Not A Noticing Person

So Bowl was replaced by another, says the Spanish policeman.

Yes, says Prong.

Another toy bear, pursues the policeman.

Yes, says Prong. 

Where was he before he was replaced? asks the policeman.

In the bowl of the Virgin, says Prong.

I hope you're not pulling my leg, says the policeman.

No way, says Prong. 

Whose idea was this replacement? asks the policeman.

Terence's, says Prong. 

And why .... the policeman stops, because it is obvious.

HE was the original infant! says the policeman.

That was a long time ago, says Prong. 

How long? asks the policeman.

I don't know exactly, says Prong. But Bowl was his replacement for years.

And Terence decided it had been long enough, says the policeman.

Yes, says Prong. So we planned to rescue Bowl, but we couldn't leave the Virgin's bowl empty.

So you brought a replacement, says the policeman.

Yes, says Prong. 

Didn't you think she would notice? asks the policeman.

No, says Prong. She isn't a noticing person.

I'm sure she is, says the policeman.

Terence says that she isn't, says Prong. 

Perhaps she only notices certain things, says the policeman.

Perhaps, agrees Prong. 

Well, I've learned all I need to know now, says the policeman. You're free to go. 

Thank you, officer, says Prong.

Tell your friends not to leave Barcelona, says the policeman. 

Ever? says Prong.

 For a day or two, says the policeman. I need to do some more checking.

Okay, says Prong.

She leaves the police station and flies back to the café.

She heads for the corner table.

To find that the others have gone.

Bowl Is The One

The Spanish policeman takes Prong to the comisaria de policia nearby.

He leads her into a room, with a chair and a table.

Wait here, says the policeman.

He goes out and comes back again, with a notebook.

Prong is perched on the table.

Now, says the policeman, first question, what is your name?

Prong, answers Prong.

And what is your country of origin? asks the policeman. 

Australia, says Prong.

And why do your friends claim you don't need a passport?

Maybe they lost it, says Prong.

So you do have one, says the policeman.

I did have one, says Prong. But it may not work now.

Out of date? asks the policeman.

No curly whiskers, says Prong.

Meaning? asks the policeman.

My passport photo has curly whiskers, says Prong.

Parrots don't have curly whiskers, says the policeman.

I know, says Prong. Terence lost mine

They were detachable? asks the policeman.

Yes, says Prong.

All right, says the policeman. That need not be a problem. You can get a new passport. Next question: What is the mission you spoke of?

I shouldn't have spoken of it, says Prong.

But you did, says the policeman. And now I'm following it up.

Okay, says Prong. But it's a long story.

A short version will do, says the policeman.

And it's a secret, says Prong. 

Is it to do with the Sagrada Familia? asks the policeman.

It might be, says Prong.

Because that's where you first came to our attention, says the policeman.

Okay, says Prong. I was the one who did the replacement.

Now we're getting somewhere, says the policeman. What replacement?

A bear with a bear, says Prong.

The Fuzzballs? asks the policeman.

One of them, says Prong. The other one was part of a two-for-one purchase.

Wait a minute, says the policeman.

He starts writing in his police notebook:

Bear for bear. Two-for-one purchase. Why two?

Prong sees what he is writing.

Toyshop has nothing to do with it, says Prong. Bowl is the one.

These are code names for the Fuzzballs? asks the policeman.

Yes, says Prong.

The policeman writes down the two code names. 

Followed by: Bowl is the one

He is in a position to crack the case now.

He can sense it.

A Grilled Parrot

Very nice, says the Spanish policeman, having finished the pie.

Would you care for another? asks Simone.

No, gracias, I'll be going, says the policeman. 

You're a good policeman, says Terence.

The policeman heads for the door.

How come you think that? asks Sweezus.

He ate the pie, says Terence. 

Yes, says Simone. And he said it was delicious.

He said it was nice, says Sartre.

Who else would like one? asks Simone.

Federico takes one.

He takes a tentative bite.

Not bad, says Federico.

The Spanish policeman returns to the corner table.

Now what? says Sartre.

The parrot, says the policeman. Where is it?

Prong is perched on a low stool, out of sight.

She didn't do anything, says Terence.

I need to know where she came from, says the policeman.

Outside, says Terence.

Before that, says the policeman.

Before that, says Arthur, she came here on the train from Paris.

So she's a French parrot? says the policeman.

Why does this matter? asks Sartre.

I have reason to believe she's an Australian parrot, says the policeman.

Prong decides to make an appearance.

I am an Australian parrot, says Prong.

Do you have a parrot passport? asks the policeman.

She doesn't need one, says Arthur. 

Oh yes she does, says the policeman. If she hasn't got one, she must come with me.

Don't worry, says Prong. I'll go with him.

You can't, says Terence. I need you.

Not now, says Prong. I've completed the mission.

Mission! says the policeman. What was it?

Nothing, says Prong.

Yikes! says Terence. We're busted! 

Don't say anything else! says Sweezus.

I wasn't, says Terence. 

But it may be too late.

The policeman intends to grill Prong.

My Authoritative Finger

Water? says Simone.

The Spanish policeman picks up the glass.

You're welcome to a goat's cheese and spinach pie, says Simone.

Not for me, says the policeman. Water is fine.

He drinks some.

Ahh, that better. Now where was I?

You were trying to determine whether the sword was obtained by consent, says Sartre.

And why should that matter? asks Simone.

Saint Elias claims he gave it up while in a state of delirium, says Sartre.

Like when he killed people, says Terence.

And whirled up into heaven, says Arthur. 

I see, says Simone. But hasn't the policeman been shown a receipt for the purchase?

He has, says Sartre.

Simone looks at the policeman.

And the saint would have been holding his sword at the time?

I assume so, says the policeman.

Therefore the icon including the sword is the legal property of my husband, says Simone. And he may do what he likes with it. Including what he did do.

He didn't do it, says Terence. I did.

Oho! says the policeman.

With my full consent, says Sartre. We realised that the saint's finger was much too small to replace the dead claw.

You had considered removing the finger? says the policaman.

But we did not remove it, says Sartre.

Saint Elias remembers it now. 

How it was when he thought he would lose his left pointing finger.

The finger is more important to him than the sword.

The finger makes him look like an authoritative figure. A knower of things. Such as where heaven is.

Upwards. 

After all, he has been there.

And is there still, in spirit form, ready to be asked things.

Such as: Please let my plane avoid turbulence, terrorists and high flying gulls.

I wish to announce I have no issue, says Saint Elias.

What did he say? asks the policeman.

What did you say? asks Bowl.

I have no issue with the loss of my sword, says Saint Elias. I don't need it nowadays. I am happy to have retained my authoritative finger.

I hope you heard what he said, says Bowl. Because it was too long for me to repeat it.

I heard what he said, says the policeman. Well then, case closed.

Bravo! says Simone. NOW perhaps you'll have a goat's cheese and spinach pie, before they all disappear.

They are not disappearing, says Sartre. Why didn't you order more meat ones?

I though you'd had enough meat ones, says Simone.

Prawn ones, then, says Sartre.

Simone thrusts the plate at the policeman.

The policeman accepts a small pie.

Whirling Heavenwards

I need him to answer more questions, says the Spanish policeman.

He needs to ask you more questions, says Bowl.

I heard him, says Saint Elias.

He heard you, says Bowl.

Ask him, says Terence.

Which him? asks the policeman.

Come on, man, says Sartre. Ask your question. 

Yes, says Federico. We're all listening.

It's true. Even Arthur, Sweezus and Toyshop are listening.

Very well, says the policeman. First question. What do you mean by delirium?

Runny poo, says Terence.

I'm not asking you, says the policeman.

And you're wrong anyway, says Sweezus. 

Sorry, says Terence.

He was asking me, says Saint Elias. 

Yes, says Bowl. What's your answer?

By delirium I mean a fit of holy madness, says Saint Elias.

He means holy madness, says Bowl.

A fit of, says Terence,

I heard that, says the policeman. Ask him if he's had them before.

Have you had them before? asks Bowl.

Not for some time, says Saint Elias. The delirium would descend upon me moments before I slew a false prophet. 

Hmmm, says the policeman. Any other times?

Any other times? asks Bowl.

Yes, says Saint Elias. When whirling heavenwards on my chariot of fire.

Fairly natural, says Sweezus.

Why is this even relevant? asks Sartre. Surely all you need to determine is that a state of delirium is compatible with giving his sword up willingly.

Simone cames back with a plate of mini goat's cheese and spinach pies, and a large glass of water.

The Spanish policeman is glad of the interruption.

Moment Of Delirium

Does it speak? asks the Spanish policeman.

I don't think so, says Sartre.

He does speak! says Bowl.

Perhaps he speaks only to toys, says the policeman.

Why not try him? suggests Simone.

The Spanish policeman does not wish to be seen interviewing an icon. 

So he turns his attention to Bowl.

You claim he speaks, says the policeman.

Yes! squeaks Bowl.

Don't be nervous, says Toyshop. 

I'm not nervous, says Bowl. 

You sound nervous, says Toyshop. 

Dont worry, says Terence. It's just Victor.

It isn't, says the policeman. Please allow me to do my job without interference.

Is it all right if I go and order more tapas? asks Simone.

Certainly, senora,  says the policeman.

Can I order you anything? asks Simone.

Perhaps a water, says the policeman.

He turns back to Bowl.

Would you mind asking Saint Elias if he gave up his sword willingly?

No, says Bowl.

No? says the policeman.

I wouldn't mind, says Bowl.

Ask him, says Terence.

Bowl is not too far away from where Saint Elias is lying.

Excuse me, says Bowl.

Yes? says Saint Elias. 

The policemen wants to know if you gave your sword willingly to Terence.

I could say no, says Saint Elias.

He could say no, says Bowl.

Is that his answer? asks the policeman.

No it isn't, says Terence.

No interference from you! says the policeman.

But, says Saint Elias.

But, says Bowl.

But I did loosen my grip on it, says Saint Elias.

Deliberately or inadvertently? Think before you answer, says the policeman.

In a moment of delirium, says Saint Elias.

This opens a new can of worms, says the policeman.

False People

 How did you come by that finger? asks the Spanish policeman.

Glue, says Terence.

That is not what I meant, says the policeman. Where did it come from?

Saint Liar, says Terence. It was his sword.

He means Saint Elias, says Sweezus.

This one, says Sartre, indicating Saint Elias who lies on the table, near the last garlic prawn.

Would you like the last prawn? asks Terence.

Gracias, but no, I'm on duty , says the policeman.

Nice of Terence to offer, says Simone.

It was, agrees the policeman. Unless he was trying to divert my attention.

Was I? asks Terence.

I didn't say you were, says the policeman. But it's something policemen have to consider.

Can I try and make a hole in the drink bottle with my sword finger? asks Terence.

NO! cry the Fuzzballs.

No, says Victor. I have finished that line of enquiry. I'm more interested in this sword finger.

It's a good finger, says Terence. Before, I had a claw, but it died.

Gangrene? asks the policeman.

No, brown, says Terence. It was my blood brother's. HE died.

I see, says the policeman. 

Should he be making notes? It's a complex story.

So Sarty went to get me a new finger, says Terence. And he got me Saint Liar.

I BOUGHT him, says Sartre. 

I know, says the policeman. You are no longer under suspicion.

But it was too small, says Terence. So I got the sword instead.

Where was the sword exactly ? asks the policeman.

Saint Liar was holding it, says Terence. He used it for killing false people.

False prophets, says Sweezus. Not false people.

As if there might be false people, laughs Simone. 

Aliens, says Arthur. They might be false people. Who wants that last prawn?

I think you'll agree no crime has been committed, says Sartre. And no misdemeanour.

Unless it's a crime to deface a holy icon, says Federico.

To be honest, I'm not sure of the legal niceties, says the policeman.

He wanted me to have it, says Terence. Ask him.

Saint Elias is pleased that Terence has included him in this matter.

After all, it was once his sword.

And, although at the time he released it willingly....

... now he is feeling unbalanced.

So what will he say?.

Toy Water

The Spanish policeman goes back inside.

It can't hurt to do what's expected.

Hello Victor, says Terence, who has noticed him first.

I am not Victor, says the Spanish policeman.

That's what you say, says Terence.

I do say, says the policeman. 

I thought you came back to tell us you were Victor, says Terence.

Why would I do that? asks the policeman.

So you wouldn't be lying, says Terence.

Enough of this, says the policeman. I've come back because further information has come to light. Where is the saint box?

Here, says Sweezus. 

Open it, says the policeman. And then open the handbag.

Okay, says Sweezus. 

He opens the box and takes out the tiny handbag.

He opens the handbag.

The policeman looks in.

He lifts out the tiny drink bottle, and hands it to Sweezus.

Take the top off, says the policeman.

Sweezus tries to take the top off.

But it is a tiny toy drink bottle and the top won't screw off.

It's only a toy one, says Sweezus.

Give it to me, says the policeman. 

He tries to twist the top, but it soon becomes obvious that the top is just part of  the bottle.

And will never screw off.

Can you explain why a toy handbag is inside a saint box? asks the policeman.

I can, says Terence.

Go on, says the policeman.

Because the Fuzzballs were in it, says Terence. And it's their handbag.

Fuzzballs? asks the policeman.

Terence points at the Fuzzballs who are half hidden behind a large plate of broccoli and cheese tapas which no one has eaten.

The policeman reaches over to pick up the two Fuzzballs.

Which one of these bears owns the handbag? asks the policeman.

He is surprised when they answer.

Me, says Toyshop.

Yes, him, says Bowl.

Why do you own a drink bottle that can never have anything in it? asks the policeman.

It does have something in it, says Toyshop. But the something can never come out.

It's probably toy water, says Terence.

Toy water could come out, says the policeman.

How? asks Terence.

Make a hole in it with something sharp, says the policeman.

Like my sword finger, says Terence. 

That's not sharp, says Sweezus. 

But too late!

The policeman turns his attention to Terence's finger.

What Would She Put In It?

The Spanish policeman has gone back outside.

A few people are still filming the bicycle.

Move along there, says the policeman.

Did you find the stolen box? asks someone.

Was it you who reported it stolen? asks the policeman. 

No, but I was here when it happened, says the person.

It wasn't stolen, says the policeman. They had a receipt.

What about the Messenger? asks another person.

No one is expected to keep a receipt for a parrot, says the policeman.

Maybe what was INSIDE the box was stolen, suggests another person.

Yes, did you look inside? asks the person who asked about the parrot.

Of course, says the policeman. The icon was no longer inside, just a tiny handbag.

I thought it was a saint box! says someone. Which saint has a tiny handbag?

The questioners all look at one another. Then at the policeman.

The policeman realises this could be an anomaly.

Was it a female saint? asks someone. Maybe Saint Teresa of Calcutta?

SHE wouldn't have a handbag! scoffs someone.

Why not? asks another.

What would she put in it? asks the scoffer.

Money, says the person who believes Saint Teresa might have had a handbag.

Yes, money she raised for the poor, says someone else.

Even if the real Saint Teresa had a handbag full of money, her statue wouldn't have had one, insists the scoffer.

Calm down, everyone, says the policeman. The saint I glimpsed momentarily was male.

Ahh! says almost everyone. 

They know a male saint would not carry a handbag.

Unless he had found it, and was looking for the owner.

It had a pointing finger, says the policeman.

This cuts out some male saints, but not all.

You should go back inside and see if they have a receipt for the handbag, says the scoffer.

Did you look inside it? asks another.

I did, says the policeman. The contents were not valuable.

What were they? asks someone.

A note book, a pencil and a drink bottle, all  of them tiny, says the policeman.

What was in the drink bottle? asks the same person.

I did not pursue that line of investigation, says the policeman. 

So will you now? asks the scoffer.

The policeman knows that he should. 

But these people are being extremely annoying.

He is in two minds, regarding further pursuance.

Thinking Wrong

Federico has returned with Prong, and the box.

Prong hops down from his shoulder, to land beside Terence.

Did the thieves come? asks Terence.

Not thieves, says Prong. But lots of people taking photos.

Of you? asks Terence.

Yes, of me, says Prong. It was embarrassing.

They thought she was a Messenger, says Federico. 

On a bike, says Terence.

I don't think they thought it was my bike, says Prong.

Did anyone open the box? asks Bowl.

No, says Prong. I was guarding it, so they couldn't.

See if the handbag's still in it, says Federico.

Simone takes the lid off the box.

Yes the handbag is in it.

Cool, says Sweezus. Who's for more tapas?

Me, says Arthur. Get more of those garlic prawn ones.

Sweezus goes up to the counter to order....

When in comes a policeman.

He stops right beside Sweezus, and asks loudly (in Spanish):

Has vista un loro?

Si, says the barman. El loro esta ahi.

He points to Sweezus's table, in the corner.

Sweezus sees where the barman is pointing.

Guys, what's a loro? asks Sweezus.

A parrot, say the policeman and the barman together.

Sorry about that, says Sweezus. We had to bring it inside because a crowd was gathering.

There has been a report that someone has stolen a box from under the parrot, says the policeman.

It's our box, says Sweezus.

I must inspect it, says the policeman. 

No worries, says Sweezus. I'm just ordering more tapas.

You do that, says the policeman. I'll investigate the box.

The policeman walks across to the the corner table.

Policia, says the policeman, showing his badge.

You look like Victor, says Terence.

Who is Victor? asks the policeman.

An Australian policeman, says Arthur. He looks like you.

We police tend to look similar, says the policeman. Not the female policia of course, although they too look similar, to each other, except for their hairstyles.

Your English is good, says Federico. 

Thank you, says the policeman. Now I need to see this box that you have.

Here, says Sartre. It's my box.

And is anything in it? asks the policeman. 

See for youself, says Sartre. Only a tiny handbag,

Please show me the contents of the handbag, says the policeman.

Sartre takes out the handbag, opens it and shows the policeman the tiny notebook, tiny drink bottle and tiny pencil.

The policeman examines the outside of the box.

This is a box for a saint, says the policeman.

And here is the saint that was in it, says Sartre, picking up and waving Saint Elias.

Do you have receipts for these items? asks the policeman.

YES! snaps Sartre.

Twenty seven euros. See!

Gracias, senor, says the policeman. Eso es todo.

He turns to go. and bumps into Sweezus who is carrying a large plate of garlic prawn tapas.

Victor! says Sweezus. I thought I knew you!

You thought wrong, says the policeman. 

The Determined Thief

Sartre tries the duck tapas.

Then the salmon.

Then the Iberian ham.

Do try the broccoli flan, dear, says Simone. 

No room, says Sartre.

Where's Prong? asks Terence.

Outside minding the box, says Sartre.

How will she mind it? asks Federico.

I think she's sitting on it, says Sartre.

She won't stop a determined thief, says Federico.

Why would a determined thief want an empty box? asks Sartre.

How would they know it was empty? asks Arthur.

It isn't empty, says Terence.

How do you know? asks Simone.

Because Toyshop hasn't got his handbag, says Terence.

Toyshop looks alarmed.

A determined thief is stealing his handbag!

I'll go and check, says Federico. And I'll bring the box in.

He goes out of the tapas bar, and looks for a parrot, box and bicycle.

An easy-to-spot combination.

Hola! A small crowd has gathered around Prong.

They are all taking photos.

Prong' russet pink forethroat looks pinker than usual.

What is happening? asks Federico.

It's the Messenger! says someone. It flew down from a window in the Sagrada Familia, and now it's out here.

You are mistaken, says Federico. It's my friend's parrot.

We have photos! says someone.

Federico looks at one of the photos.

The colours are different, says Federico. Yours is blue green.

That's because of the light streaming in though the windows, says the one with the photo.

What about mine? asks another.

Let's see it, says Federico.

He looks at their photo. 

Too orange, says Federico.

Prong looks grateful.

My friend wants their parrot, says Federico. I've come out to get it.

How do we know you're not stealing it? asks someone.

She will come willingly, says Federico, which will prove that she knows me.

Prong hops onto Federico's shoulder, and kisses his ear.

Federico gets that fluttery feeling you get when kissed by a bird.

Bring the box, whispers Prong.

Federico picks up the box, and returns to the tapas bar with Prong on his shoulder.

See that box? says someone. That's the sort they keep saints in.

It is somewhat suspicious. 

Someone suggests calling the police.

Good In General

It's not far to the café.

Prong leads the way.

Sartre cycles, with the box under his arm. 

Saint Elias, Toyshop and Bowl, in his trouser pocket, bounce up and down.

Saint Elias feels he is getting a headache. and is glad when they stop.

Satre locks his bike up outside, and enters the café.

It's a tapas bar and the counter is piled high with tapas.

He looks for the others.

Mon petit! shouts Simone. Here we are!

He goes over to a cramped corner table.

Arthur and Federico are drinking black coffees.

 Sweezus is eating gambas al ajillo with his fingers.

Try a shrimp, says Sweezus. 

Or one of these broccoli flans, with manchego cheese, says Simone.

Wait a moment, says Sartre. I need to empty my pocket before I sit down.

He extracts Bowl and Toyshop, and places them next to Terence.

Finally Saint Elias.

You had him in your pocket upside down! says Simone.

I didn't think it would matter, says Sartre.  

It seems disrepectful, says Simone. 

I brought his box, says Sartre, but I left it outside.

Why? asks Simone.

I didn't want to look like a delivery person, says Sartre.

With a saint box! laughs Simone.

Three garlic shrimps left, says Sweezus. D'you want one? 

Sartre takes one, and eats it. Delicious.

What else would you like? asks Simone.

What else is good? asks Sartre.

Ask Arthur and Federico, says Simone. By now they've tried everything.

Sartre looks at Arthur.

What? asks Arthur.

What's good? asks Sartre.

To eat or in general? asks Arthur.

To eat, says Sartre. 

The duck one and the salmon one, and the chorizo, says Arthur.

And the jamón ibérico ones, says Federico. 

And this broccoli cheese flan, says Simone.

I'll try one of everything, says Sartre.

Simone goes up to the counter to order.

Finished the blog post? asks Sweezus.

No, says Sartre. I was held up by a question on bear diseases.

Yeah? says Sweezus. How come?

The bears asked me, says Sartre.

Are they sick? asks Terence.

Ask them, says Sartre.

Are you guys sick? asks Terence.

No, says Bowl. We wanted to be patron saints of bears, but now we think bears don't deserve it.

Why don't they? aks Terence.

Because they eat infected rodents, says Toyshop.

Shit, says Sweezus. How come there are any bears left then?

They don't all eat infected rodents, says Federico. Some of them eat honey.

That's what I thought, says Sartre.

Maybe you're both thinking of Winnie the Pooh, says Arthur.

Maybe they are.

Simone comes back with a plate.

Then We Are Not Happy

Sartre can't remember where the others had said they were going.

A café nearby. Which café?

Where is Prong when you need her?

He'll have to cycle up and down the local streets, looking.

And what to do with the box?

He doesn't have a back pannier.

He will have to ride with the box tucked under his arm.

He hopes it isn't illegal.

And perhaps he should make sure the box contents are secure before starting.

He takes the lid off, to check.

Saint Elias lies wedged at the bottom. Feet at one end. At the other, his pointing finger.

He won't be moving.

But the bears are so small and one is quite precious. 

Which one of you is the one that we rescued? asks Sartre.

It was me, answers Bowl.

I'm going to look for a café, says Sartre. And I'll have to bring you. 

Thank you, says Bowl. Will we be joining the others?

Yes, says Sartre. If I can locate the café. I don't suppose you heard a mention of which one it was?

No, says Bowl. We were talking about bear diseases.

Don't remind me, says Sartre. Are you happy to remain in the box? I'll be cycling.

Do you have a back pannier with a clip? asks Bowl.

No, says Sartre. Your box would have to go under my arm.

Then we are not happy, says Bowl.

I was only thinking of you, says Sartre. Not the others.

We stick together, says Bowl. 

Saint Elias is touched upon hearing this answer from Bowl.

In his turbulent life, he had not stuck together with anyone, and look where it got him.

I could put you all in one of my my pockets, says Sartre. You would go up and down.

That sounds like fun! says Toyshop.

Why would we go up and down? asks Bowl.

Saint Elias is glad Bowl has asked, because he doesn't know either.

You would be in one of my my trouser pockets, says Sartre. And my legs will go up and down.

Who wants to? asks Bowl. 

Me! says Toyshop.

Saint Elias, being longer, is not sure. What if he falls out of the pocket?

But Sartre is already lifting him out of the box.

Stuffing him into his trouser pocket, head first.

Followed by Toyshop and Bowl.

He is just mounting his bicycle, when Prong appears.

Everyone's waiting for you, says Prong.

Lead the way, says Sartre.

What about the box? asks Prong. You can't leave it behind.

The bears and the saint are in my trouser pocket, says Sartre.

Why not in the box? asks Prong.

To avoid them being jumbled, says Sartre.

Fair enough, agrees Prong. But you still ought to bring it.

Sartre knows Prong is right. To leave it behind would be littering.

And they might need it later,

I would carry it, says Prong, but it's too big for me to carry it safely.

I'll do it, says Sartre. 

If nothing else, the story will look good in his blog.

Hunger Is a Test

Sartre goes back to his blog post. Where was he up to? 

Ah, yes.

He had been making a joke, but wasn't sure how best to put it.

The saint's pointing finger turned out to be pointless. 

Or:

The purchase of a saint with a pointing finger turned out to be pointless.

The latter version more accurate, but too wordy.

Jokes! Not worth the effort.

He deletes both versions and continues.

The sooner he finishes, the sooner he can join the others at the café.

Or...

He could join them now. 

The question of bear diseases has broken his concentration.

Carrion. Infected rodents. And small mammals.

He had thought bears ate honey.

Bowl had thought the same.

He has told Saint Elias and Toyshop what Sartre said about bear diseases.

They get roundworms from eating digusting things, says Bowl.

Serves them right, says Saint Elias.

But they might not know any better, says Toyshop.

YOU seem to know that eating those things is disgusting, says Saint Elias.

We have never been hungry, says Toyshop.

Never, says Bowl. Have you ever been hungry?

Me? asks Saint Elias. When I was in the desert I was always hungry.

So hungry you would have eaten ANYTHING? asks Bowl?

Hunger is a test! says Saint Elias.

What of? asks Bowl.

A test of faith, says Saint Elias.

In what? asks Toyshop. 

That something will turn up, says Saint Elias.

And did it? asks Bowl.

Yes, offerings, says Saint Elias. 

To you? asks Bowl.

Not exactly to me, says Saint Elias. But once I had slain the false prophets, there were pickings.

Bowl and Toyshop are impressed. 

Perhaps bears need to learn this.

But teaching bears about killing false prophets is probably beyond them.

Sartre comes over, and picks up the box.

He places the lid on.

Where are we going? asks Bowl.

But Sartre has not heard the question.

Not Knowing v Knowing

Prong deposits Bowl in Saint Elias's box.

You're back! says Toyshop. What was it like?

Big, says Bowl. 

That's a terrible description, says Toyshop.

How was the lighting? asks Saint Elias.

Bowl hadn't particularly noticed the lighting.

Bur if he closes his eyes ...

He has retained an impression.

Blue on one side and orange on the other, says Bowl. And light brown in the middle.

Light brown in the middle? says Saint Elias.

It sounds nice, says Toyshop. Light brown is the colour of bears.

Not all bears, says Saint Elias. They can be black, white or dark brown.

What diseases do they get? asks Toyshop.

I told you, I don't know, says Saint Elias.

I wasn't asking you, says Toyshop.

Me? says Bowl. How should I know?

I thought you might have heard prayers for miracle cures when you lived in the Virgin's bowl, says Toyshop.

Not for bears, says Bowl. Why are you asking?

We could be patron saints of bears, says Toyshop. If we knew their diseases.

It can't be that easy, says Bowl.

I suppose not, says Toyshop.

Don't give up boys, says Saint Elias. Why don't you think up a plan?

Bowl has an idea straight away. 

He stands up in the box. 

But he's too low to see over the side.

He climbs up on Saint Elias's pointing finger.

He peers over the edge of the box.

Where is Terence? Where is Sweezus? Where is Prong? Where is Simone?

The only person he can see is Sartre, busy typing away on his phone.

Hey! shouts Bowl. Where is everyone?

Sartre looks up from his typing.

They went to a café, says Sartre. Is there a problem?

What diseases do bears get? asks Bowl.

Sartre did not expect to be asked such a question.

Are you feeling unwell? asks Sartre. 

No, says Bowl. It's a general question.

Sartre wonders if the answer to this general question could find a place in his blog.

He thinks not.

But now he'll be plagued by not knowing the answer.

And the answer won't be hard to find. 

What diseases do bears get? he types.

Oops! Not here. 

He deletes the question.

Goes out. Asks the search engine:

What diseases do bears get?

He expects to learn they get bear influenza, or piles.

But no! Their most common disease is roundworms.

From eating infected rodents, small mammals and carrion.

Hmm.

Bowl may not like this.

He tells him anyway.

Invisible Strings

Bowl is now inside the basilica.

Amazed at how large it appears.

It seemed smaller when he lived on the outside.

He stands under the parachuting Jesus, wondering.

A parachute?

Signifying a downward trajectory?

Can that be right?

He hears a couple of humans debating.

One thinks it's a jellyfish.

The other questions why Jesus would be crucified under a jellyfish.

Bowl wonders that too.

Perhaps thinks Bowl, it is neither a parachute nor a jellyfish, but a floating canopy lifting him skyward on invisible strings.

He turns, to go and look elsewhere, at other things.

One of the humans almost trips over him, because he is small.

Oh look! says the human. Someone's lost their toy bear.

She picks him up.

A Sylvanian bear! I used to collect these!

What will you do with it? asks her partner.

Take it to Lost Property, I suppose, says the collector. I can't just leave it here.

Bowl is in danger of ending up in Lost Property.

But Prong has been watching.

She intervenes now.

She flies down from the ledge of a stained glass window, and lands on a pew.

She squawks to attract the collector's attention.

A parrot! says the collector.

A messenger! says Prong.

When a parrot flies down inside the basilica, and claims to be a messenger, a crowd quickly gathers.

What is the message? asks someone.

The message is for the lady who picked up the toy bear, says Prong.

That's me, says the collector. I wasn't intending to keep it.

We know! says Prong. It is our fault for losing it.

Here, says the collector, holding Bowl out to Prong.

Blessings upon you! says Prong.

Bowl is impressed by Prong's performance. Calling herself we, and giving blessings.

Prong takes hold of Bowl by his tiny tee shirt, and flies with him to the exit.

What just happened? asks the collector. Did anyone film it?

Of course.

Quite a few people did.

Prayers That Float In And Out

So how does it work? asks Toyshop?

You have to become a saint first, says Saint Elias.

How? asks Toyshop.

I believe it's harder these days, says Saint Elias. In my day I simply went about slaying false prophets.

What can a bear do? asks Toyshop.

You could try doing miracle cures, says Saint Elias.

Okay, says Toyshop. Of other bears, or what?

Other bears I suppose, says Saint Elias.

And how do you do miracle cures? asks Toyshop.

That is your problem, says Saint Elias. I don't do them myself.

What do you do? asks Toyshop.

Droughts and famine, says Saint Elias. Protecting against them.

Sounds easier than miracle cures, says Toyshop.

That is debatable, says Saint Elias. What diseases do bears get?

I don't know, says Toyshop. 

Mange, probably, says Saint Elias. Teeth falling out.

Toyshop is unconvinced. There must be worse things.

I'll ask Bowl, says Toyshop. He'll probably know.

Why do you think that? asks Saint Elias.

He was in the Virgin's bowl as a replacement, says Toyshop. He was in it for years.

You don't say! says Saint Elias. 

Yes, he must have learned about all kinds of diseases, says Toyshop.

No doubt, says Saint Elias. Many prayers must have floated into and out of his head.

That's a nice way of putting it, says Toyshop.

In fact, your friend Bowl is a far better candidate for sainthood than you are, says Saint Elias.

Oh, says Toyshop.

Don't despair, says Saint Elias. See how things go. Bowl may end up in Lost Property.

Yes, he may. 

And Toyshop half hopes that he will.

Am I Depicted?

Saint Elias looks sideways at Toyshop.

Toyshop looks directly at him.

Hrumph! says Saint Elias, again.

I know why you're hrumphing, says Toyshop.

You do, do you? says Saint Elias. 

They took your sword, says Toyshop. 

I shouldn't have let it go, says Saint Elias.

Same with my handbag, says Toyshop.

What is a handbag? asks Saint Elias.

A bag you hold in your hand, says Toyshop. You keep things inside it.

What things? asks Saint Elias.

Any things. I had a drink bottle, a notebook and a tiny pencil, says Toyshop.

Those are strange things, says Saint Elias.

I think they were for bear care, says Toyshop. But I never made it.

Certain people bought you, and stripped you of your equipment, says Saint Elias. The same happened to me.

What are you pointing at? asks Toyshop.

Does it matter now? asks Saint Elias.

Yes. Don't give up, says Toyshop.

You gave up, says Saint Elias. I was listening.

I gave up waiting to go into the basilica, says Toyshop. My friend Bowl went in.

You should have gone in, says Saint Elias.

I didn't want to end up in Lost Property, says Toyshop.

I would have risked it, says Saint Elias.

Why? asks Toyshop. 

To see the inside, says Saint Elias. To see if I'm depicted.

Are you famous? asks Toyshop.

Famous enough to be a souvenir icon, says Saint Elias. But am I famous enough to be depicted in there?

We can ask Bowl when he comes out, says Toyshop.

If he's not stuck in Lost Property, says Saint Elias.

And if he's noticed, says Toyshop. He wouldn't be looking for you in particular.

He would surely notice a man being whirled up to the heavens on a chariot of fire, says Saint Elias.

Is that you? asks Toyshop.

Yes, says Saint Elias. That is me. It's the reason I became the patron saint of pilots.

Wow! says Toyshop. I'd love to be the patron saint of something.

How about bears? asks Saint Elias.

Bears! Perfect! thinks Toyshop. I'll pick his brains to find out how it works.

Pointing At What?

Where are the Fuzzballs? asks Prong.

Terence looks around for the Fuzzballs. 

They are probably playing with their handbag somewhere.

But he can't see them.

Maybe they ran away, says Terence.

You'd better find them, says Simone. Or what was the point of the rescue?

Only one of them was rescued, says Sartre.

Irrelevant, says Simone

I'll find them! says Prong.

She flies up to the top of a portico, from which there's a view.

There are the Fuzzballs, down below, in the queue.

She flies down to the Fuzzballs.

What are you two doing here? asks Prong.

Waiting, says Bowl Fuzzball.

To go inside, says Toyshop Fuzzball.

You don't have tickets, says Prong.

We didn't think we'd need tickets, says Bowl Fuzzball.

Everyone needs a ticket, says Prong. Even you.

The queue moves forward.

You'll see, says Prong. They won't let you through.

Let's give up, says Toyshop Fuzzball.

Yes, give up, says Prong. Come back and see Terence's new finger.

Okay, says Toyshop.

I'm staying, says Bowl.

At least I know where you are, says Prong. Come on, Toyshop.

Prong and Toyshop go back to where Terence and the others are waiting.

I found them! says Prong. They were in the queue for the basilica. 

And I gave up, says Toyshop. Because I don't have a ticket.

You don't need a ticket, says Terence. You're not a person.

I am a person, says Toyshop.

You look like a toy, says Terence. They would just think you were one.

A toy needs to belong to someone, says Simone. A toy on its own ends up in Lost Property.

I made a good choice then, says Toyshop. Bowl didn't.

I'll keep an eye on him, says Prong.

Look at my new finger, says Terence.

He shows it to Toyshop.

It looks like a sword, says Toyshop.

It is a sword, says Terence. 

Where did it come from? asks Toyshop.

Saint Liar, says Terence. He's in that box, pointing.

What at? asks Toyshop.

Terence thinks. 

Saint Liar will be horizontal. And pointing at what?

The end of the box, says Terence. 

Can I see him? asks Toyshop.

Of course you can, says Simone. He might like some company. And you won't wander off.

She picks up Toyshop, takes the lid off the box, and places him beside Saint Elias.

Hello, says Toyshop to Saint Elias. 

Hrumph! says Saint Elias.

Understandably gruff.

Crazy Conjecture

Prong flies down and lands beside Terence.

Where have you been? asks Terence.

Looking for Arthur and Federico, says Prong.

Yeah? Where are they? asks Sweezus.

In a café, near here, having lunch, says Prong.

I thought they went off for breakfast, says Simone.

It turned into lunch, says Prong. 

They'll get a surprise when they come back, says Terence.

They sure will, says Sweezus. 

What's your surprise? asks Terence.

What's yours? asks Sweezus. 

My new sword finger, says Terence. 

Let's see it, says Prong.

Terence shows her his sword finger.

Where did it come from? asks Prong. 

The guy in the box, says Terence. Saint Liar.

Saint Elias, says Sweezus.

How come he had a sword? asks Prong.

Good question, says Sweezus. I'll find out.

He takes out his phone and taps for a few seconds.

Man! says Sweezus. This guy was a tough dude! 

What have you found out? asks Simone.

He killed 450 false prophets, says Sweezus, and ascended to heaven in a whirlwind, on a chariot of fire.

Simone looks at Sartre.

Action man! He's your type of hero.

I'd need to learn more, says Sartre. How do we know they were false prophets?

I guess he knew, says Simone. And the whirlwind's a nice detail.

Did he use my sword finger to kill all those people? asks Terence.

What do you reckon? asks Sweezus.

Terence examines his sword finger. The glue seems to have dried.

He touches the end with his right pointer finger.

Blunt. Which was why he was allowed to have it.

And small.

So it probably wasn't the actual weapon.

Your sword finger represents the sword that killed the false prophets, says Sweezus. If they WERE false. We don't even know.

Maybe that's why he was called Saint Liar, says Terence.

Except that he wasn't, says Sweezus.

And he got found out, says Terence. So he had to escape in a whirlwind. If it was a whirlwind because we don't know.

Saint Elias lies in his box fuming at all this misinformation, lack of faith and crazy conjecture. 

But without his sword, there's not much he can do.

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

Necessary Violence

Prong arrives first.

They've found glue! says Prong.

Cool! says Sweezus. What kind?

Special plastic glue, says Prong.

Great, says Sweezus. I got that part right.

What do you mean? asks Prong.

I'm writing Sartre's blog for him, says Sweezus.

I know. says Prong. But weren't you just catching up on past happenings?

Yeah I was, says Sweezus. I got kind of carried away.

Sartre arrives with Terence and a small paper bag.

Glue! says Sartre, opening the bag.

Special glue, says Terence.

Yes, says Sartre. I asked the assistant's advice.

Okay, says Sweezus. I'll start mending the handbag, while you read what I've written. 

He returns Sartre's phone.

Sartre starts reading.

It's very detailed, says Sartre.

Yeah, says Sweezus. Feel free to change stuff.

Irritating for the baby? says Sartre.

I wrote tragic for the baby, says Sweezus. But I thought irritating sounded more you.

I suppose it does, says Sartre. But would I use that term for a baby?

Babies get irritated, says Sweezus.

Point taken, says Sartre.

He gives Sweezus the glue.

Can I help? asks Terence.

Yeah get the lid off, says Sweezus. Where's the handbag?

Terence looks around. 

Yes, where is it?

Sartre, Sweezus and Terence start looking.

Prong notices where it is first.

The two Fuzzballs have got it, says Prong. Look, they've got one handbag each.

The two Fuzzballs are playing with their handbags on one of the steps.

Handbag! says one.

Pencil! says the other.

The one with the good handbag opens his handbag.

Out tumbles a pencil.

Grr-hee! laugh the Fuzzballs.

Give me the broken one, says Terence. We have to fix it.

The two Fuzzballs look rebellious.

This will ruin their game.

But Terence takes the broken handbag and hands it to Sweezus.

Sweezus starts forcing the broken clasp into place.

Click!

Shit! says Sweezus.

You're meant to wait for the glue! says Terene.

It just clicked into place, says Sweezus. 

What's  happened? asks Sartre looking up from the problematic blog Sweezus has written.

Didn't put the glue in, says Sweezus. And now it looks like it's fixed, but it isn't.

Force it apart again, says Sartre. Sometimes violence is called for.

But is it? asks Sweezus. 

Necessary violence, says Sartre.

You do it, says Sweezus.

Sartre takes the tiny handbag.

This is the sort of thing he is good at.

Tragic To Irritating

Sartre and Terence have not yet returned with the glue.

Sweezus keeps typing Sartre's blog, on Sartre's phone:

An accident had occurred with the handbag. The clasp was broken. The replacement baby was distraught, and our parrot has promised to fix it. At this moment I'm looking for a glue shop.

Sweezus stops. Has he left out too much? Holy Spitball's role for example?

No, Sartre needs to catch up to the present. And add stuff about bikes.

Sweezus alters his last sentence: 

At this moment I'm cycling around Barcelona looking for a glue shop. I'm wearing a helmet. They're strict about wearing bike helmets here. The glue will be a middle of the road solution, not the superglue favoured by certain of my colleagues. I pointed out that the handbag might become permanently closed, a tragic result for the baby.  

Sweezus stops again. Has he gone too far? Sartre isn't cycling. And would he use the word tragic?

He alters tragic to irritating. Yeah, that's more like Sartre.

Encouraged, he keeps going:.

I spot a hardware shop. No doubt they sell glue. I prop my bike against a bollard and put the chain on. I enter the hardware shop and enquire about glue. The hardware assistant insists on knowing what I'll be using the glue for. I tell him it's for a child's plastic handbag. He shows me various glues that suit plastic. I pick the most expensive. He approves of my choice. 

Sweezus stops again. 

He has definitely gone too far now. 

Would Sartre pick the most expensive? 

If he did, would he say that he had? 

Would he then become chatty and tell the hardware assistant about Holy Spitball, and how the accident happened?

No harm in exploring:

The assistant keeps asking questions. Perhaps he's a spy? No, he seems genuinely interested. I'll tell him what happened, without revealing too much. Well, I say, I've been involved in a clandestine rescue, in which a bird, who goes by the name Holy Spitball, was persuaded to act as a lookout, in exchange for a simple toy bear. Unfortunately the toy bear broke the handbag in the course of the rescue. So, you were rescuing a CHILD! says the hardware assistant. I grab the glue, run out of the shop, unlock my bicycle hurriedly and cycle away.... 

Understandably. Sweezus stops here, and does not press publish.