Maybe it's not all about me...

This bloody blog has become such a large part of my life. Not too large but large enough. I had thought it was all about me - but increasingly other people enter and influence it and I wonder if anything I do influences them. I’d like to think it may… but does that make it all about them (you) and then I have to ask - was it always all about you?

I have followers and I know that there are other people who read regularly but don’t follow publicly. There are others who dip in and dip out like butterflies, and there are the one-offs - the ones that come in, say something, leave and are never heard from again.

So maybe it really isn’t about me and it is about you, and maybe you make this blog happen. I wonder, would I bother if you didn’t read it? Probably, but it wouldn’t be the same. It would be different and less, maybe much less, I don’t think I would put myself through such a rigorous schedule if you weren’t reading it.

Anyway, here’s a first. I posted about fly agaric last week based around a photograph Mr Chorley sent me, you may have see it. As always some of you commented but one of you, let’s just call him AS, went on to write a little story of his own about the post and it made me laugh. I enjoyed it so much that I doodled a doodle about it. So not only to you contribute comments, inspire, send photographs and generally keep me going, but you’ve even started to write the bloody blog for me! Oh well, Gaynor will pleased if nothing else.

Here it is for you to read. Thanks AS, it's good to know that there is somebody out there even more bonkers than me...

A strange happening in Toadstool Wood…

I once met the ‘hair’ apparent to the fairy kingdom of Britanicus Arbus Minor. We met under a giant toad stool purely by accident in my Uncle John's back garden. My friends had come round to my uncle's house in the morning and we all decided to play hide in seek in the giant toadstool wood at the back of his house. John wasn't my real uncle, he was just a kind old chap who would ask us all round to his house to play hide and seek. After a tiring game John would give us lots of biscuits and cake, my favourite was the mushroom cake. My uncle John would always want to join in and insisted that he would be the seeker. Great fun was always had by all. If John found you he would dress you up as the 'Dippy Toadstool' and sit you in a cold bath, while the rest of the boys had afternoon tea.

Anyway I digress; it was during one such game that I met Prince Izud Dumble Dippledap.

With three of my friends I had hidden myself deep in the centre of the toadstool wood, under a giant green domed mushroom. It would be no exaggeration to say that if the four of us had linked arms we would not have been able to join around its circumference. We seemed to wait for ages for Uncle John to come and find us and eventually we all fell asleep. I am not sure how long I was asleep for, but a tickling sensation at the end of my nose made me stir from my drowsy interlude. When I awoke my friends had gone. I was quiet cross with them for just leaving me. Suddenly a voice shouted 'what are you doing to my mushroom!' and there at the side of me, standing no more than six feet away, was a very finely attired Fairy of about twelve inches tall. He was dressed in silver chain mail and a white satin cloak and had a little silver and gold tammy on his head with a fluffy white bobble on top.

In his right hand he held rather disconcertingly a long silver dagger, embossed along the shining blade was the finest of gold filigree. 'What's your name' he demanded. I answered that my name was Alan and that the mushroom was not his but my Uncle Johns. He literally flew in to a rage, darting about my head, dive bombing me, slashing out with his dagger, to such a fitful excess that he fell to my feet completely exhausted.

Poor little man I thought. My Uncle John had always told us that there were fairies in the giant toadstool wood, but we never believed such a ridiculous tale.

When the little man regained his composure I asked him his name. He told me rather exhaustedly that he was The Crown Prince Izud Dumble Dippledap, youngest son of the Great King Izudrum Dumble Dippledap ruler of Britanicus Arbus Minor and all land, sea and sky east of the Jarawack. What a pompous individual I thought, but I decided not to stamp on him and to be nice to him instead. (Don't judge me I was only eight at the time). Once I’d won over his confidence he began to tell me that he hated his older brother Izudor and he planned to murder him and make sure he was next in line for his father's thrown. Izud went on to explain that he then intended to murder his father and when crowned King he would kill his nephews Izuderz, Izudal and Izuff the tiny. His Great uncle Count Izold the Wanghog would be kept alive long enough to see his beautiful daughter Izeewe married to his good self.

What a thoroughly unpleasant Chap I thought.

Just at that moment I heard a voice shouting out my name. I turned to look to see what Izud was up to, but he had vanished. The voice came closer and I recognised it. A minute later my Uncle John was standing in front of me. My real uncle John that is and he was very, very angry.

'How many times have your mum and dad told you not to come down to that weird old mans house, you're lucky to be alive. God help you when I tell your dad. The police are out looking for all the boys'.

I explained about meeting Izud, but Uncle John simply said 'that fairy is a nutcase, keep away from him, he is and has always been bad news.