The Velvet Moustache (who occasionally answered to the name of Bobby) was ninety-seven carrots old. This meant he was precisely the colour of a wet Wednesday afternoon in Yorkshire. He lived in a draughty teapot under a cabbage leaf, but the tea was always too loud, and the leaf kept whispering secrets about hedge funds and the international price of coal.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
One morning, the grandfather clock in his waistcoat pocket sneezed twice.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
It was an omen. The clock had never sneezed before, though it frequently suffered from a mild case of hiccups. Bobby took off his spectacles (which had no lenses, only thin paper flags that read YES and PERHAPS) and made his decision:<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He would move abroad. To the Grand Kingdom of Elsewhere.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The Official Packing List<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Before being able to depart for Elsewhere, one must satisfy the customs officers of the imagination. Bobby packed his three and a half cardboard suitcases with the absolute essentials:<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u2018To travel,\u2019 Bobby said to a passing snail who was disguised as a postbox, \u2018is merely to swap one\u2019s ears for a pair of fluffy slippers and jump headfirst into a bowl of lukewarm alphabet soup.\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The snail did not reply. He was busy crossing the line in the sand.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The Voyage Across the Fig Tuesday<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Bobby did not take a ship, for ships are far too watery and have a dreadful habit of pointing towards the horizon. Instead, he boarded a tram made entirely of Tuesday afternoons.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The conductor was a portable typewriter that typed only the letter Q. Capital.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u2018Tickets, please,\u2019 said the typewriter, clattering as if possessed.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Bobby handed over a blue button and a slice of lemon. The typewriter swallowed them eagerly and spat out a ticket printed on a small, yellow parsley leaf: \u2018Q Q\u2019. The journey was swift. They travelled past the Great Green Mustard Fields, through the Valley of Forgotten, Open Umbrellas, and straight over the edge of the kitchen table.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Arrival in the Grand Kingdom of Elsewhere<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Abroad was magnificent. The sky was a chequered tablecloth of blue and white. The grass wasn\u2019t greener, as many would think, and did not grow upwards; it grew sideways, whispering soft, mathematical equations to the earthworms. The local inhabitants were all pristine porcelain teapots who spoke fluent Finnish but only when it was raining.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Bobby unpacked his suitcases. He laid his three yards of silence across the grass, sat down on his half-suitcase, and began to grow. He did not grow taller, for that would be terribly bourgeois. Instead, he grew sideways, gradually turning into a very comfortable armchair.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
A passing teapot looked at him with great respect.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u2018Hear ye! Hear ye! Oyez!\u2019 said the teapot. \u2018The new resident has arrived! He has excellent upholstery.\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Word of the comfortable new armchair-resident spread quickly to the palace. For, as everyone in Elsewhere knew, the absolute ruler of the realm was HM Snakequeen, a cobra of immense dignity who insisted on wearing dark sunglasses, even when slithering through the darkest corners of her domain. She immediately issued a royal decree, typed entirely in capital Qs, declaring Bobby’s upholstery a national monument.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
And the clock in Bobby\u2019s pocket slept, at last, without sneezing.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
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