Pussycat's Seven League Boots

© 2013 David Jasmin-Green

“I'm so glad you're home, Eugene,” Owl said as her absent-minded husband slammed the door behind him in his regular fashion, “though it never ceases to amaze me that you remember where you live, you utter fruitcake. The postman delivered a parcel for you not long after you left the house this morning, and I can't wait to see what it is.”

“Can't I open it after dinner, Susan?” Pussycat grumbled as he stepped out of his shoes and into his slippers. “I'm famished, I've been walking the streets all day selling, erm, thingummies and whatyacallits.”

“Trombones?”

“Yes, trombones and other musical instruments. Somehow I mislaid my Rabbit and Liver flavour Whiskas Supermeat sandwiches on my travels, so apart from a measly banana I haven't had any lunch. I've done pretty well, though, I have seven firm orders for thingummies and one for a set of seal hide bangy things.”

“You have seven orders for unspecified musical instruments that are more than likely trombones, seeing as you specialise in British, Continental and Russian trombones, and one for a set of genuine Eskimo shaman drums, the ones with the rampant Walrus motif painted around the edge of the percussive surface,” Owl said. “Is that what you're trying to say?”

“Yes, that's right. Trombones - thingummies, drums - bangy things; same difference.”

“I want you to open your parcel right now, Pussycat, I can't stand the suspense any longer. I've been perching on the chimney for most of the day twit-twooing at passers by in utter exasperation, I've neglected the hoovering and washing up, and I haven't even fried the Halibut for your dinner.”

“Oh, all right then, hand it over.”

“What is it? What is it? What is it?”

“Give me a chance to unwrap it and I'll tell you, my dear, if it's something I can remember the name of, that is.”

*************************

“Boots?” Owl said. “You've ordered another pair of boots from the catalogue? You have hundreds of pairs of boots and shoes, you complete divvy, but most of them are hidden at the back of cupboards under mountains of other junk. You went on a massive footwear buying spree with the bulk of our earnings from Giant Golden Prawn fishing in a variety of beautiful pea green boats before the beautiful pea green boat company went bust and, according to certain marine biologists, the Giant Golden Prawn went extinct or migrated to deeper waters.”

“Apart from a few vague images of sitting in a beautiful pea green boat type thing throwing a net into a big, wibbly-wobbly wet thing full of fish I don't recall much of that, Owl. And I haven't ordered any bloody boots, though you can't deny they're rather fetching.” Pussycat turned the posh brown leather boots over and over as he admired them. “Hang on, there's a little note tucked inside one of them. 'To Eugene, with oodles and doodles of love from auntie Adolph, kiss kiss kiss.' Shit, I haven't heard from auntie Adolph for years, I thought she'd be pushing up daisies by now.”

“The last I heard of her was on Panorama, remember? She was campaigning for some tupenny ha'penny neo-Nazi party in Dusseldorf, but that must have been fifteen years ago.”

“I seem to recall someone in the family telling me that aunt Adolph abandoned her fascist values altogether. She met a big fat Native American Wildebeest called Running Tap at her flower arranging class, they bought a genuine Apache tepee, emigrated to Switzerland and joined a communist commune in the middle of bloody nowhere. They said they wanted to enjoy a pastoral existence free of the pressures of modern society and they'd somehow scrape a living by tending a small herd of rare Icelandic goats, munching on whatever wild fare they could harvest from the local countryside and selling a hundred and fifty three unusual varieties of tulip to green-fingered milkmaids, Cuckoo clock manufacturers, Alpine horn enthusiasts and the occasional daft tourist.”

“You told me it was Swaziland they were moving to and they planned to breed dwarf llamas, grow nine hundred and seventeen different kinds of endangered radish and sell hand crafted harpsichords to illegal Chinese immigrants.”

“Oh I don't know, Swaziland, Switzerland, whatever, they're pretty much the same to someone as forgetful as I am. Anyway, why has aunt Adolph sent me such a nice prezzie? She's always been a bit of a skinflint, and I can't recall her giving me anything before.”

“Let's have a butchers, Pussycat. My my, they're made by the Acme Footwear Company of Slaggyford, Northumberland – very posh, very posh indeed. It's German owned, you know, Acme, 'twas British once upon a time, but alas no more. Their footwear is made of the finest materials available, and it's cripplingly expensive, always has been, always will be. The Queen wears Acme footwear, she has two pairs of diamond studded shoes exclusively for royal engagements, a pair of solid platignum slippers and a stout pair of boots specifically for walking around muddy Sandringham. Madonna swears by Acme, and rich Arabs won't wear anything else. I'm puzzled - if your aunt is living off the land in a commune in the Swiss or Swaziland countryside, how come she can afford to buy you something so expensive? These boots must have cost the best part of a five hundred quid, maybe considerably more.”

“You're kidding me!”

“Naah, it's the gospel truth. Are you gonna try them on, or what?”

“Hang about, there's something printed on the inside. Size 12 Seven League Boots, Acme Patent number 99153. What on earth are seven league boots?”

“Oh shit, they're fairy boots!” Owl cried. “I forgot that Acme occasionally make stuff for the fairies. Don't you remember references to seven league boots in the fairy tales your mother used to tell you?”

“Not really, no, my mum dropped me on my head when I was a kitten and it-”

“And it caused occasional memory lapses, I know. Look, don't put them on now whatever you do, because something strange and magical might happen. I'm going to rustle you up something to eat, then we'll try them out together.”

“Together?”

“Together.”

*************************

“What do you mean, you want us to wear one of my shiny new boots each?” Pussycat said a while later. “Are you going batty in your old age, Susan? We'll look incredibly silly.”

“According to European folklore seven league boots allow you to take infeasibly large steps, so you can travel huge distances in the blink of an eye. Jack the giant killer had a pair, and Mephistopheles uses them at the start of part two, act four of Goethe's Faust. If you put both of them on you might take a single step towards the table to get your mug of tea and disappear forever, but if we wear one each and hold hands tightly, whatever happens at least we'll stay together.”

“I see,” Pussycat said, but of course he didn't see.

“Put the left boot on your left foot while I slip the other one on my right foot, then we'll hold hands, take a step forward and see what happens. I'll have to tie it very tightly, mind, because it's way too big for me..... Right, are you ready, you dipstick?”

“Yup.”

“Here goes, then. One, two, three, STEP FORWARD!”

*************************

“Where are we?” Pussycat whispered.

“It looks suspiciously like the cereal aisle in the Hog's Bottom branch of Tesco,” Owl said. “That's not seven leagues away though, it's just a couple of miles. Mind you, I'm not sure how far a league is.....”

“The length of a league varies from place to place, but it's generally said to be approximately three miles.”

“How do you know that?”

“I saw in on the Discovery channel. Can we pinch a bottle of milk and a box of those crunchy cornflake type things with a distinct honey nutty flavour while we're here?”

“No, we can not! Take another couple of steps, Eugene, let's see where that takes us.”

*************************

“Where are we now? No, don't tell me! Let me guess, I know what this place is called. Its an, erm, cabbage, sprout, carrot and potato merchant. No, it's a leek, onion and garlic shop, or maybe a turnip delicatessen.”

“It's a bloody greengrocers, you dick,” Owl said, “but I couldn't say where it is. We might have taken a step so big that we've travelled over the sea, because a lot of those vegetables look decidedly foreign to me.”

“I don't like it here, it's too vegetabley and not nearly meaty enough - let's bugger off.”

*************************

“Is it meaty enough for you here?” Owl said a few seconds later.

“Yes, it's delightfully meaty. What is this place, a serial killer's workshop?”

“No, it's a slaughterhouse, silly. Look, those carcasses hanging up are cows and sheep.”

“I don't like it, it's too meaty and I'm worried that when the staff come back from their tea break we might end up on those hooks with the baa-baas and moo-moos – come on, let's go.”

“Fair enough, but I was looking forward to frying some of the kidneys in that bucket.”

*************************

“Now where are we?” Owl said. “This place isn't too vegeabley or meaty, but it's definitely too fishy – it stinks of fried Halibut and it needs a good clean, look at the state of the sodding carpet!”

“This is our house, Owl,” Pussycat replied, “The seven league boots must be faulty, they've caused us to travel in a circle and end up where we started.”

“That's because they're not genuine Acme seven league boots, they're cheap copies from the Far East, and they're going straight to the bloody charity shop.”

“Waah!”