Throwing in the CoWl

THROWING IN THE COWL

They said it would be easy. All he needed to do was: study THE SCIENCE OF SOCIALISING, blend in, introduce himself to The Master , hand over the tempting proposal, and bring him back to Plyworld. What he discovered was: THE SCIENCE OF SOCIALISING was anything but a science.

Lesson 1: SMALL TALK. A small concept with large implications. Mind numbing.

Lesson 2 To make small talk one must BREAK THE ICE . What in the world was ice? Not found inPlyworld but obviously abundant on earth. And how exactly, he wondered, did this matter facilitate socialising?

Lesson 3 “REFERENCES TO WEATHER” a key breaker of ice in any “social” situation.The expressions relating to it were a bloody minefield, but obviously a hot topic in the parts The Master inhabited. Some examples were:

It's miserable out.

I have webbed feet.

It's raining cats and dogs ,

A bit nippy.

Its chucking it down………

Weird, and definitely not wonderful.

His rockship landed unobtrusively in Stonehenge amidst mournful stone silhouettes crowded by excited people, celebrating the first day of their summer solstice. With the festive mood surrounding this event his unconventional arrival went unnoticed.

So here he was, clutching the proposal, poised to practice The Art of Socialising. Tugging his red cowl into place he merged effortlessly into the milling crowd, as cowls and cassocks seemed very much of the moment, though he hadn’t expected so many hues of dull.

Apparently a mundane solstice was considered SPIRITUAL … yet another obtuse concept! Hopefully The Master was well beyond such obsolete perceptions. Which made him realise The Master might at this very moment be right here amidst these dreary monoliths. He had been instructed to identify Him by his “black Stetson”. Unfortunately, there seemed to be such a variety in head coverings, he was shamefully confused. Emerging from arockship at dusk in this megalithic terrain was one thing, but singling out the object of his mission in this human sea was quite another.. It was time for him to launch into… ICE BREAKER mode.

“ Hello, lovely… weather… isn’t it?” He stuttered ,cornering a passing male with an alarming growth of facial hair. The response was so verbose, SMALL TALK mode became redundant. He realised he had got it wrong in one. If this was how ice breaking paned out, he could be here all night! So he cut to the chase with “have...you …perhaps…seen… Mr Terry Pratchett?” The man stopped in mid-sentence and peered at him closely.

“In this crowd? ‘ere have some cake,” he said kindly, offering a moist sweet smelling object. It was a delightful revelation! If this was part of socialising he was all for it, but some acceleration was crucial if he was to locate The Master. Dawn was just a few hours away.

By his eleventh attempt he was swimming in a sea of taste explosions, having greedily consumed five ‘cakes’, one ‘vege burger’, three ‘sandwiches’ and two ‘beers’, which had somewhat blurred the focus of his mission. Not to mention the gathering panic when he realised THE SCIENCE OF SOCIALISING hadn’t even touched upon the kind of responses he had encountered. Ice breaking tactics had been discarded on the third attempt and he was well out of the weather quagmire by now.

“You mean the Terry Pratchett” his twelfth target asked, amused by the alacrity with which this red robed young ladpolished off the offered pie.

“I wouldn’t have imagined him partial to pagan rites , just because he created Discworld.”

“Aaah you know him then?” He sighed, wondering what “pagan rites” meant.

“Who doesn’t!” the man chuckled, “and you are?”

“An admirer.” He responded quickly, amazed at how fast he was adapting/socialising…whatever.

Just then a dazzling female in a gauzy costume came running towards them. She embraced the man and said breathlessly, “Thanks Dad, it was sublime...”

“My daughter Sara,” the man introduced.

SOCIAL RESPONSE TO INTRO: EXTEND HAND AND SAY “Pleased to meet you Sarah”

“Hi”, she said, cheerfully,” are you pagan?” That term again!

“No I’m a Plyworldian”

“And…that would be?”

Why did these people ask so many questions?

“A different system from your’s.”

“Another planet perhaps?” her father asked, tongue in cheek.

“Yes,” he responded earnestly even as he was involuntarily drawn to the luminous pools of Sara’s eyes. This world definitely had its plus points. Would The Master really want to leave it?

“He is looking for Terry Pratchett”

“Is he actually here? Did you lose him in the crowd?”

She was so alluring he all but declared how he had been sent here to seduce Mr Pratchett into leaving this world for theirs to apply his genius to improve Plyworld. Fortunately for him just then, she whipped out a bright rectangle from her bag, unwrapped it partially, and said “chocolate?” The aroma of it! He grabbed it, wrapper and all, and bit into it. It was SENSATIONAL! He vaguely wondered why Sara moved closer to her father as he knelt in front of her and asked desperately “Do you have more of that…chocolate?” Her father leaned towards him and said in a low voice:

“Never mind the galaxy, where are you really from son?”

All lessons of socialisation couldn’t guide him through this one. Everything was spinning out of control, he no longer cared about The… Pratchett or Mr…Master… he wanted to just lie at the feet of this lovely creature, eat “chocolate”, drink “ beer” and call the man Dad.

“You just stay here son we’ll get someone to take care of you. Come on Sara.” He heard the man say.

The Plyworld rockship arrived at dawn to collect him and The Master, but returned empty. The dissapointed crew were unaware of a country pub nearby, where behind closed doors the landlord and bemused regulars were gathered around a young lad in a red cassock who held forth sociably about another world far away, as he downed his umpteenth pint of ale with gusto.

THE END