Tales of a Mimpsby most absurd
Up in a corkscrew tree complaining
(Or in his rooms if it was raining)
About all the people whom he met
And managed to make him most upset
But the Mimpsby was not always that way
When he was young he had a friend, they say.
Long, long ago, when he was about knee-high and still more of a purple school-cap wearing Mimpsbet, the Purply-Hatted Mimpsby had a friend. Now, for those of you that know of the Mimpsby, this may seem very unlikely indeed, but the little Mimpsby was a far more agreeable creature than the one he grew into and, whilst he always found the getting of friendship very, very hard indeed, back in those days he found it far, far more easy to do so than it would later become.
Anyway, this friend of the Mimpsby was called Pimmsbury and he was just about the opposite of the Mimpsby in almost every respect. Where the Mimpsby was mean and cowardly, Pimmsbury was generous and fearless. Where the Mimpsby was self-conscious and awkward, Pimmsbury was popular and well-liked. Where the Mimpsby was twisted and bitter, Pimmsbury was outgoing and welcoming. Where the Mimpsby was surly…
Well, I’m sure that you get the idea.
Normally, in later life, the Purply-Hatted Mimpsby would have hated him on sight, but they grew up together and, for whatever reasons that there may be, the friendship blossomed and grew and, as far as the Mimpsby was ever able, they became the best of friends, spending their long summers together, climbing trees, chasing the Quarggs, hunting for Ladybats nests, building their secret dens, and fishing for the Spinysloops on the banks of the Lazy Lippa-no-no river.
They were happy times which the Mimpsby would look back upon with something at least approaching fondness during the twilight of the evening when sleepiness was about to overwhelm him, before pulling down the bitter shutters of his mind and dreaming of slights and counterslights and committing his petty vengeances upon the fools and idiots of the town, of which, the Mimpsby felt, there were many.
But lives change and move on. Pimmsbury had to move far, far away and, whilst they really promised (cross their hearts, oaths of fraternity) to keep in touch, their lives went off in different ways and they never had the chance to go climbing or chasing or hunting or building or fishing ever again, and this all added to the list of sadnesses that the Mimpsby started to add to the ledger of his life. Occasionally, in a moment he thought of as “weakness”, the Mimpsby would consider calling upon Pimmsbury, but then he recalled the last time he had met him and shuddered.
For Pimmsbury had taken a wife, and, whilst this had made Pimmsbury gloriously happy, it only served to remind the Mimpsby of his own miserable and lonely existence. He churlishly attended the ceremony, after the surprise of the arrival of any invitation through his rusty old letterbox had half scared him to death, and broken the letterbox in the process, meaning a swift trip up the corkscrew tree to add the name of one postal delivery operative to his “list”.
He then spent most of the occasion sitting alone at a tiny table he found in a corner, drinking Basilica Tea from china cups and munching on pieces of cake which was, to his mind, and as he told anybody who chose to listen (which was nobody), far too sweet.
Pimmsbury’s new wife had, to her constant credit, made an effort to meet his friends and came over to the Mimpsby’s lonely little table for a little chat, but the Mimpsby found her constant needs - nay demands - for affirmation very tiring and tiresome, and, after he told her so, she swept away from the party in floods of tears, followed swiftly by Pimmsbury looking rather perplexed at this development on their “happy” day.
After that, the party soon broke up, with many scenes of acrimony and woe, accusations and counter-accusations, and the Mimpsby staggered homewards, stopping only on the banks of the Lazy Lippa-no-no river to relieve himself of his Basilica tea, and again at the corkscrew tree to climb up to the top and add the current Mrs Pimmsbury to his “list”. He also took a moment to carefully place the invitation in his little ornately carved box of woe, which he then locked up with his turquoise key, and he spoke little of it ever again.
After that unhappy day, he kept as far away from the Pimmsburys as he could, instead choosing to squirrel himself away atop the corkscrew tree, scribbling his bile mostly to himself, and wondering why he never got invited to anything.
(See also: http://m-a-w-h.blogspot.co.uk/2012/04/purply-hatted-mimpsby.html April 8th 2012 and http://m-a-w-h.blogspot.co.uk/2012/04/return-of-purply-hatted-mimpsby.html April 22nd 2012)
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