Lockdown Trouble in Fairyland

Bob and Clara have called a meeting. They’ve been rushed off their wings for weeks and this Saturday afternoon is the first time they’ve had more than a few minutes to spare; so, 3.49pm it is. Having been worried that not many folk would turn up they are pleased to see that every single toadstool is occupied and despite a bit of a scuffle at the back of the room between a grumpy Cornish piskie and a rather fat Easter bunny (if only she hadn’t eaten all the left over eggs) everyone seems to be getting on well.

Once she’s sure all are settled and comfortable Clara calls the meeting to order.

‘Friends, friends, hush now please and listen up. Thanks so much for hearing our call and coming out this beautiful Bank Holiday. We know you’d much rather be out playing hopscotch in your gardens or just lazing in the sun on a deckchair, but the thing is we need you. Me, Bob, and the rest of the tooth collection keyworkers have a couple of problems at the moment that we can’t solve without your help.’

‘Yes’, continues Bob. ‘We’re not sure why but children seem to be losing their baby teeth at an unusually swift rate just now and we’re finding it a little hard to keep up. Maybe it’s all the apples they’re eating but we think there might also be a tooth wobble competition going on on WhatsApp. Anyway, whatever, it’s keeping us more than busy.’

Nodding seriously, Clara adds. ‘Yes, yes. So, we’ve got plenty enough fairies, as thankfully a whole load have come out of retirement to join us younger ones and it goes without saying how grateful we are to the unicorns who’ve been helping out too. But we just haven’t got the personal pixie equipment, or PPE as you might call it, to keep us and the children we visit safe. We’ve also run out of loo rolls which is just awful because as you know one toilet roll is the expected payment for one tooth during lockdown.’

An elf puts his hand up to ask a question. ‘Can’t the Chief Magical Man and the rest of the sorcery council help?’

‘Well, they keep promising but no luck so far’, says Clara, shaking her head sadly.

The room breaks out in grumbles and low level booing. One almost toothless witch, who clearly didn’t do much brushing and flossing when she was a girl, gets in such a state that the elves and goblins nearby run for cover as sparks begin to fly from her wand. Sensing that Clara and Bob need a bit of help to keep the gathering focused on the matter in hand – that is how to make sure that the nation’s first teeth are collected and paid for -  Father Christmas stands up and immediately the room falls quite.

Well, it is Santa after all.

‘Come on guys’, he booms. ‘We’ve got this, we’ve got each others’ backs . We just need to put our heads and hooves together and we can sort it out.’

‘Thank you Santa, YES’, shouts Bob his wings fluttering enthusiastically. ‘We can’t let the girls and boys down. No tooth must go uncollected, no loo roll undelivered.'

'Can we do this?'

‘Yes we can’, his audience shout back at him.

And so dear reader that is what our room full of wondrous creatures do. Perhaps the swirling magical dust helps. Perhaps the dragons heavy breathing hurries things along a bit. Probably though it’s the pleasure of being amongst like-minded others whatever the differences in size, numbers of toes, winged or not; all working together to help both the tooth fairies and the children they visit each night. Before you can say ‘grant me three wishes’ it’s all sorted. The witches and wizards are quickly tasked to magic up some paper soft enough to wipe even a baby’s bum and the elves in Santa’s workshop have a pattern for protective pixie equipment quickly drawn up by a particularly clever old gnome. Everyone else is to help with packaging and delivery to the tooth fairy warehouse.     

And with that the meeting ends and after agreements to keep in touch everyone walks, flies or hops away happy, keen to get on with their own particular job. For after all don’t we all want to live in a world in which everyone is cared for and everyone cares for everyone else?   

THE END