nothing here. She hasn’t got a telly or a DVD player. She hasn’t even got a radio or a computer.’
    â€˜I suppose she likes the simple life.’
    The door swung open. ‘Hello!’ said Morning Glory. She wore a sort of floaty kaftan thing and a frilly mob cap. Clasping her hands together, she made a sort of bow to each of us in turn. ‘May the bright spirits of the day in me salute the bright spirits in you.’
    â€˜I don’t think Uncle Tristram has bright spirits in him this morning,’ I explained. ‘He was attacked by mice.’
    â€˜Herded into a corner,’ Uncle Tristram confirmed. ‘Terrorized all night.’
    â€˜Silly!’ chortled Morning Glory. ‘If we are friends to them then mice are friends to us.’
    I thought, since he’d been kind enough to bring me with him, I should stick up for my uncle. ‘My mother says that mice are vermin, and