I sit patiently at my desk.
Waiting.
Waiting.
Waiting.
Sat with a book in front of me, I wait... wait for it to make its move... wait for it to make a mistake. My eyes drift listlessly to the bottom left corner of their peripheral vision, surveying the dust in the corners, watching detachedly as Hillary Clinton slinks carelessly into the room, making dirty tuba noises before clambering awkwardly into the fish tank and disappearing amongst the reeds.
*Rustle* *Rustle*
My eyes dart back to the book with the hideous immediacy of a hawk with lead feet falling on top of a newborn child. The book has not changed. A formidable opponent. This one will require the darkest depths of my cunning.
Silently, I slip out of the bedroom door, creeping down the stairs and into the kitchen. Reaching into one of the lower cupboards, I pull out six packs of Werther’s Originals and a watering can. I bring them back upstairs and arrange them enticingly at the far end of the desk and survey the book with a look of smug triumph. I know I have its balls in a vice.
All of a sudden, the book turns red and catches fire.
“AHA!” I shout in delirious victory, grabbing the book by the corner and Frisbeeing it out of the window, to avoid scorching the watering can. Almost content enough to dust my hands of the situation, I freeze, mid-hand-dusting, as I hear the book ricochet off of human skin and plop lifelessly into the pond. I crane my head around slowly and see a pink balloon float absently skywards, past the window.
Worry begins to creep coldly through my veins as I start to speculate over the cause of such abrupt balloon presence. Knowingly, I skulk to the other side of the room and rotate the dimmer switch on the wall until the bulb on the ceiling becomes no more than a dull ember. I slowly raise my head over the windowsill, already certain of what I will see.
Balloon Men.
Three of them. Four, if I were to include the one sprawled out on the floor, empty-handed, blood gushing from a book-shaped wound in his scalp. One stood by the pond, another stood near the shed and one stood half-buried in the vegetable patch up to his chest. They all hold a single, coloured balloon, left-handed, staring blankly at my bedroom window. They each wear ragged, formal suits, littered with coffee stains and bread crumbs. The one loitering around the shed turns to the pond-stander and begins to speak in loud trumpet noises, asserting its dominance as it spray-paints “Jumanji” on the fence, marking its territory. My worry is forgotten in a moment of white fury as David Attenborough sneaks out of some nearby long grass and begins to play Twister with a jaguar. The jaguar asks David to put his right foot on blue and it’s more than I can stand. The last straw.
I turn away, horrified, and slump against the wall beneath the windowsill, my mind bulging with questions. Why are they here? Why me? Who threw my book in the pond? Unhelpful questions all likely to have equally as unhelpful answers. I begin to pace the length of my room, pondering a way to rid myself of these unwanted guests. After what seems to be an eternity of pacing, I stop dead in my tracks, having walked straight into the fish tank, spilling tropical fish and Hillary Clinton all over the new carpet. I casually sweep the unlucky fish and the ex-president’s wife under the rug, when an idea hits me square in the jaw. Dazedly, I pick the idea off of the floor and jam it into my head, massaging my bruised chin. Sudden clarity begins to circulate around my brain. I know what must be done.
Exercising extreme caution, I snatch the watering can from its position as centrepiece in the tantalizing display of garden equipment and chewy, butterscotch toffee treats on my bedroom desk. I grab a side of the watering can in each hand and begin to stretch it – stretch it wide enough to fit a leg in.
Then I stretch it some more.
I stretch it far past the recommended stretching size written on the bottom of the can. The sides of the can stretch to the point of transparency as the warning siren begins to blare from the town centre. Village folk burst from their houses, ugly screams of panic shooting from their mouths and splashing all over the floor. They carry hastily packed bags under their arms, many of them wearing their children as slippers, too lazy to carry or wake them. They’re running for the emergency bunkers, used only in case of nuclear fallout, and the excessive elongation of gardening goods. I let go of the watering can... yet it continues to swell.
The walls of the bedroom begin to buckle and creak as the monstrous, green balloon continues to bulge and distend. The large double windows shatter outwards and spray the Balloon Men in the garden with confused shards of glass. They squawk in their violent brass voices and begin to tear up the Twister mat. David Attenborough shoots a sharp, accusatory look at the Balloon Man in the vegetable patch (the only one unable to seize his beloved Twister mat) and explodes in a hectic shower of snakes. The snakes swarm up the walls of my house, oblivious to the gravity urging them kindly to stay on the ground. They begin to pour in through the open window and pile into the rapidly-growing can like clowns into a tiny car – a tiny car that has been turned into a giant watering can.
What have I done?
The roof of the house bursts, sending scraps of brick and tiles sprawling out into the road and garden. Despite the weight of its new residents, the ex-watering device begins to float upward and out of the room. Instinct seizes me. I was born for this moment. As the big green balloon takes flight, I leap into the open hatch and slump down into the pile of writhing snakes. The can ascends higher into the night sky and I peer over its edge, down at the rapidly shrinking garden. The plan has not gone entirely awry, after all: I’m leaving the Balloon Men behind. A strong sigh of relief escapes me as I slouch back into the slithering carpet that fills my new abode. Where to now? Wherever the can desires...
