the hair of my chinny chin chin

THE HAIR OF MY CHINNY CHIN CHIN

Seven the orbital spheres of Andromeda; seven the seas of planet Earth; the rainbow’s spectrum and the diatonic scale respectively number seven; the deadly sins seven – all efficient unto themselves, all by cosmic matrix interrelated and capable of exercising their diverse manifestations. Likewise, the seventh son of a seventh son is likewise by genesis predisposed. The family tree, biased toward uncommon seed, propagates inexhaustible generations of the fruit of its privileged loins. The self-evident advantages of life’s lot coexist with its atypical disadvantages, the former tangibly being the latter in themselves. Blameless as they be for naïve pranks exhibited through idyllic childhood, there are those born of commonplace ancestry, who, by inherited genetic misfortune, or irrevocable ignorance, or both, harbour grievous misgivings toward any persons they judge to be a menace to respectable society.

For one such legatee of the seventh genus, growing up in a teeming metropolis provided infinite opportunities by which he developed and honed his significant talents, a ready smile and charismatic persona assuring employment in any field that appealed to his sense of adventure, the very theatre of life welcomed him with open arms, into whose embrace he shirked not, nor did he tarry.

Much ado about a sequence of sociable misunderstandings, he discovered that he had made dire antagonists of his thunderstruck colleagues. The situation eventually became a source of such persistent exasperation that there was no option but to relocate, lock, stock, and dreams of finding somewhere that was a hundred miles from the city and a million miles from care. The inexplicit sense of something in the air might as well be spring’s contribution to his feeling of wellbeing, but it would be folly to query anything that encouraged favourable portent.

Although nearer to the city than anticipated, the million miles from calamity revealed itself as Daleville. Even the name bespoke safe harbour in journey’s end. From the foundation stone of the village priory to the lofty belfry atop the kirk and all directions east and west, invincible providence etched its message of peace and goodwill. Its denizens thrived in companionable accord with the elements and with one another, cultivating the fertile land in order to guarantee food and shelter for themselves and for the generations to come. Backwater eddies teemed with trout and with cray, all manner of bees and birdlife foraged and pollinated budded blooms in celebrated profusion.

In no time at all, he acquired a long-term lease on ‘Hearts Ease House’, a pleasant, weathered old cottage, overlooking the placid creek and, once settled down, he attended to his handicrafts, the likes of which he would vend at the upcoming fete. The shawls and tapestries, expertly spun and woven, the ceramic elfin figurines and intricate oil canvases, he hoped would fetch the interest required to provide a liveable income for the future. Until such and opportunity arose, the immediate moment eclipsed all recall of past imperfect.

However, that something in the air wafting so auspiciously fast blew ill. All too soon and far too late he discovered that his reputation had preceded him. Rumours had begun to spread throughout the district that threatened to unravel his newfound peace. The gossipmongers who continuously refuelled their vendetta, now insisted that they had an authentic warlock inhabiting their community. Mortified by the accusations, he could scarcely understand the wholesale lack of intelligence that drives some people to such lengths of vindictive abandon. The prospect of relocating and repeating the familial jinx was even more unimaginable.

Moons rose in number and as many suns set with him no longer the confident semblance of his former self-worth. The now unsellable handicrafts slowly gathered dust as he slipped further and further into a mire of desolate oblivion. Lost in mind-numbing misery, he found himself rummaging through the old wicker skip. Among the cherished souvenirs, his weary gaze fell upon a scrapbook, and he idly perused its dog-eared pages. One particular entry evoked a flood of recollections, immediately blowing the dust from his troubled soul. Gone with the dust, so went despair, giving birth to an idea that just might put paid to his dilemma once and for all.

Under discrete cover of his new Internet blog, he posted a notice stating that there was to be a housewarming reception, belated, at his given address, and punctually at midnight the following Saturday. Playing with predetermined dice ensured that only the crème de la curdled crème of his detractors would attend. Time, that old killjoy, would tell.

On the appointed evening, place, and time, an even baker’s dozen of the local do-gooders committee fronted, bearing a potted privet as token of their house-warming contribution. Their congenial host welcomed them as one, and ushered them in. The piranha had risen to the bait.

With ooos and ahhhs of unfettered surprise over the homely appeal of the house, they flinched and hastily recovered their astringent selfhood, the ensuing silence speaking imprudently autobiographical volumes.

Illuminated by soft, sweet-scented candlelight, the room was suffused with ambient charm so palpable as to imply that it stood fast against tyranny for shoreless aeons and would weather as many more. Momentarily, they noted plentiful evidence of creative domesticity. Handicraft implements and their charming wares, ceramic effigies and intricate oil paintings, all on modest display.

When at last their host pray his guests be seated, they proceeded to locate themselves around the dining room table. Upon its snowy damask cloth were set a supper of assorted edibles, the centrepiece being a brimful cutglass punchbowl with matching goblets and fingerbowls. A nosegay of miniature orchids rested before each individual chair, all of which met with their restrained approval.

“Thank you for accepting the invitation,” he began. “And for receiving me into your delightful village. Your response to a perfect stranger who you knew nothing whatsoever about did come as an unexpected surprise.”

Teetotallers all, they were so unsettled by the insinuation that they sought solace in the punchbowl, partaking without restraint.

“So then, I’d like to somehow reciprocate by trying to express my appre-ciation of how you all went out of your way to ensure that I was made to feel such a prominent member of the community. Fair is fair, I know you agree. Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, you who have come slumming for a little divertissement in your otherwise unfulfilled lives, I submit Exhibit A.”

Executing a time-honoured gesticulation, a maelstrom of kaleidoscopic colours embraced their host and the metamorphic transubstantiation of phantasmagorical butterflies in all their unsurpassed magnificence symbolically perished from mortal envy as he sloughed his mundane cocoon and revealed his true colours, and of a sudden everything became ingloriously unhinged.

Candlelit shadows gained release of their present restraints to dance on the ceiling among the infestation of tenanted cobwebs; direct from the kirk’s belfry flew in a swarm of bats through the closed window, screeching their displeasure at being woken from nocturnal slumber; the detested privet uprooted itself and played a lascivious game of tag-you’re-it with the aeronautic vermin; the loom wove a barbwire straitjacket for itself; elfin ceramics performed synchronised swimming in the punchbowl, which promptly doubled doubled toiled and troubled its Olympian Gold Medalists all over the initiated guests who, hell bent upon the sanctity of home and hearth, bolted, swore sacred oaths of tolerant simpatico forthwith and for some strategic time thereafter.

A small eternity passed, then another and then, clicking his heels together thrice, the immediate vicinity imploded. All events of the ruinous soiree devolved back to from whence it issued, leaving no shred forensic souvenirs in its wake. Now agreeably drowsy, he readied a crock of java and partook thereof. Nothing much more does a primary seventh djinn of a primary seventh djinn enjoy than a cup of brew, a hex, and a good lie down to sleep, perchance to dream of forthcoming happenstance.

Radiant and prophetic dawned the day, with old sol outshining himself and no later than sunup, the entire village arrived en jubilant masse. Everything pulsated with the buzz of villagers eagerly milling about, intent on seeing and being seen at the produce stalls and livestock exhibits, the games of chance and tests of skill, the petting zoo, the pony rides and dodgems, and permeating all events, the boisterous refrains of the calliope called the young and young at heart to participate in the old world charm of the merry-go-round.

His stall proved to be a popular favourite and, despite showing indications of insomnia, his housewarming guests were the first and most enthusiastic customers. Goodwill flowed proportionally with sales receipts, assuring a sustainable future, as did that auguring something in the air.

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