She Said Cat

I'm back! says Prong.

Did Holy Spitball like the lasso? asks Terence.

Yes he liked it, says Prong. Until he tried to use it.

It was for his bear! says Terence.

I know, says Prong. But he wanted to try it out first.

So what happened? asks Sweezus.

He got into the wrong loop, says Prong.

Could he get out of it? asks Terence.

No, he's still in it, says Prong.

Ha ha! laughs Terence.

What about his bear? asks Federico.

It's still wedged in the fork of the tree, says Prong. I came down for the hairnet.

Can Prong have the hairnet? asks Terence. Where is it?

I have it, says Sartre. But it's ripped, and therefore useless.

Not necessarily, says Prong. I've come up with a plan.

Excellent, says Sartre. I'm a plan man myself. What is it?

Net the bear, says Prong. Thread the string through and pull. 

Thread the string through before you net the bear, says Federico.

Good thinking, says Prong.

Let me make a note of this plan, says Sartre. Run it by me again.

Federico runs the plan by Sartre while Sartre makes notes. 

I should have made notes all along, says Sartre. I must ask Prong about the string thing.

Ask away, says Prong. That string sure has come in useful.

Why did I suggest tying it to your leg? asks Sartre. 

Don't you remember? asks Prong.

Too many things have happened, says Sartre.

You're right, says Prong. Well, if you recall, I was to fly a new Sylvanian baby up to the Virgin's bowl. And Holy Spitball wanted some string for his bear. A parrot can only carry so much in her beak, at one time.

Aha! says Sartre. It's coming back to me now. My suggestion. 

Yes, says Prong. And us having no scissors.

So Saint Joseph had to chop it, says Terence. Lucky he didn't chop your foot off.

Sweezus looks at Arthur.

Arthur shrugs.

So what if Terence has been thinking up horrors. Is it his fault?

I'm going to fly back up now with the hairnet, says Prong. Any messages?

Who for? asks Terence.

Anyone, says Prong. Holy Spitball, his bear, the Virgin, her new Fuzzball?

Tell the new Fuzzball the old Fuzzballs can say Handbag, says Terence.

That should put the cat among the pigeons, says Prong.

Sartre wonders if she meant to be funny. 

But it wasn't that funny.

Because she said cat.

Thinking Up Horrors

What did I look like? asks Terence.

Sartre shows him the photo.

A sparkly ghost, says Terence. With  my feet.

I suppose ghosts have feet, says Sartre. Now let me get on with writing this post.

Terence looks at Sweezus.

Do ghosts have feet?

Yeah I guess they do, says Sweezus. 

He looks at Federico. He's Spanish. He'll know.

Ghosts may or may not have feet, says Federico. It depends on how their life ended.

How? asks Terence.

Think about it, says Federico. 

Terence thinks about it. 

Don't think about it, says Sweezus.

No don't, says Arthur. You'll start thinking up horrors.

Thanks, Arthur, says Sweezus.

What horrors? asks Terence.

People who died with out feet, says Arthur. For various reasons. But don't worry, it rarely happens.

Yikes! says Terence.

Sartre is only half listening.

He is writing his blog. Now where was he?

....a stroke of genius on my part.

He continues:

Our mission seemed simple, But a knotty problem had come up. A dove representing the Holy Spirit began interfering. It demanded a bear of its own. Fortunately we had a spare one. A spare one which strictly did not belong to us, but needs must. The Holy Spirit's assistance was required. It had agreed to distract the Virgin, while our parrot made the switch.

He stops typing.

He's forgotten why they'd needed the string.

Why did we need the string? asks Sartre.

For the lasso, says Terence.

Before that? asks Sartre.

To tie to Prong's leg, says Federico. It was your idea.

How's it going? asks Sweezus.

I'm a bit behind, says Sartre. And I don't quite remember how things unfolded.

Doesn't matter, says Sweezus. Just keep it funny. And keep on mentioning bikes.

Merde! says Sartre. I haven't mentioned bikes since the train.

So mention them now, says Sweezus.

In what regard? asks Sartre.

Like, yeah, when you and Arthur went off to buy the hairnet, says Sweezus.

But we walked, says Sartre.

That's where you could embellish, says Sweezus. And make it funny.

Sartre does not like to take writing advice from Sweezus, but he knows that he ought to. 

However there is still the problem of not knowing why they needed the string.

Bien sur! The parrot will know the answer.

But where is she?

Look up Sartre!

Here she comes now.

A Slow Silly Dance

Stop! says Sartre.

Terence stops unwrapping.

Why are you doing that? asks Sartre.

Because it's okay, says Terence. 

I just called the boss, says Sweezus. And he said it's okay. But Terence ought to have waited.

Sorry, says Terence. I was going to be careful.

What exactly has Vello agreed to? asks Sartre.

The photo, says Sweezus. 

Terence wearing Simone's new mantilla? says Sartre.

He imagines how this will go down with Simone.

Not very well.

Vello thought it'd be funny, says Sweezus. 

It's all right for him, mutters Sartre.

You're morally obliged to go along with it, says Federico. You got a huge discount.

What if it becomes soiled? says Sartre. Or worse, ripped?

I'll assist Terence, says Federico. I'm used to working with costumes.

Yay! says Terence. 

Stand still, says Federico. 

Don't use the comb! says Terence. 

No, says Federico. I think we can arrange the mantilla without it.

Federico lifts the mantilla from its tissue paper wrapping.

He places it on Terence's head.

How do I look? asks Terence.

Sweet, says Federico. 

Yuck! says Terence. What if I do a silly dance?

It will fall off, says Federico. 

A slow silly dance, says Terence.

No dancing, says Sartre.

How about you pretend you're a ghost, says Arthur.

Genius. 

Federico rearranges the mantilla so it falls over Terence's face.

Terence waves his arms about. Woooooo-ooo!

Everyone is looking at Sartre. 

Even Terence, through the lace.

Sartre realises that it's up to him to snap the picture.

He snaps the picture.

How absurd life can be, sometimes.

I've Got Hair

Sartre is pleased with his deal.

The expensive mantilla and comb, at one third of the price.

All he has to do is mention them in his next blog post.

With a photo. 

And the address of the shop.

He walks back to the Sagrada Familia with Arthur.

Sweezus and Federico are waiting with Terence.

Guess what? says Terence.

What? asks Arthur.

I was trying to lasso the Fuzzballs, says Terence.

And? says Arthur.

They both said Handbag, says Terence.

How is that relevant? asks Sartre.

What does that mean? asks Terence.

What use is it to them? asks Sartre.

It's talking, says Terence. And I taught them.

Can they say anything else? asks Sartre.

Not yet, says Terence. Why don't you teach them?

I'll have to pass, says Sartre. I must start a new blog post.

Shit yeah! says Sweezus. Good you remembered.

Did you find a new hairnet? asks Federico.

Better than that, says Sartre, I bought an exquisite Spanish mantilla and comb. 

Cool, says Sweezus. Simone'll love it.

One third the price, thanks to Arthur, says Sartre.

Told you he was good, says Sweezus.

All I have to do is mention the shop in my blog post, says Sartre. And publish a photo.

Maybe a problem, says Sweezus. 

How so? asks Sartre. 

Vello won't like it, says Sweezus. Ads aren't allowed in Velosophy.

I shall speak to him, says Sartre.

Go ahead, says Sweezus. No wait, I ought to do it.

Can I be in the photo? asks Terence.

Yeah, that might help, says Sweezus. If Vello thinks it's meant to be funny.

Why would it be funny? asks Terence.

Mantillas are for ladies, says Sweezus.

And the combs are for ladies with hair, says Federico.

I've got hair, says Terence.

You've got cement curls, says Arthur. We'd have to drill tiny holes in your head, to stick the comb into.

No way! cries Terence.

None of this is going to happen, says Sartre. I'll organise my own photo. But first I must write this damn post.

He sits down on a step, takes his phone out, brings up his blog app, and starts tapping:

Much has happened since my last post on the train. My colleague and I arrived at the cathedral before dawn. Two more colleagues were waiting. Correction, three more, plus a parrot. I produced the rope and the net. They were surprised that the rope was a ball of string, but this turned out to be a stroke of genius on my part.....

He stops writing.

Why is Terence unwrapping the gift-wrapped mantilla? 

Fairly Famous

Arthur and Sartre are looking for somewhere selling ladies' hair things.

Arthur spots a window displaying tortoiseshell combs and lace mantillas.

Magatzems de Pilar.

They go in.

Buenos dias, says the woman beind the counter. Que te gusta?

Que? asks Sartre.

What do you like? says the woman. I have many exquisite mantillas.

So I see, says Satre. They are delightful, but do you have a plain hairnet?

There is little call for those, nowadays, says the woman.

My wife uses a hairnet, says Sartre. And she is considered trés chic.

Why might she need a new one? asks the woman.

Because her hairnet has been ripped, says Sartre.

By a claw, says Arthur.

Involving a tug of war, says Sartre.

Violence! says the woman. Were you fighting with your wife, sir?

Certainly not, says Sartre. She is in Paris. I borrowed her hairnet for a secret mission.

And now it is ruined, says the woman. You must buy her a beautiful mantilla and comb, to atone.

Are they expensive? asks Sartre.

Quite expensive, says the woman. This one is worth two thousand euro.

She points to a white mantilla in which the lacework is intricate, edged with sparkling fringes.

And this tortoiseshell comb, seven hundred euro, she adds.

Anything cheaper? asks Sartre.

Of course, says the woman. What is your budget?

Sartre looks at Arthur, who had earlier indicated that he knows how to gets a good deal.

Arthur now remembers he said it.

Why not buy Simone the expensive one? says Arthur.

You know why, says Sartre. 

You could mention it in your next blog post, says Arthur. Add a photo. 

The BLOG! cries Sartre. I have neglected it!

What is this blog? asks the woman.

He's blogging the secret mission, says Arthur. He has hundreds of thousands of readers.

Oh, has he? says the woman. 

She looks at Sartre. Is he someone famous?

With a wife called Simone?

Come on, Sartre, says Arthur, 

What? asks Sartre. 

So, thinks the woman. That's who this Frenchman is.

Jean-Paul Sartre. Fairly famous. Even these days.

I could do you a deal, says the woman.

Grown Up Fingers

So Prong flies down with the string.

Problem? asks Sweezus.

More like a task, says Prong.

What is it? I'll do it, says Terence.

It needs grown up fingers, says Prong.

One of my fingers is grown up, says Terence.

Not enough, says Prong.

Give it to me, says Federico. What's required?

It has to go round the normal bear's waist, with the long end to form a lasso, says Prong.

Easy peasy, says Terence.

Not so, says Federico. It needs planning.

Yeah, says Sweezus. With one end left longer.

Who wouldn't know that? says Terence. 

I'll need help, says Federico. What size was that bear?

You bought it, says Sweezus.

No I didn't, says Federico. Arthur walked out with it, remember? 

But we all saw it, says Sweezus. It was about this size.

He demonstrates the normal bear's waist size with his hands.

Hold that position! says Federico. Now what part of Terence does it equate to?

Sweezus looks at Terence.

Leg, says Sweezus.

I agree, says Federico. Terence, come here with your leg.

Terence stands up and walks over.

Check the leg, says Federico.

Sweezus grasps Terence's leg.

Same? asks Federico.

Pretty much, says Sweezus. 

Right, says Federico. Give me the string.

Prong gives him the string.

He ties it round Terence's leg, leaving one end much longer.

Watch this, says Federico. It's my special lasso knot

He makes the long end into a lasso, with his special lasso knot.

Can I try it? says Terence.

What will you lasso? asks Sweezus.

One of the Fuzzballs, says Terence.

He bends, picks up the lasso end, and throws it at Wee Fuzzball.

And misses.

Handbag! cries Wee Fuzzball.

Handbag! cries New Fuzzball.

Well, who would have thought they would use their new word in that context?

That Kind Of Parent

Meanwhile Prong has flown up to see if Holy Spitball has got enough string.

Didn't expect to see you back, says Holy Spitball.

Just checking, says Prong. How's the string?

Now that you're here, says Holy Spitball, I could use some advice.

On constructing a swing? asks Prong.

Never thought of a swing, says Holy Spitball.

I imagined a swing for your bear, says Prong. And his happy existence.

Not what I imagined, says Holy Spitball.

A climbing rope, with knots? asks Prong.

How would that work? asks Holy Spitball.

You'd tie it to higher branch, says Prong. And he could climb up the rope to it.

Then what? asks Holy Spitball. Slide back down again and get rope burns?

That's what the knots would be for, says Prong. To slow him down. But also to help him climb up in the first place.

I'm not planning to be that kind of parent, says Holy Spitball.

Don't tell me you're planning to tie him up so he can't ever go anywhere, says Prong.

It's so he doesn't fall out of the cypress, says Holy Spitball. 

Has he fallen out before? asks Prong.

I haven't had him that long, says Holy Spitball. He's just wedged, at the moment.

Prong looks across at the normal bear wedged in a fork of the tree.

His little legs are sticking up. His head pokes out between them.

I wouldn't tie him in that position, says Holy Spitball. He'd be upright.

Let me think, says Prong. Why don't you give him a tail?

A string tail, says Holy Spitball. What good would that do? He isn't a monkey.

Of course not, says Prong. And he wouldn't be able to work his tail like a monkey, but what if you made it a loop?

There's an idea, says Holy Spitball. 

He could wear it round his middle, says Prong. 

And lasso the branches, says Holy Spitball. 

And swing, and climb, says Prong.

What a helpful idea, says Holy Spitball. There's only one problem.

What is it? asks Prong.

I'm a dove, you're a parrot, says Holy Spitball. We can't make loops with string.

He is right, Prong realises.

But there is always an answer.

I'll take the string down and get someone to do it, says Prong.

Not Terence, says Holy Spitball. 

No, not him, says Prong.