Chapter Twelve: The Bus

Alfonso, the small grey beetle (or weevil to be precise), who has made his home on my desk, elected that we take the bus to the auditions of "The Singing Competition".

"We can practice on the upper deck", he said.

I protested that singing a long hunting song from the old country, accompanied by solo recorder, might be considered inappropriate by other passengers.

Alfonso narrowed his eyes. "You don't go on buses very often, do you?" he said.

As it turned out, the one bus that went almost direct from outside our front door to the large industrial park where the auditions were being held did not have an upper deck. It was painted in the familiar purple and green livery of our city, but slid along the ground like a mechanically automated snake.

"Hmm", said Alfonso. "I still prefer the upper deck."

"Well, tough", I said, as the monstrously one-decked creature slinked its way heavily over the potholed road towards us.

"Have you never watched 'The A-Team'?" he asked.

I shook my head heavily. In the 1980's, I had not watched any television. Instead, I had roamed the dark forests riding horses bareback and using gypsies for target practice with my new bow and arrow. But that was all in the past now.

"What have you got in your pockets?" he continued, beginning to get agitated.

I pulled out a locket of burnished gold, dangling on a slender chain, which clicked exquisitely open to reveal a miniature portrait of my late-aunt wearing a bear costume, as was the tradition. Alfonso made a face. I rooted around some more and found half a broken match, an old handkerchief, and my throwing knife.

Alfonso added to this ragtag collection a pair of multicoloured leg warmers he had picked up at the TV AM Aerobics Auction, and disappeared behind a bush. There was the sound of hasty sawing, banging and drilling.

"Alfonso", I called, "we're going to miss the bus! And our chance at winning 'The Singing Competition!'

But my last words were drowned by the sound of a rocket propeller pack rising majestically from the bush, blowing dead leaves hither and thither, as Alfonso skilfully steered it into the sky, scooped me up, and guided us both onto the flat roof of the bus - just as it pulled away from the stop.

"I love it when a plan comes together", said Alfonso, and took the cigar out of his mouth.

Only it wasn't a cigar. It was our beloved recorder... And I began to play. TO BE CONTINUED