29 Nov

“When you’re an egg,” mused Humpety Dumpety to himself, “when you’re an egg it’s best if you keep clear of walls.”
It was a wet day, the wind blew coldly through his huge boxer shorts and whistled round his dumpety genitals, and he needed a short-cut. He was still a mile from home, for goodness’ sake, and fit as he was a mile was a long way for him to roll.
Humpety Dumpety might have been an egg, but wasn’t. After all, he was quite capable of musing odd thoughts to himself, and musing is one thing never associated with eggs. No, Humpety was a very round and very fat and very awkward little man. He had legs that were far too short for his rotundity, and they tended to buckle under him if he walked too far, and too far was the short distance he occasionally opted to go when he visited his local hostelry, “The Boiled and Scrambled”.
But this time he’d gone a great deal further afield and he was, as I suggested, a good mile from home and rolling along. In summer it would have been rolling merrily, but it was winter so he was rolling miserably.
And it was at a point a mile away from home when he came upon the wall that had been the object of his earlier musing.
That wall was in the way. It blocked his access to a wonderful short-cut. Without the existence of that wall he would have little more than a hundred yards to roll, but with its presence he had a good mile, and knew it.
The trouble with Humpety was he had been educated very well and knew of the cruel misadventures of a near-namesake, an ovoid who had entered the realm of fairy stories as a consequence of falling off a wall. The story he had been taught had involved the attempted rescue by a great number of King’s men mounted on an equal number of King’s horses, and he had always shivered when he remembered the bit about their inability to put the shattered remains of his near-namesake back together again.
But this very wall, the one he stood shivering and dripping before would reduce his journey home so considerably he seriously considered climbing onto it and dropping off the other side – into foliage and within easy reach, as a consequence, of his little cottage in the country.
So he tried to haul himself up.
“Can I help?” chirruped a voice.
He looked, and it was a child, a tousle-headed boy with a cheeky face and a handful of marbles. In all the best stories boys have hands filled with marbles – or at least they did an age ago when I was a boy.
“If I get over this wall I’ll be almost home,” muttered Humpety Dumpety. “And this rain is getting into all of my clothes and wetting me through and through.”
“I’ll give you a leg up!” chirruped the boy, and he held his hands clenched together at the level of his own knees and invited Humpety to place one foot in them.
It did help. With the assistance of one small boy Humpety found he could grasp the edge of the wall and heave himself up. And within moments there he was, sitting astride a tall wall and looking every bit as foolish as he felt.
“Thanks,” he said to the boy, and tossed him a coin as a reward for his stalwart effort.
“Ta, mate!” chortled the boy, and he ran off because he, like Humpety, was getting wet in the rain and beginning to feel uncomfortable, what with rain forming rivulets and pouring down his neck on the inside of his clothing.
So Humpety Dumpety was sitting on a wall.
And it was then that he had a big fall.
It was the fault of one of the boy’s marbles that he’d accidentally dropped, all rolling and slipping under poor old Humpety, but it wouldn’t have been so bad had he fallen on the other side of the wall where there were soft and gentle shrubs and things that would break the most vicious fall, but he didn’t. He fell splat back to where he had started from, and the fall hurt him.
“If I was that near-namesake of mine I’d have been smashed to smithereens,” he thought as he rubbed himself down.
“I say, that was some fall!” said a pretty voice, and he opened his eyes almost painfully wide when he saw who had spoken. It was a Princess and she was sparklingly, wonderfully, erotically beautiful. And even though she was standing next to him in the rain, not a drop of water landed on her, not even the remotest splash, because right next to her and very proper was a regiment of King’s men, all mounted on horses and all holding wind-proof umbrellas so that they formed an impenetrable roof over her head.
“I’m sorry, miss…” he mumbled, and she trilled with happy laughter and offered him her hand.
“I really ought to help you, my fine fat young fellow,” she giggled. “And I will! I tell you what! I’ll get my men to take you to your little home and I’ll follow on behind, and when you get there you can invite me in and we’ll have tea and buns and a jolly good chat, if you like, and you can tell all of your friends how you spent an hour with a princess after she rescued you in the rain!”
And that’s what happened. The King’s men did take Humpety to his little cottage (though they kept the umbrellas to themselves, so he still got wetter than wet) and the princess did go with them, and he did put the kettle on and he did make a pot of tea.
And after tea and buns he did take the princess to his little boudoir under the thatched eves of his cottage, and they did make endless, romantic and very physical love together until they fell to sleep, exhausted…
And the tale was told throughout the land how a little round man seduced a beautiful princess and why she wept real royal tears the day he was hanged for his cheek…
© Peter Rogerson 29.11.15



  1. squidmcfinnigan November 29, 2015 at 2:42 pm #

    Poor old HD, but what a way to go, out in a blaze of glory :O)

    • Peter Rogerson November 29, 2015 at 5:01 pm #

      It’s the kind of nonsense I like writing, Squid.

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