The Clever Baby

What did you say? asks the Virgin.

She stops threading the string though the hairnet.

Oh, nothing, says Prong.

It sounded like handbag, says the Virgin.

Did it? says Prong.

Odd you should say it, says the Virgin. Because I recently found one.

What did you do with it? asks Prong.

Put it aside, says the Virgin. Would you believe it was in the baby's bowl?

Little Fuzzball looks sad.

Some babies like handbags, says Prong.

But where had it come from? asks the Virgin. Who knows what might have been inside?

Didn't you look? asks Holy Spitball.

No I didn't, says the Virgin.

Where is it? asks Holy Spitball. My bear might like it.

Your bear is welcome to it, says the Virgin.

She reaches behind her.

Here it is, says the Virgin. You should probably open it first.

Will you open it? asks Holy Spitball. 

The Virgin fiddles with the plastic clasp at the top of the handbag.

Click! The handbag pops open.

Lttle Fuzzball is watching.

Inside is his stuff! 

A tiny pencil, a tiny notebook and a tiny drink bottle. 

Little Fuzzball wriggles and squeaks with excitement.

Maybe you should let your baby keep it, says Prong.

Oh...I don't know, says the Virgin.

It would be educational, says Prong. Your baby might learn to say handbag, like other babies.

Other babies say handbag? says the Virgin.

I know at least two who do, says Prong.

Little Fuzzball is listening. 

Litle Fuzzball can guess who the two who do are.

Well, if they can say handbag, so can he.

Bag-bag, says Little Fuzzball.

He's already trying, says Prong.

Handbag, says the Virgin. Say it properly or don't say it.

Handbag, says Little Fuzzball.

Well done, says the Virgin. Now say pencil.

Could you just finish threading the string through the hairnet? asks Holy Spitball. Then we'll be off, and leave you to your lessons.

The Virgin threads quickly.

Done, says the Virgin. And sorry, we'll be keeping the handbag, so your bear can't have it. 

Never mind, says Holy Spitball. Once he's rescued from the fork in the tree, he can pursue other activities.

Watch him, says the Virgin.

Good bye, Virgin, says Prong. You have a very clever baby.

Thank you, says the Virgin.

Pencil! says the clever baby 

A Bear How Funny

Prong flies up with the hairnet.

She lands on a branch, near Holy Spitball.

How's it going? asks Prong.

Nearly out, says Holy Spitball. What's that there?

 A hairnet, says Prong, I'm going to use it to free your wedged bear.

How? asks Holy Spitball.

First I'll need some of your string, says Prong. 

This lasso? says Holy Spitball. Then help me get out of it.

Okay, says Prong. 

She hangs the hairnet on a cement leaf, and sets about helping.

A tweak here, a tug there. And Holy Spitball is free.

I know what I did wrong now, says Holy Spitball.

That's good, says Prong. Now help me thread string thought this hairnet.

Are you joking? asks Holy Spitball. 

We both have beaks, says Prong. 

If it was up to me I'd ask the Virgin to do it, says Holy Spitball.

Do you think she'd agree? asks Prong.

Why not? says Holy Spitball. She's always saying she'd like a hobby.

Does she know about your bear? asks Prong.

Not yet, says Holy Spitball. This would be a good time to tell her.

Then let's go, says Prong. You bring the lasso. I'll bring the hairnet.

They fly down to the Virgin, who is absent-mindedly patting New Fuzzball.

Hello, dear, says Holy Spitball. How's the baby?

Good as gold, says the Virgin.

I have something to tell you, says Holy Spitball. I too have a baby.

How can that be? asks the Virgin.

It's a bear actually, says Holy Spitball. Nothing like your little bundle.

A bear, says the Virgin. How funny.

Not that funny, says Holy Spitball. It's got itself stuck in my tree.

Surely a bear can find its way out of a tree, says the Virgin.

It's wedged tightly, says Holy Spitball. But my friend Prong has planned a rescue by means of a hairnet and string.

Clever Prong, says the Virgin. 

Thanks, says Prong. We were wondering if you'd help thread the string though the hairnet.

I'd be happy to, says the Virgin. If my fingers weren't stiff.

Oh, come on, says Holy Spitball.

He drops the lasso in her lap.

What a well-made lasso, says the Virgin. Perhaps you don't need the hairnet.

It would be safer, says Prong.

You're quite right, says the Virgin. Give me the hairnet.

Prong gives her the hairnet.

And sneaks a look into the bowl where New Fuzzball is sleeping. 

Or pretending to be sleeping.

Handbag! whispers Prong.

Handbag?

New Fuzzball's eyes have popped open.

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.