Why The Parcel Was Sweating

Ageless Lobster continues his story:

I heaved myself onto the train .....

Wait, says Kobo. You have not explained how you saw inside the parcel.

It was sweating, says Ageless. And grease, as you know, makes paper transparent.

Of course I know that, says Kobo. But why was it sweating?

That I did not find out until later, says Ageless.

But you must know now, says Kobo.

I do, says Ageless. But the story demands that you wait until the parcel is opened.

Which is when? asks Kobo. Your story is longer than I expected.

Open it now, says Lavender.

Can't, says Ageless. The parcel is sweating, so I can see the address through the paper. A strange meaty odour arises from inside the parcel. I shove it under my seat. A young person sits down beside me.

I don't believe it, says Kobo.

Well, she did, says Ageless. She had on those earphones.

Ha! says Kobo. She should have had nose cones.

Hee-hee, giggles Lavender.

She knows why Kobo said nose cones. Ageless's parcel was smelly.

I asked which station I should get off at, says Ageless. But she did not answer. I took up the parcel. She removed one of her earphones. I repeated my question. She answered: The next one.

I got off then, at Emu Plains. I trudged along the road with my parcel, hoping I was going in the right direction. Cars sped by me.

Was it dinner time? asks Lavender.

Hush, says Kobo. The story is just getting interesting.

Thank you, beloved, says Ageless. I feared that it wasn't.

It wasn't, says Kobo. That was a warning.

It will, my sweet.  I shall cut short my narrative. I arrived, just before dinner time, at a house half way down a steep shrubby garden, with a green pool at the bottom. I knocked. The door was opened by a woman, no longer young. I held forth the parcel.....

She took it.

For me?

Yes madam. A birthday gift from the Poet.

She unwrapped the parcel. The card dropped to the floor.

O how delightful. A haggis.

She turned. Look what someone has brought me!

A young boy came running. A lobster!

No, Fish, a beautiful haggis.

What's a haggis?

It's a savoury pudding. We shall have it for dinner.

She does not invite me inside.

Jean, I cried. Don't ye know me!

......

What are the dots for? asks Lavender.

Time passing, says Ageless. During which I convince her.

Of what? says Kobo. That you're Rabbie Burns, the Poet?

In a manner of speaking, says Ageless.

And you expect us to believe it? says Kobo.

Why not? She did, says Ageless. Bear with me.

Did you say Fish was there? asks Lavender.

Fish, yes, says Ageless.

And Butterfly? asks Lavender.

I did not say so, says Ageless. But yes, she was there.

We know them! cries Lavender. Don't we, Kobo?

We do, says Kobo.

Can I be in this story? asks Lavender.

Ageless is undecided. There is the question of credibility.

Let her, says Kobo.

All right, says Ageless. You are in this story. You are upstairs, playing with Butterfly in her bedroom.

Yay, says Lavender. Is it nearly dinner time?

Yes, says Ageless. It's almost time for the haggis.

Lavender had forgotten about the stinky old haggis. She wants to go home.