Once upon a time in the rolling hills of the Forestshire countryside lived a fox named Percival Seventeentoes. He had gained his curious surname not through heroic battle or ancient lineage, but because of a dreadful misunderstanding involving a mousetrap and a rather sticky block of Cheddarton fake cheese.
Unlike his fellow foxes with eighteen toes, Seventeento’ – how he was called by most of his mates – was short one digit on his rear left paw, though he swore to anyone who would listen that it gave him a distinct aerodynamic advantage. He found the missing weight made him far lighter on his feet during pirouettes, even if the landing was almost always catastrophic.
While his eighteen-toed peers spent their evenings perfecting stealthy trots and menacing glares, Seventeentoes harboured a secret passion for Welsh ballroom dancing. Every Saturday evening, he would sneak up to the window of the local village hall, watching the humans glide across the parquet floor to the lively rhythm of a quickstep.
‘Look at them’, Seventeentoes sighed to Burdock, a rather cynical badger who was currently chewing on a turnip. ‘The posture! The poise! I could easily pull off a passable foxtrot.’
‘You’re a fox already, Percival,’ Burdock grunted, wiping his chin. ‘Your main duty is to look mysterious in the moonlight and occasionally knock over a dustbin. Leave the sequins to the locals.’
Determined to prove his friend wrong, Perci – another shortcut his other mates used for his rather long name – set up a practice area in a quiet clearing. He spent days trying to master the waltz. However, having four legs presented a distinct mathematical problem for a dance designed for two per partner. Every time he attempted a graceful reverse turn, his tail tripped over his hind legs, sending him skidding chin-first into a blackberry bush.
Word of his clumsy antics spread throughout the forest. Before long, a crowd of rabbits, squirrels and hedgehogs gathered to watch the famous Percival Seventeentoes stumble through his routine.
‘If you’re going to fall over every five seconds,’ shouted a red squirrel from the back, ‘you might as well charge admission!’
Taking the advice to heart, Seventeentoes embraced his unique style. Instead of fighting his natural lack of coordination, he incorporated every trip, slip and wobble into a brand-new routine he called the Bramble Bounce. He whirled, he tumbled and he finished every performance by accidentally landing headfirst in a pile of autumn leaves.
The woodland creatures cheered with delight. It turned out they did not want flawless elegance; they wanted a good laugh on a chilly Thursday evening.
The Moral
If you cannot grace the ballroom floor with elegance, you might as well turn your trips into a grand finale.
This is sounding very much me 😂the bramble bounce . Fantasic little read 🥰