Sequential Events

All right, insert this, says Sartre. The artificial finger was broken.

Where? asks Simone.

It doesn't matter where, says Sartre. 

How about at the end of the second to last sentence? says Simone. 

I thought you were talking about the finger, says Sartre.

No, says Simone. The insertion.

As long as we understand one another, says Sartre. 

Go on, says Simone.

Once again I mounted my bicycle, (dictates Sartre), and cycled through the streets of Barcelona. My thoughts were of fingers. Then it came to me. Saints! Saints are famous for fingers. But of course, I did not want a preserved one. My young colleague would turn his nose up at a withered dead finger..

He pauses, to see how this goes down.

Very funny, says Simone.

What's funny? asks Terence.

He's saying that you wouldn't have wanted an old dead saint's finger, says Simone.

Maybe I would've, says Terence. 

Yes but it's what he was thinking, says Simone. Not what you're thinking. You don't even know.

Know what? asks Terence.

What he's thinking, says Simone.

I do, says Terence. He thinks I don't want one,

But you only just learned that, says Simone. And the readers still haven't.

Yikes! says Terence. 

It's due to the sequential nature of events, says Simone.

Have we finished? asks Sartre.

Go on, dear, says Simone.

Sartre continues:

On Carrer del Duc, I spotted a shop selling religious icons. I parked my bike and went in. There were many saints on display, all with fingers. I chose Saint Elias, whose left pointer finger pointed upwards. Easy to break off, I thought. It occurred to me that they might have a broken one in a skip out the back. I asked, but they claimed that they didn't. I could hardly argue. So once again, I was obliged to pay up. Twenty seven euros. But it came in a box.

You're making yourself sound like a cheapskate, says Simone.

But Sartre doesn't think that he is.

Not Doing Nothing

Sweezus's phone rings.

It's Vello.

Hey, boss, says Sweezus. What's up?

Nothing, says Vello, and that's why I'm calling. When may we expect Sartre's next blog post?

He's been heaps busy, says Sweezus. I'll ask him.

He's left our readers hanging, says Vello. 

Yeah? says Sweezus. What was the last thing he wrote?

But the unforeseen happened... says Vello.

It keeps on happening, says Sweezus.

But we need to know what it is, says Vello. 

Sure, no worries, says Sweezus. He's doing nothing right now.

Are you talking about me? asks Sartre. I'm not doing nothing.

He's wiping his fingers, says Simone. 

That was the boss, says Sweezus. Wants to know when you'll be posting.

I can't type with sticky fingers, says Sartre.

You could type one letter, says Terence.

No one takes any notice.

Then you'd have to stop, says Terence. Because your finger would be stuck to your phone.

Not necessarily, says Simone. The glue doesn't dry for twenty minutes.

How long has my glue been drying? asks Terence.

Ten minutes, says Simone. Are you pressing it down?

Yes, says Terence. 

I could dictate, says Sartre. 

What a sensible idea, says Simone. You dictate and I'll type.

Sartre hands Simone his phone.

Where was I? asks Sartre.

But the unforeseen happened, says Simone. That would be Terence's claw. Are you starting from there?

I planned to, says Sartre. 

Go on, says Simone.

But the unforeseen happened (dictates Sartre). The artificial finger came off. Our young colleague needed a replacement. Where might I find a replacement finger in Barcelona? 

Wait a second, says Simone. Why haven't you mentioned that the artificial finger was a claw? And the young colleague didn't want it glued back, which was the obvious solution, because he'd discovered in the meantime that the original claw owner, his blood brother, had died.

Is this about me? asks Terence.

Yes  says Sweezus.

Which one am I? asks Terence.

The young colleague, says Sweezus. 

Not the blood brother? asks Terence. 

The blood brother died, says Sweezus. 

But I'm HIS blood brother, says Terence.

Yeah, but you're still alive, says Sweezus. 

There, you see! says Sartre. I decided to leave out such complications.

I still think you should mention the reason....begins Simone.

Sartre thought this might happen, if Simone was involved.

He sighs. 

O Lee O Lor

Saint Elias loosens his grip on his sword.

Did you see that? asks Simone.

What? asks Sartre.

It moved its hand! says Simone.

Impossible! says Sartre.

Let me see, says Terence. 

He looks into the box at Saint Elias.

Which hand did he move? asks Terence.

The one holding the sword, says Simone.

Terence touches the sword.

It moves slightly.

It moves! says Terence. I can just slide it out.

Go on then, says Sweezus.

Terence slides the sword out of Saint Elias's right hand.

Yay! Now he has it.

He wields it. Whoosh! Slash!

Don't do that, says Sweezus.

It's not even sharp, says Terence. 

It still looks like a weapon. says Sweezus.

Saint Elias is regretting his hasty decision.

His sword represented the actual sharp weapon he had.

The one he slew 450 false prophets with.

O those were the days!

Now the kid plans to use it for a finger.

Should he curse it? 

No. One day he might get it back.

He lies still and listens.

Can I just carry it? asks Terence. And not have it glued on.

You'd lose it, says Sweezus. 

Boo! says Terence. That means I have to wait twenty minutes.

Twenty minutes will fly by, says Simone.

How? asks Terence.

Where's the glue? asks Simone.

Here, says Sweezus. Ready Terence? Hold out your left hand

Sweezus squeezes a blob of glue onto the sword's handle.

And a blob onto the spot where the claw of Baby B-B once was.

Is this where you want it? asks Sweezus.

Lower, says Terence. Or it's going to look stupid.

My sword could never look stupid, thinks Saint Elias.

Yeah I see what you mean, says Sweezus. Maybe we should break off the handle.

Bit late now, says Sartre.

Not if you do it, says Sweezus. Break the handle off, and give me the blade. Quick!

Sartre takes the sword from Sweezus, and breaks off the handle.

Now he realises why Sweezus was unwilliing to do it himself.

Sartre's fingers are sticky.

Sweezus squeezes a blob of glue onto the blade, and presses the blade into the spot where the claw was.

Done! says Sweezus. Keep it pressed down for twenty minutes.

Okay, says Terence. How do I make time fly by?

Make up a poem about the transition, says Sweezus.

What a good idea, says Simone.

Okay says Terence. What's a transition?

A change from claw finger to sword finger, says Simone.

What rhymes with claw? asks Terence.

Lots of things says Simone.

O lee O lor, says Terence.

I guess so, says Simone.

O le O lor, I once had  claw/ It got stuck to a hatpin/ and I had it no more, says Terence.

Nice, says Sweezus.

Terence continues:

O lee O lor, I got a new finger/ but it was too small/ so I got a sword finger/ the best one of all.

Everyone seems to like it.

Except Saint Elias.

How long now? asks Terence.

Fifteen minutes, says Sweezus. 

Huurrr.....

Blunt!

Sartre cycles back to the Sagrada Familia.

Locks up his bike, and looks for Sweezus, Simone and Terence.

Terence spots him and runs over.

Did you find me a finger? asks Terence.

I believe so, says Sartre. It's inside this box.

Yay! says Terence. Can I have it?

There is work to do first, says Sartre.

Let me carry the box, says Terence.

Here, says Sartre. Be careful.

Terence runs back to Sweezus with the box.

Open it, says Sweezus.

Terence slips off the string and starts ripping the paper.

Then he lifts up the lid.

Who's this weird guy? asks Terence.

Sweezus peers in.

Dunno, says Sweezus. He's got a small left pointer finger.

But a really big sword, says Terence.

It is true. In his right hand, Saint Elias carries a sword.

In fact it looks more like scimitar. 

And Terence loves it.

What do you think? asks Sartre.

How is Terence supposed to make use of this icon? asks Simone.

I thought he could break off the finger, says Sartre.

It's far too small, says Simone.

Sartre looks at Terence's right pointer finger.

He should have measured it before going off on his mission.

I suppose I could ask for a refund, says Sartre.

How much was it? asks Simone.

Twenty seven euros, says Sartre.

Do it, says Simone.

I want to keep it! says Terence. 

But it's kind of useless, says Sweezus. 

Saint Elias is offended. He is not kind of useless. He defends the oppressed. And offers multiple protections.

Let's break the sword off, says Terence. I'll have it for a finger!

Great idea, but not happening, says Sweezus.

Why? asks Terence.

You could do serious damage with a sword for a finger, says Sweezus.

Surely it's not very sharp, says Simone. It's only an icon.

She feels the tip of the sword.

It's not the least bit sharp, says Simone.

So I can have it! says Terence.

Saint Elias lies in his box thinking:

Blunt! The kid may as well have it.

Defender Of The Oppressed

Do you know where you're going? asks Simone.

I'll just cycle around Barcelona, says Sartre. There are bound to be shops that sell saints.

Can I come too? asks Terence.

No, says Sartre. You might fall off and break another finger.

Then I could use it for a pointer, says Terence.

You'd still be missing a finger, says Sweezus. 

But it wouldn't be as bad, says Terence.

I'm off, says Sartre. 

He heads for his bike, which is chained to a bike stand nearby.

Right next to Arthur's bike.

Sartre wonders where Arthur is. Surely he and Federico have finished their breakfasts by now.

Arthur would have been useful in a saint shop.

But too bad! How hard can it be?

He rides away from the Sagrada Familia, looking for a shop that sells religious icons.

He spots one on Carrer del Duc.

He leaves his bike outside and goes in.

There are rows of saints everywhere. Some are tiny, like dolls. Others are elongated and stern. Some point upwards.

May I help you? asks a saint shop assistant.

Perhaps, says Sartre. 

Are you seeking a particular saint? asks the saint shop assistant.

He must be pointing upwards, with his left pointer finger, says Sartre.

Saint Elias, says the saint shop assistant.

She picks up a Saint Elias.

How about him?

Saint Elias, who is he? asks Sartre.

Defender of the oppressed, says the saint shop assistant. 

Do you have any broken ones? asks Sartre.

We don't keep the broken ones, says the assistant.

Where do they go? asks Sartre. 

Into a skip out the back, says the assistant.

Is it possible for me to look through it? asks Sartre.

No, says the assistant. I'm not authorised to allow it.

What would happen if I accidentally dropped this Saint Elias? asks Sartre.

I would have to ask you to pay for it, says the assistant.

Sartre now realises that he has stuffed up his mission.

He may as well pay for the whole Saint Elias, and break the finger off later.

Perhaps Terence would like to do it. 

He pays the shop assistant for the icon. 

She places Saint Elias in a box, wraps the box in brown paper, and ties it with brown string.

May he bring many blessings upon you, says the assisant.

Thank you, says Sartre.

He does not believe Saint Elias will do any such thing.

Saint Elias, in his box, holds a similar opinion.

Sourcing A Finger

Should she go back?

She decides to.

Back so soon? says the pelican.

I forgot to ask you something, says Prong.

Ask away, says the pelican.

Terence has lost his blood brother's claw, says Prong.

Bad luck, says the pelican.

It's not actually lost, though, says Prong.

There you go, says the pelican. What's the question?

He doesn't want it back, says Prong. 

So where the problem? asks the pelican. 

I'm getting to it, says Prong.

The pelican waits for more information.

The claw was in place of his left pointer finger, says Prong.

I see, says the pelican. And now he can't point to anything.

Not with his left hand, says Prong.

Tell him to use his right hand, says the pelican.

There is wisdom in that, says Prong. But there may be another solution.

Keep using the claw, says the pelican.

No, says Prong. Source another finger.

You mean bite it off someone? asks the pelican.

Nothing as violent as that, says Prong. 

Would a cement finger do? asks the pelican.

Of course it would do! says Prong. Did you think Terence would want a real one?

A real one would be more flexible, says the pelican.

Terence has nine cement fingers, says Prong. And they seem to be flexible.

There must be something special about him, says the pelican.

There is something special about everyone, says Prong.

Nice of you to say so, says the pelican. Now let me think. Hmm.

The pelican thinks.

A left pointer finger. Where have I seen one?

I'm sure I've seen one, says the pelican. 

Was it attached to someone? asks Prong.

It was, says the pelican. A saint pointing upwards. Now who was it.....?

And where is he? asks Prong.

My suggestion is to go to a shop that sells saints and just ask, says the pelican.

What a great idea, says Prong. They might have a broken one.

That is one possibility, says the pelican.

What is he suggesting?

Prong will leave that to the others.

She thanks the pelican and flies down to where they are waiting.

Did you ask? asks Terence.

Yes, says Prong. He said we should go to a saint shop and look for a saint pointing upwards, and ask if they have a broken one.

And what if they haven't? asks Simone.

We could send Arthur, says Sweezus. If we knew where he was.

I'll go! says Sartre. I'll take my bicycle. It will look good in my blog.

Bravo, dear! To action! says Simone.  

Hard Things Like Hard Things

Sartre searches his pockets for the tin of sardines.

Finds it.

Hands it to Prong.

Who are the sardines for? asks Simone.

A pelican, says Prong.

Will you want the tin open? asks Simone.

I'm not flying with an open tin of sardines, says Prong.

No don't, says Terence. The sardines will fall out.

And in any case, the pelican might prefer the tin closed, says Prong,

And the sardines might, says Terence.

They'll be dead sardines, says Simone. 

I know that, says Terence. But dead sardines might.

There is no might about it, says Sartre. You can't prefer anything over another, once you're dead.

Wait and see, says Terence.

That's my point, says Sartre. I won't see.

He wonders how he might insert this philosophical sardine conversation into his blog, without making too much of the sardine purchase.

I'm going, says Prong.

Ask the pelican about a new finger! shouts Terence.

Prong intends to, in spite of the third angel's laughter.

She flies up with the tin.

Lands beside the pelican. 

Incoming fish! says Prong.

About time, says the pelican.

A thousand apologies, says Prong. Will sardines do?

In what condition? asks the pelican/

Tinned ones, says Prong.

Spanish? asks the pelican.

I think so, says Prong. You never really know nowadays. the tin may say product of Spain, but that may refer to the tin while the sardines are from elsewhere.

As long as they stay in the tin I suppose it won't matter, says the pelican.

So you'll swallow the tin? asks Prong.

Hard things like hard things, says the pelican.

That's what Terence thought, says Prong. And before you ask, Terence is the Virgn's old baby.

Does he eat sardines? asks the Pelican.

No, he can only have red drinks, says Prong. Anything else comes back up straight away.

Red drinks! says the pelican. Altar wine? That sort of thing?

No no, says Prong. Sports drinks . Ribena.

You don't say! says the pelican.

Here's the tin, says Prong. There are dead sardines in it. There was some debate down below as to whether they might still have opinions.

Of course they will, says the pelican. They are practically immortal.

Interesting you should think so, says Prong. Well, enjoy your forever snack! 

Thanks, says the pelican. 

Prong flies down to deliver the pelican's opinion on sardines' opinions to Sartre.

Half way, she remembers the finger.

Unhelpful Angels

Hello again, angels, says Prong.

Hello, parrot, says the first angel. We heard about the handbag.

Yes, says the second angel. We heard Little Fuzzball is happy.

Great, says Prong. But I'm not here about that.

You've brought the fish, says the third angel.

No I haven't! says Prong. I forgot all about it. 

The pelican is waiting, says the first angel.

Sartre went to buy it, says Prong.

On his bicycle? asks the second angel. We've been following his blog.

He only mentioned glue, says  the third angel. 

He left certain things out, says Prong.

But he bought fish? asks the first angel.

Oh yes, says Prong. A tin of sardines.

The angels laugh and bang their chalices together.

This gives Prong a chance to look at their fingers.

Yes, all too long.

What are you staring at? asks the first angel. Our fingers?

Just looking, says Prong. I don't suppose you have any short ones?

Short fingers? says the second angel. Does somebody need one?

Yes, says Prong. Terence. 

The angels look blank.

The Virgin's old baby, says Prong. 

Now they remember.

Has that little rascal lost a finger? asks the first angel. And now he wants ours!

The angels laugh at the very idea.

Thanks anyway, says Prong. I'll fetch that tin of sardines now.

You do that, says the first angel.

The pelican might tell you how to source a spare finger, says the second angel.

Hee-hee, laughs the third.

Who would have expected angels to be so unhelpful?

Prong flies back down.

Did you get me a finger? asks Terence.

Not exactly, says Prong. Who's got that tin of sardines for the pelican? 

They are in Sartre's pocket. But he is not listening.

He is writing his next blog post:

I cycled back to the site of the rescue, with the glue to mend the toy handbag. My colleagues were waiting. Our youngest member wished to do the mending himself. Why not? He had the smallest fingers. Unknown to me however, one of his fingers was artificial. Over the next twenty minutes his artificial finger became stuck to the handbag,. We tried nail polish remover, which one of us had. But the unforeseen happened...

Sardines! shouts Prong.

What? says Sartre.

Sardines, where are they? asks Prong.

Damn! thinks Sartre. A further complication!

The Local Fingers

Three, says Sweezus.

So he's got three years left, says Terence.

It means he died three years ago, says Sweezus. 

If not before that, says Sartre.

And I didn't know, says Terence.

I guess you know now, says Sweezus.

Your blood brother was a bristlebird? asks Simone. 

A baby bristlebird, says Terence. He was called Baby B-B.

Okay, says Sweezus. Decision time.

For what? asks Terence.

Do you want the claw glued back on, or shall we find you a proper finger? asks Sweezus.

I don't want a dead claw, says Terence. 

So, a finger, says Sweezus. But it might take some time.

Okay, says Terence. I'll tell Prong to start looking.

Prong hears her name.

She was on her way down after delivering the handbag.

What now? asks Prong.

My claw died three years ago, says Terence. 

Cripes! says Prong. How come you still had it?

I didn't know, says Terence. But now I know, and I want a proper finger.

What do you mean by a proper finger? asks Prong.

Like my other fingers, says Terence.

A cement finger, says Prong. Which finger is it?

That's a dumb question, says Terence. I haven't got it.

Show me both hands, says Prong. Then I'll figure out what the new finger should look like.

Terence holds up both hands.

Left hand pointer, says Prong. I'm on it.

She flies off to check out the local fingers.

Those angels with chalices had lots. Perhaps a bit long though.

And they may be unwilling.

Isn't Prong a treasure! says Simone. 

If she gets me a finger, says Terence.

She's a treasure for trying, says Simone.

I feel I should be part of this, says Sartre.

Then you should incorporate it into your story, says Simone. 

Sartre wonders how. He is fleeing from the glue shop with glue, to mend a toy handbag. How might this morph into a quest for a cement left pointer finger? 

But it should not be beyond him.

Meanwhile Prong is approaching the angels.

I Know Birds

Sartre values Simone's advice.

So she thinks he should cycle away from the glue shop like a criminal.

I'll just read it over again, says Sartre.

Don't overthink it, says Simone.

Sartre calls up what Sweezus has written. 

There is no mention of him being a criminal. 

That was all in his head.

All right. 

He presses publish.

It's done.

At least you're on a bicycle, says Simone. You can go where you want to from there.

I suppose so, says Sartre.

Why so glum? asks Simone.

Sartre looks at the mantilla she used for the chocolate and nail polish remover.

It now looks quite tatty.

You're such a fusspot, says Simone. I'm sure it'll wash.

What about my finger? asks Terence. Who will....?

But he is interrupted by Lucky-Hatpin-Freda.

Sorry I stayed so long inside the cathedral, says Freda. There was so much to see.

No worries, says Sweezus. Here's your hatpin.

My lucky hatpin, says Freda. 

It wasn't lucky for me, says Terence.

I suppose it wasn't, says Freda. But it's lucky you've got it unstuck from your finger.

No it isn't, says Terence. 

His claw came loose, during the separation, says Sweezus.

See, says Terence, wiggling his loose claw at Freda.

Perhaps it would be better if it came off entirely, says Freda. Then you could get a proper finger.

I have a proper finger, says Terence, My blood brother's got it. And I've got his claw.

Is your blood brother a bristlebird? asks Freda.

How do you know? asks Terence.

I know birds, says Freda.

Okay, yes, says Terence.

How long have you two been blood brothers? asks Freda.

Ages, says Terence.

Ten years I reckon, says Sweezus.

Then the bristlebird will have died, says Freda.

He was only a baby, says Terence.

They live four to six years, says Freda. Seven years maximum.

Terence is silent.

Sorry for the bad news, says Freda. Think about that new finger.

She thanks Sweezus again for returning her hatpin, and goes off to have lunch with a friend.

Sweezus looks at Terence. 

Is he upset at the news his blood brother is dead?

You okay? asks Sweezus.

What's ten take seven? asks Terence.

No Good Cold

Sweezus has finished the churros when Sartre comes back with Simone.

You been inside? asks Sweezus. How was it?

Beautiful and mysterious, says Simone. But I don't recommend it.

Don't worry, says Sweezus. I never go into cathedrals.

Or palaces? asks Terence.

Or palaces, says Sweezus.

Did you get the nail polish remover? asks Simone.

Yeah, says Sweezus. 

And chocolate, I see, says Simone.

He had churros! says Terence.

Oh did he? says Sartre. 

Yes, he has chocolate on his face, says Simone. Let me wipe it off.

Sweezus tilts his face towards Simone.

He expects her to produce a tissue from somewhere. 

But she spits on her finger, moistens his chocolate smear and wipes it off with the edge of her lacy mantilla.

Sartre looks pained. He paid good money for that mantilla.

But Sweezus looks grateful.

And you've eaten all the churros, says Sartre.

Sorry, says Sweezus. They're no good cold. 

Where's this nail polish remover? asks Simone. 

Sweezus shows her the bottle.

Did you buy cotton balls? asks Simone.

Cotton balls? asks Sweezus.

To dab it on with, says Simone.

Didn't think of it, says Sweezus. 

Never mind, says Simone. I'll use my mantilla. Come here, Terence.

Sartre is truly miffed now. 

The mantilla will be ruined!

Simone tips some nail polish remover onto a corner of her mantilla which is not stained with chocolate.

Then she dabs it over the place where Terence's claw is stuck to the hat pin.

Now what? asks Terence.

Try wiggling it, says Simone.

Using his other hand Terence tries wiggling it.

Wiggle wiggle.

The hat pin comes away from the claw. 

But the claw has also been wiggled.

My claw's LOOSE! says Terence.

Guess that was bound to happen, says Sweezus.

Now I can't do ANYTHING! says Terence.

Don't panic. We still have the glue, says Sartre. 

Will I have to wait twenty minutes? asks Terence.

Yes, says Sartre. As I had to, with the handbag. Where is it, by the way?

Prong took it, says Sweezus. 

She's giving it back to little Fuzzball, says Terence. 

So, job done, says Sartre.

Yeah, kind of, says Sweezus. But there's your blog, remember.

As if I could forget, says Sartre. Thanks to you I'm in a pickle with the bicycle element.

How hard is it to insert a bicycle into a story? asks Simone.

I need to take it out, says Sartre. 

You can't, says Sweezus.

I was last depicted riding away from the glue shop like a criminal, says Sartre. This did not happen.

Courage, mon petit, says Simone. It sounds good. I suggest you go with it.

Doing Wrong

This is great! 

Both the Fuzzballs can talk. 

Now you can tell us why you were scared of the hat pin, says Terence.

Okay, says Bowl Fuzzball.

And why I wasn't, says Toyshop Fuzzball.

No one wants to know why you wasn't, says Terence.

Weren't, says Bowl Fuzzball.

That's good, says Prong. He knows grammar too.

The grammar with the hat pin? says Terence. How come?

What are you talking about? asks Bowl Fuzzball. 

Nothing, says Terence. Go on.

I was scared because it brought back bad memories, says Terence.

What of? asks Terence.

Saint Joseph, says Bowl Fuzzball.

Did he chase you with an axe? asks Terence.

Not me, says Bowl Spitball. But I heard stories.

Who told you stories? asks Terence. 

Probably his mother, says Prong.

She never told ME stories, says Terence.

It wan't the Virgin, says Bowl Fuzzball. It was that loud-mouthed dove.

Holy Spitball! says Terence.

Yes, him, says Bowl Fuzzball.

Were the stories about Saint Joseph chasing me with an axe? asks Terence. 

Various carpentry tools, says Bowl Fuzzball.

Did Holy Spitball say what I'd done wrong? asks Terence.

Dropping things on the queue, says Bowl Fuzzball. Peeing in the chalices.

Toyshop Fuzzball looks shocked.

Prong too.

He just THOUGHT it was me, says Terence.

Anyway, says Bowl Fuzzball. Thanks for my rescue. 

That's okay ,says Terence. And don't be scared of the hat pin. It's coming off soon.

Shall I go and see if Sweezus is coming? asks Prong.

But there's no need. 

Sweezus arrives, with some nail polish remover and a bag of hot churros with chocolate sauce.

Where's Sartre? asks Sweezus. 

Inside, says Terence. 

That's his bad luck, says Sweezus. Churros are no good cold. 

He sits down and starts eating the churros.

Heard Though A Packet

Terence is all by himself, on the steps.

Except for the Fuzzballs, who have stopped playing.

Come closer, says Terence. Someone might steal you.

The Fuzzballs look puzzled.

Steal you, says Terence. Take you away.

The Fuzzballs shuffle closer, with their handbag.

Look, says Terence. 

He shows them the handbag, which has been mended.

It's for the new Fuzzball, says Terence. We fixed it. But look what's happened!

He shows them his claw with the hat pin stuck to it.

One of the Fuzzballs looks scared.

The other one doesn't.

It's a hat pin, says Terence. Say hat pin.

Ow! says the one who looked scared.

No, says Terence. HAT PIN.

The Fuzzball who doesn't look scared pulls on Terence's shorts to get his attention.

How? says the Fuzzball who doesn't look scared.

How! and Ow! are nothing like hat pin.

Terence gives up. Where is Prong?

As if Prong has known Terence is wondering, she flies down seconds later.

I was talking to Holy Spitball, says Prong. What's been happening down here? 

Simone came, says Terence. She put on the mantilla and went inside the palace with Sarty. I'm teachng the Fuzzballs to talk.

How's that going? asks Prong.

They can't even say hat pin says Terence.

Why don't you try something different? asks Prong. 

You try something different, says Terence. 

Prong looks at the Fuzzballs. 

At least one of you should be able to talk, says Prong. One of you was in the Virgin's bowl for years and must have learned something. Who was it!

 One Fuzzball puts his hand up. 

That's the one who looked scared when I showed him the hat pin, says Terence.

Now we're getting somewhere, says Prong.

She addresses the one with his hand up.

Why were you scared of a hat pin? asks Prong.

Handbag, says the Fuzzball.

They are not the same thing, says Prong.

He knows that, says the other Fuzzball.

Yikes! says Terence. He said he knows that

I heard, says Prong. Perhaps he would care to explain.

All right, says the other Fuzzball. I've been able to speak all along. I'm not the one who spent years in the Virgin's bowl. I'm the one from the toy shop, where I heard many words, and absorbed them.

I thought you were in a packet, says Terence. 

I could hear very well through the packet, says Toyshop Fuzzball.

So why have you been pretending you could only say handbag? asks Prong.

Because Bowl Fuzzball could only say handbag, says Toyshop Fuzzball. And he is my brother.

A brother wouldn't do that, says Prong.

Bowl Fuzzball decides that this has gone far enough.

Yes he would, says Bowl Fuzzball.

Inside The Utterly Glorious

Sartre and Simone join the queue. 

It starts moving faster.

They're soon inside.

The morning sunlight streams through Gaudi's stained glass windows.

The shifting colours turn the stone forest into a magical place.

Blue, green, yellow.

Orange.

A crucified Jesus floats skyward, under a jellyfish.

Is that supposed to be a jellyfish? asks Sartre.

No, dear, I think it's a parachute, says Simone.

Sartre wonders why either was thought to be necessary.

Simone looks around for the woman who lent Sartre the hat pin.

But a woman without a hat pin looks much like another.

However, Lucky-Hatpin-Freda has spottted Sartre and come over.

Hello, says Lucky-Hatpin-Freda. You came inside after all.

Yes, says Sartre. The handbag is mended.

Wonderful! says Lucky-Hatpin-Freda. And is my great grandmother's hat pin still stuck to the boy? 

Afraid so, says Sartre. We're just waiting on some nail polish remover. 

If I'd known, I'd have brought some with me, says Simone.

It's not something one thinks to pack nowadays, says Lucky-Hatpin Freda. 

No it isn't, says Simone. With all these nail salons everywhere, everyone has false ones. I'm Simone, by the way.

Freda, says Lucky-Hatpin-Freda. Isn't this place utterly glorious?

Oh yes, says Simone. But I bet my dear husband is having sour thoughts about it.

Not at all, says Sartre. But I do have some questions. 

What questions? asks Lucky-Hatpin-Freda.

To begin with, says Sartre, just imagine you're God.

How am I supposed to do that? asks Lucky-Hatpin-Freda.

You aren't, says Simone. But my husband seems able to do it.

Then let me try, says Lucky-Hatpin-Freda. Hmmm. Very nice! What a lot of trouble these Spanish humans have gone to, all for me. I shall reward them by sending sunshine through the windows. 

And what is your opinion of the jellyfish? asks Sartre. 

What jellyfish? asks Lucky-Hatpin-Freda.

There you go, says Simone. It seems God does not think it's a jellyfish. How about a parachute?

A parachute! So that's what it is! says Lucky-Hatpin-Freda. 

The Fate That Awaits

Has the glue stuck the clasp to Sartre's fingers?

No, he has been very careful.

But suddenly, he is unable to see.

Hands cover his eyes from behind. 

A familiar voice says: Surprise!

Beaver! says Sartre. 

It's not a beaver, says Terence. 

He calls me Beaver, says Simone.

You don't look like a beaver, says Terence.

My name is de Beauvoir, says Simone. It's a little joke we have between us.

But why have you come here? asks Sartre.

To see how you're doing, says Simone. I've been reading your blog. It's very funny.

It's not supposed to be funny, says Sartre. It's meant to be philosophical about bikes.

It's failing on that count, says Simone.

Did you see the photo of me? asks Terence. I was being a ghost.

I did, says Simone. You were wearing my mantilla.

I didn't rip it, says Terence.

I would have been cross if you had,  says Simone. It's supposed to replace my ripped hairnet.

I must apologise for that, dear, says Sartre.

Never mind, mon petit, says Simone. I prefer the mantilla. Where is it?

Somewhere around, says Sartre. First let me put down this handbag.

Oh yes, the famous handbag, says Simone. Is that it? It's so small!

It's the Fuzzball's, says Terence, taking the handbag from Sartre.

What's that stuck to your finger? asks Simone.

A HAT PIN! says Terence. It's coming off soon.

Let me help, says Simone.

No need, says Sartre. Sweezus has gone to get something to dissolve the glue.

Nail polish remover would do it, says Simone.

I suppose you have some? says Sartre.

Well no, says Simone. I didn't expect I would need it. 

She looks at the hat pin.

Whose hat pin is it? she wonders.

Has Sartre been flirting again?

Sartre knows what she is thinking.

The hat pin belongs to a very old lady, says Sartre.

A great grandma, says Terence. Of another lady.

Oh, a younger lady, says Simone Where is this younger lady?

Inside, says Terence. 

I'm going  inside myself, says Simone. I've bought two tickets. May I have my mantilla? 

Sartre feels in his pockets. 

Here it is.

Thank you, says Simone, arranging it over her hair.

Coming in with me? asks Simone. 

I can't leave Terence, says Sartre.

He's been left before, says Simone. I read your blog, remember?

I'll wait here, says Terence. Sweezus is coming. 

Very well, says Sartre. Don't lose the handbag.

I won't, says Terence. 

Sartre goes off with Simone.

To join the queue for the fate that awaits him.

Inside.

Time Doesn't Go Backwards

Five minutes to go.

What will you write? asks Terence. 

First I'll re-read what Sweezus wrote, says Sartre.

And then what? asks Terence.

Change it if necessary, says Sartre.

He would write good things, says Terence.

Good things they may be, says Sartre, but untruthful.

What's untruthful? asks Terence.

Fanciful, says Sartre. For example I didn't go to buy glue on my bike.

You could easily change it, says Terence. 

But I'm required to provide bicycle content, says Sartre.

Say you didn't go to buy glue on your bike, says Terence.

But why would I bother to say that? asks Sartre.

Because, says Terence, you have to. What else was too fancy?

That I bought the most expensive glue, says Sartre.

Change it to gluiest, says Terence.

I bought the gluiest glue?  says Sartre. 

That's true, says Terence. Look at me, stuck to a hat pin.

Three minutes to go.

Sartre tries to remember what else Sweezus wrote.

The assistant asked too many questions. And he, Sartre, gave him too many answers. Resulting in the assistant concluding they had rescued a child. And he, Sartre, to escape further scrutiny, rode away fast on his bicycle. The one he didn't go to buy glue on! 

It's true, there will need to be changes.

One minute to go.

One minute to go, says Sartre.

Shall I count it? asks Terence.

One? says Sartre.

I can easily do it, says Terence.

Anyone could do it, says Sartre. Try counting down the seconds.

One.... two....three, says Terence.

Not like that, says Sartre. Start from sixty and count backwards. No, wait, not sixty, some seconds have already elapsed. Start from forty.

Forty, says Terence. Forty one.

Backwards, says Sartre.

That's impossible, says Terence. Time doesn't go backwards.

It isn't going backwards as such, says Sartre.

I know that, says Terence. Forty two.

In fact, there are now twenty seconds remaining.

Sartre counts them down in his head by himself.

...three...two...one. Yes. The drying time is finally over.

He tries to let go of the clasp. 

Terence is watching.

But Sartre is having a bit of a problem.

Zero Sum Luck

The two ladies enter the Sagrada Familia together. 

Ah! says the ladies.

Because it looks very high.

And coloured light in blue tones streams though the stained glass windows.

It's like some sort of stone forest, says the first lady.

So it is, says the second. Shall we wander through it together?

All right, says the first lady. My name is Freda, by the way.

What a coincidence! says the second lady. That's my name as well.

I was just thinking about your lucky hat pin, says Freda.

So was I, says Lucky-Hatpin-Freda.

And the nature of luck, says Freda.

What were your thoughts? asks Lucky-Hatpin-Freda.

Only that luck is sometimes zero-sum, says Freda.

I think I see what you mean, says Lucky-Hatpin-Freda. I lose it, which is bad luck, then someone returns it, which is good, but I'm no better off.

Yes, says Freda. But look on the bright side. You meet some nice people.

Yes, that young man, says Lucky-Hatpin-Freda. He was nice. 

And that dear little boy, says Freda. 

I wonder if the young man is the little boy's father, says Lucky-Hatpin-Freda.

I doubt it, says Freda. The little boy looked like he belonged here.

Now you mention it, so he did, says Lucky-Hatpin-Freda.

Like one of the outside statues come to life, says Freda.

What a thought! says Lucky-Hatpin-Freda.

The two Fredas make their way round the basilica.

The light, and the stone carvings. Divine! 

Well worth the 26 euros. 

Meanwhile, outside, Sartre is watching the clock. 

He has been holding the handbag clasp togther for fifteen minutes. Five minutes to go.

Terence is sitting beside him, still stuck to the hat pin.

Sweezus has gone off to find something to dissolve the glue with. 

This is boring, says Terence.

A intelligent person should never get bored, says Sartre.

Are you bored? asks Terence.

No, says Sartre. I'm thinking.

What about? asks Terence.

What I'll do in five minutes, says Sartre.

What? asks Terence.

Continue my blog, says Sartre. There's a great deal to tell.  

Will you tell how you had to wait twenty minutes for the glue to dry? aks Terence.

That's the sort of thing I'll leave out, says Sartre.

I wouldn't, says Terence.

There's the difference between us, says Sartre.

I'm not a cheater, says Terence.

The Nature Of Luck

Yikes! I'm stuck to the hat pin! says Terence.

The glue can't be dry yet, says Sweezus.

No it can't, says Sartre. It takes twenty minutes.

Get it off me! says Terence.

Take it easy, says Sweezus. And keep still.

He takes hold of the decorative end of the hat pin. 

Terence closes his eyes.

Is it moving? asks Terence.

A bit, says Sweezus. But so is your claw.

No way! says Terence.

He opens his eyes. Yes, his claw is moving, along with the hat pin.

Stop! cries Terence. I can't lose that claw.

Why has he got a claw anyway? asks Sartre.

It's his blood brother's, says Sweezus. 

Shall I try? asks Sartre.

No, keep holding the clasp of the handbag, says Sweezus. I'll keep trying.

Stop trying! says Terence. I'm keeping the claw and the hat pin.

No you're not, says Sweezus. Imagine life with a hatpin attached to your claw..

I could bend it, says Terence.

Not going to happen, says Sweezus. The lady'll come back for it soon.

And then what? asks Sartre.

We'll explain, says Sweezus. I'll go and explain now, before she goes into the cathedral.

You do that, says Sartre.

Sweezus goes across to the queue.

The lady is near to the entrance.

She is talking to the lady who minded her place.

And would you believe, I forgot it, says the lady.

Your great grandmother's hat pin! says the other lady. Didn't you say it was lucky?

That's why I'm not overly worried, says the lady. I've lost it before, but someone always returns it.

That would be me, says Sweezus, arriving at that momenr.

There you see! says the lady. Thank you, young man. But where is it?

That's why I came over, says Sweezus. We've still got it.

Glue tube opening gummed up again? asks the lady.

No, the hat pin's stuck to Terence's ....errr...finger, says Sweezus. I tried to get it off before the glue dried but no go.

You need something to dissolve it, says the lady.

Yeah, we'll get something, says Sweezus. How long are you going to be in there?

An hour at least, says the lady.

No worries, says Sweezus. Meet us on the steps, when you come out.

I will, says the lady.

She enters the cathedral. behind the other lady.

Both of them contemplating the nature of luck.

And how it pertains to a hat pin.

He Can't Put It Down

Do you have anything for wiping the glue off ? asks the lady.

Only my tee shirt, says Sweezus.

He wipes his fingers down the front of his tee shirt.

What about the glue on my great grandmother's hat pin? asks the lady.

We can probably use it, says Sweezus. 

Quick, before it dries, says the lady. Where is it going?

Here, says Sartre. He is still holding the broken clasp open.

What a tiny handbag! says the lady. It reminds me of something.

Put a dab on each side, says Sweezus. 

I was going to do that job, says Terence.

That was before we got a hat pin. says Sweezus.

I'm sure the little boy could manage a hat pin, says the lady.

Yes! says Terence.

She gives him the hat pin. 

There are two blobs of glue near the end.

Steady, says Sartre. We don't want glue going down the sides of the handbag.

Ternce pokes a blob of glue onto one edge of the broken clasp. 

Then the second blob onto the other edge.

Sartre clamps the two edges together.

Well done! says the lady.

Yes, well done, says Sartre. How long do I have to hold this thing together?

Dunno, says Sweezus. Let's see the instructions.

He picks up the glue tube. Reads the instructions.

Twenty minutes, says Sweezus.

Dear me, says the lady. Poor you.

She smiles sympathetically at Sartre.

Would you like to take over? asks Sartre.

Me? says the lady.

No, I meant him, says Sartre. 

Can't, says Sweezus. Sticky fingers. 

I'll do it! says Terence.

What a helpful child, says the lady. His toy bear is very lucky.

It's not my toy bear, says Terence. It's Holy Spitball's.

And who is Holy Spitball? asks the lady.

We can't tell you, says Terence. 

Why is that? asks the lady.

Because he's a spy, says Terence.

I see, says the lady. Well I'd better get back to my queue. It's started moving.

She heads back to her place in the queue.

Phew! says Terence. She nearly found out EVERYTHING!

Hardly, says Sweezus. Are you taking over or what?

Here, says Sartre, holding out the handbag

Terence is about to take it, when he realises...

He's still holding the hat pin.

And worse, he can't put it down.

Glue Bloobles

Sartre sees the hairline crack where the clasp has been broken.

He forces it open.

Done! says Sartre.

Awesome, says Sweezus. Hold it while I squeeze in the glue.

Sartre holds the tiny handbag's clasp open.

Glue! says Sweezus. Where is it, Terence?

I'm still getting the lid off, says Terence.

He twiddles the lid. It comes off. 

Shall I squeeze it now? asks Terence.

Okay, says Sweezus. Just gently. There and there.

He indicates the two places the glue has to go.

Terence squeezes.

No glue comes out.

You probably have to pierce the top with a pin, says Sartre.

Yeah but who's got a pin? asks Sweezus. 

I'll get one, says Terence. I'll ask a lady.

He runs off the towards the people queueing to enter the Sagrada Familia.

And up to a lady.

Excuse me, says Terence. Do you have a pin?

No, says the lady. Gone are the days when most ladies had pins.

Oh, says Terence. What about something else pointy?

What is it for? asks the lady.

To open our glue, says Terence. 

Are you trying to mend something? asks the lady.

A handbag, says Terence.

Is it yours? asks the lady.

It's little Fuzzball's says Terence. I mean, it belongs to a bear.

A toy handbag! says the lady. 

Another lady is standing behind her and has been listening.

I couldn't help overhearing, says the second lady. How would this do?

She hands Terence an old fashioned hat pin.

A hat pin! says the first lady. I've not seen one for years!

It was my great grandmother's, says the second lady. I always carry it with me. It's lucky.

Yay! says Terence. Can it get glue on it?

If you wipe it off after, says the second lady.

Perhaps you should go with him, says the first lady. If it's important to you.

Will you mind my place for me? asks the second lady.

Certainly, says the first lady.

Terence and the second lady go over to where Sartre is still holding the broken clasp open, and Sweezus is holding the inaccessible glue.

We've got grandma's lucky hat pin! cries Terence.

Great grandma's, says the second lady. 

Wicked, says Sweezus. Poke it in here.

Can I do it? asks Terence.

I'll do it, says the second lady.

She plunges her great grandmother's hatpin into the top of the special plastic glue tube.

Blooobbb.... 

Glue bloobles up, out, and down Sweezus's fingers