A story for you.
Breathless with the excitement that only elevenses can create, Timothy opened the jar, expecting it to be filled with warm, golden peanut butter. It was, up to a point, but as he dug in his knife it hit something that was decidedly un-peanut-like.
Timothy frowned with his face and scooped with his knife (for to frown with his knife and scoop with his face would have been an altogether silly way to react), revealing what could only be described as a very tiny bird, covered in peanut butter.
This was unexpected, and so Timothy jumped, inadvertently dropping his knife on the worktop with a metallic ‘spang’.
The tiny bird coughed crossly, and got to its feet.
Timothy watched in awe as the tiny bird hopped clumsily across the counter, heading in the general direction of the sink. Once there, it hurled itself into the empty basin with a ‘plop’, and looked up at him expectantly.
“Oh,” said Timothy, somewhat slow on the uptake as was his wont, “you want a wash?”
The bird rolled its eyes as if to say, “duh,” which was quite impressive for a bird, and inclined its tiny head in affirmation.
Very gently, Timothy turned the tap to the 'on' position.
Extremely gingerly, he squeezed a drop of washing up liquid onto his thumb, rubbing the teeny tiny bird’s head to create a washing up liquid / peanut butter lather.
Utterly softly, he attempted to rinse the soapy mixture from the tiny, delicate wings.
“TIMOTHY!” bellowed a voice from the doorway, “HELP ME BRING THE SHOPPING IN FROM THE CAR!”
Seriously slowly, Timothy looked down to his hands, which he had involuntarily clenched into fists at the shock of the sudden noise.
All he could see was a mess of soap and peanut butter. One solitary feather was the only evidence of the un-peanut-like visitor. And poor young Timothy, never saw anything magical again.
