Filed under: An Anti-Hibernation Diary
WINCHESTER!
Blimey, what a time I have had since I arrived in this ancient town. Talk about rapid ups and downs – it’s a miracle I haven’t caught The Bends.
I got here really late as my train from the forest was re-routed via somewhere called Clapham Junction.
What a place!
I had to get all my fourteen pieces of luggage (the entire Mickey Rourke Wrestler Range) off the train, down some stairs, along a very damp and smelly tunnel, back up more stairs and onto another train all by my little self. Not a single porter in sight.
Needless to say I was a physical wreck for the rest of the journey and really needed to be looked after by the train staff – a herbal tea and a back rub would have helped for starters. But all I got was endless hassle. “No bags on the empty seats”, “Keep your dirty paws on the floor”, “Who let that big cat out of its cage”.
In the end I went and hid myself in the corridor as there was so much shouting and screaming in my carriage. You’d think people hadn’t seen a Lion on a train before. Well, I suppose they lead sheltered lives in the Home Counties.
So eventually we arrived at Winchester station but in the middle of an terrible storm. The wind and rain was whipping and lashing at me all the way through those cobbled streets. There were trees up-ending all over the shop and at one point I swear I saw a wooden shack crash land in one of the parks. Some people really need to keep better tabs on their out-houses.
When I did finally find the hotel, injury was added to insult, because the Night Porter wouldn’t let me in. I shouted my booking reference through the letter box and everything. After an hour of none-stop knocker work I gave up banging on the door and do you know the lazy so-and-so was hiding behind the Reception desk and making a lot of whimpering noises. I tell you customer service is a whole lot better where I come from.
So there was nothing for it, I just had to go into Safari-mode. All my animal instincts came into play and I used my luggage to fashion a crude hut-like structure within which I could comb out the knots in my windswept mane. Some of them knots were the size of golf balls and it took all of my King of the Jungle will-power to work on them in that confined space I can tell you. I had no strength left for my claws, so for once I went to sleep without a bedtime re-touch, polish-wise.
In the morning I had a wander round Winchester town centre and things really started to look up after I bumped into this very glamorous lady outside a popular department store. She was all decked out in a huge pink, hoop-skirt-type, dress and was waving a long sparkly rod, which nearly took my eye out. That’s how we got talking.
It turns out she was called Glinda. Her full title was The Good Witch of the North, or so she said. At first I just assumed she was half-cut and on her way home from a Fancy Dress Ball – there was a definite whiff of wine and strong spirits about her person. Then she started talking in odd rhymes and gobbledygook, waved her ‘wand’ over my head and told me not to worry everything would be fine now.
Well I thought nothing of it. Just the ravings of a harmless, sozzled, wannabe-fairy.
But it seems she was right.
Only five minutes later, I kid you not, I was stopped in the street by another woman. Well stopped is a little bit of an understatement. I was actually threatened. Not with weapons but with the prospect of lethal and swiftly executed Karate moves.
Well, that was the final straw that broke this Lion’s spirit and I passed out.
When I came too I was lying on a pile of crash mats in the corner of a vast office. The Karate woman was standing on an enormous desk up the other end practicing some very elaborate combinations of kicks and leaps while talking on her blue-toothed mobile.
It turns out she was in charge of the local theatre but was also an expert in Oriental Martial Arts. Apparently she had been bought a class in Jujitsu as a post-pantomime season, de-stressing present and she liked the white pyjama get up so much that she had burnt her entire wardrobe and given herself over to mastering the Secret Arts of a Ninja Warrior before the year was out.
She told me all of this over a Miso and Sushi lunch and then before you could say ‘wasabi and chips’ she offered me a job.
It seems that they needed a Lion for their next play and all the candidates they had seen were not sophisticated enough for the role. She had obviously been meeting with all those ‘wild’ types who you always see on the telly. You know, the one’s that roar and snarl and generally misbehave for the cameras. Such a bunch of prima donnas. They’ve all been on that Atkins protein diet for so long now that they have lost touch with reality. Everyone knows real lions eat quiche.
Part of the deal with the job is that the theatre would find me some suitable accommodation and as I could not risk another night without a pedicure and French Polish I decided to take up her kind offer.
So me and my luggage are just about to move to a very desirable address in Hyde. Apparently the theatre housed some c-list, celebrity, glamour girl there last year and she and the girls at No.10 got on like a house on fire. All of them were haut couture obsessed and spent their evenings sewing day-glo sequins onto anything and everything.
Sound like it will be fun. I am a sucker for a little sewing. I hope they like using an embroidery hoop as much as I do.
Anyway, I must dash as the nice taxi man has nearly finished getting my luggage up onto his rack. He is one of those ‘strong and silent’ types so I am not expecting him to say much when I give him a nice big tip. I’m sure, secretly, he’ll be thrilled.
Will keep you posted on how my adventures progress.
Lion xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
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