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. 

G Right B Wrong

Now what? asks Terence.

We wait here for Arthur and Sartre to come back, says Sweezus.

And do what? asks Terence.

Try teaching the Fuzzballs another lesson, says Federico. 

Yes! says Terence. Why don't I teach them to talk!

This is a task Terence knows he'll be good at. 

He sits down to think up some words.

I'll fly back up and see if Holy Spitball has enough string, says Prong.

Okay, says Sweezus. 

That leaves you and me, says Federico.

Lucky we've got Terence to entertain us, says Sweezus.

Was this his idea? asks Federico.

To rescue the Fuzzball? says Sweezus. Yeah it was. Prong spotted it before the Tour left from Barcelona.

I gather Terence was the original baby, says Federico.

Yep, says Sweezus. 

Terence has thought of a word. 

Handbag, says Terence.

Wee Fuzzball knows that this word means a handbag. But not how to say it.

Grr, says Wee Fuzzball.

New Fuzzball is motivated to outdo Wee Fuzzball

How good would it be if he could say Handbag and Wee Fuzzball couldn't. 

He would deserve to keep his handbag and not share it.

You try, says Terence.

Grragrag, says New Fuzzball.

Nearly, says Terence. Try again .

Grragrab, says New Fuzzball.

Did that sound better? asks Terence.

Worse, says Federico. He got the final consonant right the first time and wrong the second.

What was it? asks Terence.

G was right, says Federico. B was wrong.

Hear that? asks Terence.

New Fuzzball may have heard it, but it was unhelpful. What's G? And what's B?

He might not know what B and G are, says Sweezus. Make him sound it, letter by letter.

You do it, says Terence.

Huh, says Sweezus.

I said YOU do it, says Terence, 

I was doing it, says Sweezus. Huh is the first sound of handbag.

Huh, says Wee Fuzzball.

New Fuzzball glares at Wee Fuzzball. 

That was his lesson.

Huh-huh-huh, says New Fuzzball.

Huh-ah,  says Federico.

Hah, says Wee Fuzzball.

Hah! says New Fuzzball.

Great. At last they are getting somewhere.

Without Proper Eyeballs

I knew it! groans Sartre. Simone will be mad!

It wasn't my fault, says Terence.

No one said it was, says Sweezus. 

The Fuzzballs stare at the ripped hairnet.

Grr-rah! Grr-rah!

Who wants it now?

New Fuzzball grips the handbag even tighter.

Okay, it went wrong, says Terence. But did you learn my lesson?

New Fuzzball did learn a lesson.

Which was: Hold onto your stuff.

And Wee Fuzzball did not learn a lesson.

I learned a lesson, says Sartre. 

Don't lend your wife's hairnet, says Federico. 

She'll have other hairnets, says Sweezus.

True, says Sartre. She may not miss this one.

Yeah, says Sweezus. And you can buy her a new one in Barcelona.

A beautiful Spanish hairnet, says Federico. With a comb and mantilla.

Sartre is less distraught, now he has this plan of action.

I'll go with you, says Arthur, who has become somewhat bored.

Where? asks Sartre.

Wherever you buy stuff like that, says Arthur. I can usually get a good deal.

Yeah he can, says Sweezus. 

Like with the normal bear from the toyshop? says Federico.

Not always like that, says Arthur. 

I can't leave yet, says Sartre. I'm still holding Prong's string.

But he is lucky.

Moments later the string drops from the heights of the Sagrada Familia and lands at his feet.

Saint Joseph must have cut it, says Terence. 

At least something went right, says Sartre.

He and Arthur head off to look for a shop selling ladies' hair things.

Prong flies down.

How'd that go? asks Sweezus.

Great, says Prong. I dropped the handbag into the bowl, before the Virgin came back. She didn't even notice she had a different baby. Or that it had a new handbag.

She is not an observant mother, says Federico. 

She hasn't got proper eyeballs, says Prong.

Shit, says Sweezus. That must be hard.

Did you give Holy Spitball his string? asks Terence.

Yes, says Prong. I asked Saint Joseph to chop it.

Does he have proper eyeballs? asks Sweezus.

No, says Prong, But I stood well back from of the chopping place, and hoped for the best.

Brave you, says Terence.

Prong feels proud of the way she completed her mission.

A Fragile Example

Wee Fuzzball glares at the new Sylvanian baby, fresh out of his packet.

He wants the handbag, says Terence.

But it's the other one's handbag, says Federico.

They can share it, says Terence.

Wee Fuzzball reaches out a fuzzy paw, for the handbag.

New Fuzzball clutches it tightly.

He won't share, says Terence.

Try talking  him into it, says Sweezus.

Okay, says Terence.

He addresses New Fuzzball.

Do you know what sharing is? asks Terence.

New Fuzzball doesn't know.

I'll show you, says Terence. I'll share something.

Have you got anything? asks Sweezus.

No, says Terence. 

Sartre has a hairnet, says Sweezus.

So I do, says Sartre.

Can I borrow it? asks Terence.

I'm afraid you might snag it, says Sartre. 

It's just an example, says Terence.

Very well then, says Sartre. Take care.

He hands Terence the hairnet, that belongs to Simone.

Terence shows the hairnet to New Fuzzball.

Pretend you like this, says Terence. 

Grr, says New Fuzzball.

He likes it, says Terence.

Or he's good at pretending, says Sweezus.

Yes, says Terence. It's nearly the same.

New Fuzzball waits for the rest of the example.

This is my hairnet, says Terence. And we both like it. Here, you have a turn.

He hands New Fuzzball the hairnet.

Does that baby have claws? asks Sartre.

No, says Terence. Only I do. And I'm being careful.

He shows Sartre his claw.

New Fuzzball takes the hairnet from Terence.

Now what? Should he put in in his handbag? 

Wee Fuzzball has been watching this happen.

Why should New Fuzzball get a hairnet, when he's already got a handbag?

He makes a grab for the hairnet.

But hairnets are fragile.

It rips.

The Sorrows Of Fuzzball

I think Fuzzball looks sad, says Federico.

Terence look sternly at Fuzzball.

You just got rescued, says Terence. You shouldn't be sad.

Grrr-rah! growls wee Fuzzball.

That might mean he's confused, says Prong.

Why? asks Terence.

Maybe he liked it up there, says Sweezus. 

You'll like it better down here, says Terence.

Grrr-rah, growls wee Fuzzball.

I need to go back to Holy Spitball with the string and the new baby's handbag, says Prong.

Does he want it? asks Terence.

Baby bear wants his handbag, says Prong. Holy Spitball needs string.

The whole ball? asks Sartre. Or just enough for whatever he's planning?

It'll have to be the whole ball, says Prong. Unless we can cut it.

Maybe he can cut it, says Arthur. 

Or Saint Joseph? says Sweezus. He must have tools.

He's got an axe, says Terence.

Plan of action, says Sartre. Prong flies up with the string still attached to her leg. She asks Holy Spitball what length he wants, then asks Saint Joseph to chop it.

Prong's leg? asks Terence.

The string, says Sartre.

Phew! says Terence.

Phew! says Prong. What about the handbag?

In my pocket, says Federico.  And there's also this other one.

He takes out the tiny handbag, and the second Sylvanian baby, who has his own handbag.

Two for the price of one, remember? 

Grr, says wee Fuzzball.

Looks like he wants it, says Prong.

Which? asks Terence.

Wee Fuzzball points at the handbag.

Too bad. That's been promised, says Prong. Give it to me, then I'm off.

Federico gives Prong the handbag.

She flies up, with the handbag in her beak, and her leg still attached to the string.

Grrr-rah! growls wee Fuzzball.

Federico opens the packet containing the other Sylvanian baby.

The baby tightly clutches its handbag.

Having heard enough to know what comes next.