Plus: a jolly diversion for George and Charlotte
A jolly diversion for George and Charlotte
Here’s the thing. After the royals arrive Saturday, Prince George and Princess Charlotte will probably get bored pretty quick, being youngsters and all.
So I’ve written them a children’s book inspired by our pug dog Ollie. Because the kids are British, it’s penned in the style of beloved English author Enid Blyton.
It’s called Mr. Wags Goes to the Seaside.
Once upon a time, there was a funny little fellow called Mr. Wags.
“Hullo Mr. Wags — time for the seaside!”
Mr. Wags gazed blankly at Mr. C. Above his head there was a thought bubble showing a sliver of Stilton cheese. “No, Mr. Wags. The seaside.” A new thought bubble above Mr. Wags’ head showed a small acorn.
“Stop messing about Mr. Wags. The beach. You go there each and every Sunday. Alas, you seem not to be the sharpest tool in the gardening shed, which is chockfull of charming spades, awls and adzes.”
Mr. Wags was awfully excited upon entering the motor car. An adventure — what larks! However, after 43 seconds, he cried because he wasn’t at the seaside yet. Meanwhile Mrs. C kept grasping the dashboard each time Mr. C made a completely normal manoeuvre whilst driving well within the speed limit.
“Crikey! Help me!” said Mrs. C.
“Still your collywobbles, Mrs. C. I’ve been motoring for many years with no accidents.”
“I’m just reacting like any law-abiding person would, Mr. C. Slow down,” said Mrs. C.
At the seaside, Mr. Wags sprinted out of the car like a maniac. However, instead of walking smartly along, he sniffed at tufts of grass every two feet.
“Mr. Wags, for the love of old blighty, I’m trying to get some exercise. Try to walk properly like all the other dogs,” said Mr. C.
“Don’t yell at Mr. Wags,” said Mrs. C. “Oh, wizard whips — what’s he up to now?”
Mr. Wags was rolling crazily on a dead fish.
“Is that a grotty carp? Oh Mr. Wags — have you gone barmy? Why, we only gave you a bath yesterday,” said Mr. C.
Mr. Wags abandoned his carp-rolling, looking offended. He cantered over to a murky stream running from land to sea and began to drink thirstily.
“Mr. Wags. Cut it out. It’s probably a ruddy sewage runoff or something. Why can’t you do normal dog stuff, like chasing cricket balls?” said Mr. C.
“Don’t scold Mr. Wags,” said Mrs. C. “Is it happy hour yet?” “Happy hour? You mean a few lashings of ginger beer?”
“I mean an enormous beaker of Beefeater gin. I have a perishing thirst from the heat.”
“Don’t be silly,” said Mrs. C. “Why, we’ve only been strolling in this jolly manner for five minutes.”
A little girl in a red jumper approached.
“Hello there, mister. What’s your doggy’s name?”
“His name is Mr. Wags,” said Mr. C.
“Why is he called that?” said the little girl.
“Because his tongue sticks out all the time. The result of a mildly disturbing mandible deformity.”
“Mr. C, don’t be so beastly,” said Mrs. C. “My dear, we call him Mr. Wags because he wags his tail all the time. Would you like to pat him?”
“Oh, rather!” said the little girl. “Cor, he smells a bit frightful.”
“Tis the brutal ways of nature, little girl,” said Mr. C. “Mr. Wags has been doing peculiar things with a dead fish.”
The startled youngster scrambled off into the brambles. It was time for everyone to go home. The larks and adventures were over.
“Jump into the motor car, Mr. Wags,” said Mrs. C.
Above Mr. Wags’ head emerged a thought bubble showing a tin of potted meat. “No, Mr. Wags. The car.” Another thought bubble materialized above Mr. Wags, showing a copy of Noddy and Big-Ears in Toyland. “Oh, Mr. Wags.” Back at the cottage, Mr. and Mrs. C enjoyed large Beefeater martinis and generous lashings of tripe and chip butties. They grinned and looked at Mr. Wags, now chasing his tail in an absolutely demented manner.
“He’s a bit of a thickie, isn’t he?” said Mrs. C.
“Well,” said Mr. C, refilling his martini glass, “he is rather daft. That’s why we call him Mr. Wags.”