The Hobbyist

Bargepole Heatsink liked to think of himself as an ordinary man, but – of course – he was wrong. No ordinary man would take such a deep interest in the life-cycle of the newt, or have quite an extensive collection of First Edition Bus Timetables for the Droitwich area, especially if, as in the case of Heatsink himself, they were not a resident of the area covered by those bus services.

Heatsink also had a wide range of bicycle clips arranged on a board by alphabetically-ordered name, suitability for a certain sort of trouser and finally by the weather conditions they were most appropriate for. One day, Heatsink had promised himself, he would buy a bicycle too.

Heatsink, unsurprisingly to those few who knew him, lived alone in a small terraced house in the most unfashionable part of town. Heatsink had – of course – heard of fashion and had – one day – decided to see if he could find out what it was. However, all that was way down on his list of priorities, especially has he had not yet got around to completing his photographic record of all the street drain covers within a 71/2 mile radius of his house.

Meanwhile, he had sandwiches to make, out of the limpest sliced white loaf, the cheapest It’s Fuckin’ Obviously Not Bloody Butter-type spread available in his local supermarket and the fish-style eating paste from the supermarket’s own ‘Miserly Skinflint Extreme-Value’ range, made from the bits the cat food manufacturers rejected. He also noticed that his tea, using that week’s teabag, was ready to drink.

Suddenly there was a blinding flash of light, bright sparks, and a puff of smoke. When it cleared, Heatsink was surprised to see a small rotund old woman, dressed in several acres of shocking-pink taffeta with many seemingly-superfluous lacy edgings and so forth. She also seemed to be holding a stick with a silver sparkling star attached to its end and behind her fluttered a pair of rather un-aerodynamic-looking wings.

‘Oh, hello,’ Heatsink said, uncertainly, not being used to visitors and rather hoping she didn’t expect cake. ‘Er… can I help you?’

‘What…? Yes. No….’ The rotund woman was obviously still flustered by her manner of entry. ‘No, it’s me that’s here to help you.’

‘What? Why?’

‘Isn’t it obvious?’

‘No..’ Heatsink brightened at the unusual experience of having an idea. ‘Hey, you’re not from the Social, are you?’

‘No, I’m you Fairy Godmother!’

‘Hey, hang on… what’s with this fairy stuff?’ Heatsink had never actually got around to having any sexual experience whatsoever, but he was confident… well, fairly sure, that that wasn’t the sort of sex he wasn’t having. ‘I’m no fair…’

‘No,’ the old woman sighed, her wings twitching in annoyance at a mistake that seemed to happen every time she tried to explain…. ‘No, I’m the fairy.’ She said firmly. ‘A… er…. Your Fairy Godmother.’

‘Oh…’

‘I’m here to grant you three wishes.’

‘Oh…’

‘Oh? Is that all you can say?’

‘Well.. you know… that’s very kind of you and all that… But….’

‘But, what?’

‘Well, I don’t want anything….’

The old woman took a step closer to Heatsink; instinctively he cowered back away from her. She took off her glasses, polished them and put them back on and stared at Heatsink, drawing closer and closer to his face until he could smell mints on her breath. She stared at him, sighed and then, taking a step back, waved her magic wand irritably.

Nothing happened.

The woman stared at the magic wand, shook it experimentally, tapped on the table with it and then waved it again.

A book popped into existence in her free hand. She flicked through a few pages, said ‘A-ha!’, looked down at the page, he lips moving as she read. She looked back up at Heatsink, then back at the book.

She cocked her head to one side as she looked at him. ‘You’re not Cinderella, are you?’

‘No,’ Heatsink laughed. ‘I can see what you’ve done there, though. No, Cinderella lives three doors down…. Number 32.’ He pointed helpfully. ‘An easy mistake to make… I imagine.’

‘Bloody Sat-Nav,’ the fairy Godmother muttered, shaking her head. ‘Right… er… then. Sorry to have troubled you.’

‘Oh, no trouble at all, Heatsink said, relieved she had not asked for cake.

The fairy godmother waved her wand with a flourish….

Nothing happened.

‘You know I had this on charge all night,’ she said to Heatsink, nodding at the wand. ‘Three spells these days and it needs a recharge. You just don’t get the workmanship, the pride, these days.’ She shook the wand, nodding when the silver star seemed to glow slightly brighter. ‘Right, I’ll be off then…. Er… Bye… er…’

‘Bye.’

She flourished the wand again. This time there was a flash of smoke and when it cleared Heatsink was alone again.

‘Right,’ he said. ‘That sandwich won’t make itself.’ He laughed – as usual – at his own little joke and turned back to his limp white loaf and picked up his butter knife.