The Eyre Affair_ A Novel - Jasper Fforde [493]
10.
Mrs. Tiggy-winkle
Kierkegaard Book-Burning Ceremony Proves Danish Philosopher’s Unpopularity
Chancellor Yorrick Kaine last night officiated at the first burning of Danish literature with the incineration of eight copies of Fear and Trembling, a quantity that fell far short of the expected “thirty or forty tons.” When asked to comment on the apparent lack of enthusiasm among the public to torch their Danish philosophy, Kaine explained that “Kierkegaard is clearly less popular than we thought, and rightly so—next stop Hans Christian Andersen!” Kierkegaard himself was unavailable for comment, having inconsiderately allowed himself to be dead for a number of years.
Article in The Toad, July 14, 1988
I was dreaming that a large chain-saw-wielding elephant was sitting on me when I awoke at two in the morning. I was still fully dressed, with a snoring Friday fast asleep on my chest. I put him back in his cot and turned the bedside lamp to the wall to soften the light. My mother, for reasons known only to herself, had kept my bedroom pretty much as it was from the time I had left home. It was nostalgic, but also deeply disturbing, to see just what had interested me in my late teens. It seemed like it had been boys, music, Jane Austen and law enforcement, but not particularly in that order.
I undressed and slipped on a long T-shirt and stared at Friday’s sleeping form, his lips making gentle sucky motions.
“Pssst!” said a voice close at hand. I turned. There, in the semidark, was a very large hedgehog dressed in a pinafore and bonnet. She was keeping a close lookout at the door and, after giving me a wan smile, crept to the window and peeked out.
“Whoa!” she breathed in wonderment. “Streetlights are orange. Never would have thought that!”
“Mrs. Tiggy-winkle,” I said, “I’ve only been gone two days!”
“Sorry to bother you,” she said, curtsying quickly and absently folding my shirt, which I had tossed over a chair back, “but there are one or two things going on that I thought you should know about—and you did say that if I had any questions, to ask.”
“Okay—but not here; we’ll wake Friday.”
So we crept downstairs to the kitchen. I pulled down the blinds before turning the lights on, as a six-foot hedgehog in a bonnet might have caused a few eyebrows to be raised in the neighborhood—no one wore bonnets in Swindon these days.
I offered Mrs. Tiggy-winkle a seat at the table. Although she, Emperor Zhark and Bradshaw had been put in charge of running Jurisfiction in my absence, none of them had the leadership skills necessary to do the job on their own. And while the Council of Genres refused to concede that my absence was anything but “compassionate leave,” a new Bellman was yet to be elected in my place.
“So what’s up?” I asked.
“Oh, Miss Next!” she wailed, her spines bristling with vexation. “Please come back!”
“I have things to deal with out here,” I explained. “You all know that!”
“I know,” she sighed, “but Emperor Zhark threw a tantrum when I suggested he spend a little less time conquering the universe and a little more time at Jurisfiction. The Red Queen won’t do anything post-1867, and Vernham Deane is tied up with the latest Daphne Farquitt novel. Commander Bradshaw does his own thing, which leaves me in charge—and someone left a saucer of bread and milk on my desk this morning.”
“It was probably just a joke.”
“Well, I’m not laughing,” replied Mrs. Tiggy-winkle indignantly.
“By the way,” I said as a thought suddenly