Me with lemming gun, preparing to strike the runners...
The residents of Caledon were invited way on high up to Polymath Upstairs to celebrate the rez day of Colonel Exrex Somme. I arrived inappropriately dressed in my latest can-can gear (tiny top hat, to-the-knee skirt and corset) so flew off to a discreet corner of the sky to change into something more appropriate. I had no idea how high up I was* until I plunged down onto a deserted island below. I dusted off my knees, seemingly alone, when I suddenly saw a blinding red cape flutter over the hill towards me. An Italian avie dressed as Superman blared “WHERE AM I? WHERE ARE ALL THE PEOPLE?!” I calmed him down, made him put on a tux, and sent him on his way. Next I changed into an enormous black layered ballgown…which would become a hindrance later…
Back Upstairs I found a dance in full swing and jumped right away into a 10 person polonaise that whirled me around the floor – certainly not a traditional polonaise but a wild, let your hair down one – Caledon-style that included crinolines and sweat, whoots and huzzahs. I, and my typist, were made dizzy as we ran round and round the floor. Colleen and I had recruited a new friend earlier, while fencing, a Mr. Polo Watkins, and he gamely offered to join me in a wheelbarrow race, designed by Mr. Hotspur O’Toole and set on a track 600 feet above Middlesea.
I agreed to carry, as I didn’t want Watkins to look up my skirt but, this being sl, opportunities to reveal ones undergarments are all to easy. I clicked on a pink poseball and the skirt of my dress instantly poofed into Mr. Watkins’s face as I squatted in preparation to lift him onto his hands. “Er, you know I can’t see?” he said through muffled fabric.
After a bit of readjusting, courtesy of O’Toole we were off. I haven’t laughed this hard since my first day in sl. Watkins flapped his palms against the track as I shoved him along…we hollered and cursed as we hobbled round…we could see spectators preparing to pelt us with guns that shot out purple squeaking lemmings (no idea!). We got lost in a swarm of explosions and were suddenly stuck with half the track left til the finish line. “Go! GO!” My partner barked. “Help!” I yelled. My feet were fused to the track. The hands of the race timer went round and round as my typist clicked frantically trying to bump ourselves off whatever was holding us back. I held on to his flapping feet and his face turned beet red from being upside down for so long. . “You know I’m blaming you for this predicament”. Watkins laughed. Lemmings and other obstructions swirled around us and I could see we were drawing a crowd. Mr. O’Toole found us in the middle of all the mayhem and made some adjustments to the track, allowing us to make our way, limping, to the finish line. But hey, we didn’t fall off…
After we caught our breath O’Toole asked “Where are all the lemmings?” So we obliged by letting out a volley of the little creatures in celebration of all things Somme. After wishing him well and thanking our hosts, the three of us made our way home, chuckling…
*over a certain height normal hovering requires assistance from a flight feather or other attachment
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