away.
Then he saw her, sitting on the ground, the wind knocked out of her, the troll whose head, whose beautiful, beautiful head he had collided with – It was Gaalf!
“I’m sorry,” he spluttered, helping her up from the ground. Then he saw what she was holding in one of her hands, the empty cigarette packet that he had designs on. He tried ignored it, though, he really did. “Are you alright?” he asked.
“I, I think so,” she answered, as she settled her troll dress (a green coloured canvas frock more akin to a tent than a dress). “Are you okay?” she asked him.
“Yes,” he replied, “I’m as tough as old boots, so I am, and come to think of it I could do with a new pair.” He laughed, while anxiously eyeballing the cigarette packet that she was holding.
Gaalf laughed politely along with him.
“My name is Gaalf,” she told him “And before you make any remarks about my name, let me tell you that I have heard them all before.”
Bolf was shocked, that such a beautiful troll could act so casually about her name, a name that was ten times, perhaps even twenty times more dreadful than his. Scratching his troll head, he thought about it some more. Then he realised that he was not in fact shocked at all, he was impressed, very impressed indeed. The two trolls stood there, silently eyeballing each other.
Gaalf eventually said, “Well?”
“Well – what?” Bolf answered.
“Aren’t you going to tell me you name?”
“My name?” he answered, laughing nervously as he spoke.
“Yes. You do have one, don’t you?”
“Of course I do!”
“And it is?”
Still ashamed of his own name, Bold said nothing.
“If you don’t want to talk to me, I understand, I really do” Gaalf told him, the troll with the worst name in the entire troll world.
It was at that moment Bolf saw, really saw how silly he had been, and he realised how many long years he had wasted, feeling sorry for himself, hating his name. Calling out at the top of his voice, he said, “My name is Bolf and I am proud of it! And I love your name, Gaalf, also. In fact I think it’s fantastic – and so are you!”
Gaalf giggled, embarrassed by Bolf’s sudden outburst of affection.
That was how it all began, how the long and much respected bloodline of Bolf got started. And they did, they certainly did live happily ever after.
Pardon? You want to know what happened to the empty cigarette packet? That’s easy to explain. Bolf grabbed hold of the packet, inserted it into his mouth and then gobbled it up. It’s a funny old, troll world, isn’t it?
Twenty-Three
Once your mind has been ‘enlightened’ as to the number twenty-three, its existence, the strange state of being this number peculiarly enjoys, you will see it everywhere around you. Where any old number could have been used, the number twenty-three will almost always be used as the number of choice. You will see it on the TV, in newspapers and magazines, in books, plays; in fact just about everywhere it is possible to be.
I am sure you are wondering why this number so popular. There are many theories and suggestions circulating on this very subject; a simple search on Google will bring up several thousand answers to this very question. Amongst these varied answers are suggestions ranging from it being The Freemasons chosen number, that is has alien connections, and that it is the number of chromosomes in the human body. The list goes on and on and on. There are so many theories running about, it’s mind boggling.
I, however, am quite content to leave these ideas, suggestions and theories for others to ruminate over, the only thing that I am concerned with is how I see it, and that is as follows…
In my opinion, the reason for the unnatural, almost zealous occurrence of the number twenty-three is quite simple. This number is something that people, who have nothing else to believe in, are simply clinging to. Moreover, by doing it they are creating a kinship with other, like-minded individuals. Like all people, they need something to believe in, to live for, and their only answer, their only thing they can come up with is to elevate this number, and that’s all it is, a number, into something akin to a God. Doing so, with the knowledge that so many other people are also doing it, they feel vindicated in what they are doing, and have done with this number. It’s really quite sad, that mature, educated and, apparently, intelligent people would think so little of themselves they to act in so shallow and misguided a way. But that’s life, I’m afraid. We cannot all be perfect.
The Seagull
While my wife, Breda, and I we were on holiday in Portugal recently, a strange thing happened, something that I am still trying to come to terms with…
It was a hot day, and I was lying in bed, enjoying a welcome rest after a busy few hours shopping for all those tacky souvenirs one feels obliged to bring home and distribute amongst close family and friends, each holiday. The patio door to the balcony was open, allowing a cool breeze into our hot apartment.
I was really enjoying the holiday. I hadn’t a care in the world. But then I saw it, that seagull, staring into our apartment, with its beady, piercing eyes watching our every move. I sat up in bed, gazing curiously at it. The seagull, however, seemed oblivious to how I was feeling, and the fact that he was encroaching on our privacy.
“Look,” I whispered to Breda, “see what’s looking in at us.”
Approaching the door, Breda was amazed to see it at all, let alone the fact that it was looking in at us. Standing, there, on our balcony rail, it posed a strange sight. “It’s a seagull!” she exclaimed. “It must be hungry – give it something to eat,” she told me.
“Like what?” I asked her.
“I don’t know,” she replied, “Give it some crisps,” she suggested. “There is a bag of them over there.” She pointed to a stool adjacent the dressing table.
Abandoning my bed, I walked across to stool and picked up the bag of crisps. Watching me intently, the seagull knew exactly what I was doing, so much so, it let out a squawk, a cry of excitement at the prospect of receiving some food.
“Look at it, the poor thing,” Breda said to me. “He’s hungry.”
And he was. The instant I threw a crisp through the open doorway, the bid swooped down from the balcony rail to retrieve it.
“It must be starving,” Breda said worriedly. “Give it another one,” she ordered.
I did. I gave the bird another crisp, then another and then another. In less than five minutes it had eaten the entire bag of crisps. It was eerie. It was weird. It was frightening. The more food that we gave to the bird, the more it wanted to eat.
“It wouldn’t be looking for more if it weren’t hungry,” Breda said to me. “What else can we give it?” she asked. She gazed around our apartment, looking for food to give to the bird. Picking up an item, she said, “Ah, just the thing!”
“No,” I protested, “not my Mars Bar!”
But my words fell on deaf ears, and the greedy bird scoffed the confectionery in no time at all. Then it burped.
“It burped!” I said in disgust.
Giving me an odd look, Breda replied, “Seagulls’ can’t burp.”
“This one can,” I assured her.
Just then, the greedy bird set its beady eyes firmly on me, as if to say, “It’s you next, matey.”
“That’s the bird from hell!” I cried out, as I struggled to close the patio door. “It’s jammed!” I worriedly told Breda. “It won’t close!”
Her attention having moved on from the seagull, to the latest copy of Hello, Breda said, “What on earth are you talking about?”
“It’s after me!” I spluttered. “It wants to eat me!”
“What wants to eat you?” she nonchalantly asked.
“That bird wants to eat me!” I told her, desperately trying to close the patio door.
“What bird?” she enquired.
“That one,” I insisted, pointing at it through the door, after having finally managed
to close it.
“I can’t see anything out there,” she answered. She loosened the catch, so as to open the door.
“NO, don’t do it! Don’t let it in!” I implored.
“I can’t let it in if it doesn’t exist,” Breda said sternly to me. Then she asked, “Have you been drinking?”
“No, I have not been drinking!” I insisted, “You were with me all morning – you know that!”
“Hmm,” she replied. “Something sure has you flustered.” Opening the door, she said, “Take a look, will you? Tell me; is there a bird out here?”
“No,” I answered, wondering where it had gone, “there isn’t.”
Suddenly, Breda scratched her head in bewilderment, and then she said, “What type of bird did you say it was?”
“A seagull – and a big one at that,” I replied with renewed vigour.
“I can’t remember it being here, I really can’t,” she said to me. “But having said that, I have no explanation for this…” Waving a hand, she presented the balcony floor for my inspection. And when I saw it, I was as confused as she was, for the balcony was covered in bird sh-.
The Haunted House
We had some friends from Australia, over to visit last summer, their names are Karen and Joan. They stayed with us for a couple of weeks. It was the first time that either of them had ventured outside Australia. They really enjoyed the experience.
Before they arrived in Ireland, Karen and Joan stopped off in England, London to be precise, to see the sights; places like Buckingham Palace, the Tower of London, Madame Tussauds, Piccadilly Circus and old Father Thames. They saw
Aliens Landed In Ballykilduff And Other Strange Stories Page 4
